The script was read/played by:
Narrator: Me
Cannonby: The Monk of Tweed
Carmarthen Bevan: Me
Stephen Teal: Dafydd Evans
Boris: Dafydd Evans
Rubya Bakfat: The Monk of Tweed
Kay Wye O'Thassaspot: Me
Bubba Rubbs: Dafydd Evans
ZX Ilfracombe: Me
*****
Narrator
On this day, the sea was so calm that it could pass for a sheet of stained-glass window, as long as the stained-glass window in question had etched upon it a still ocean scene. The pirate galleon Sodden Calamity, a proud and feared vessel and home of the unrenowned pirate crew under the command of Cannonby, a tall man in his late thirties, with a flustered brow and 20-20 vision. Though often the ship would bear down ferociously on hapless merchant vessels, no such aggression was currently underway. The ship floated serenely, an array of fishing rods jutted from the deck of the ship, the stringy spider-webs of timid hunting spewed forth into the sea, from which the crew hoped they'd be extricating their evening meal. But alas, the oblivious fishing pirates are about to discover that when you are afloat on the world's strangest seas, it isn't merely fish what swim in the sea...
CNBY: Ah, Bevan! How goes it with the fishing off the boat for fish? Any fish? I am eager for fish, man.
BVN: Now, patience Mister Captain, fishing is a slow process where patience really is key to the entire process.
CNBY: I don't care about keys, Bevan! I want fish, aren't you listening? Somebody else must be a better fisherman than you. You there, Stephen Teal, how goes the haul?
TEAL:
CNBY: (as though saying "Oh that's interesting") Oh, that's disgusting.
BORIS: Captain! Captain! I've caught something!
CNBY: Heaven help you, Boris, if this is not a fish.
BORIS: It is not a fish.
CNBY: I am displeased. Show me this trinket you've dislodged from the wide open sea.
BORIS: Here you go Captain.
CNBY: (exclaiming) Huffington Post! It's a nondescript, bog-standard bottle. Like the kind you'd get milk in. Except there's no milk. This bottle is filled with fog. Though common sense dictates that I shouldn't release the unknown fumes within, my innate sense of reckless curiosity insists that I do.
TEAL:
(POP, then - whooshing of smoke)
CNBY: Who in the name of Genius Gene's pre-worn jeans are you three?
RUBYA-BUBBA-KY: The genies!
KY: Drifting the ocean in our bottle-craft...
RUBYA: The genie masseurs of Clubba Rubbs who give no wishes, but instead give...
BUBBA: A massage in a bottle.
CNBY: Clubba Rubbs, usually a pun of that quality would have brought up my dinner, but since there are no fish... (accusatory) BEVAN... I will forgive you, on one condition.
BUBBA: Name yo terms.
CNBY: Massage me!
KY: Actually we insist on massaging everyone.
CNBY: SPLENDID!
Narrator
But all was not splendid. For Cannonby was not aware of the dangers a massage from the Clubba Rubbs Trio would bring. The genie-masseurs secrete a narcotic paste from their wrists, which, when mixed with the human sweat during the massage process, the individual would be put into a neverending sleep, a deeper rest than is possible even under general anaesthetic or by pricking your finger on a spindle. The entire crew were lost under the hypnotic influence of the massage, bar one man. Usually hidden away, deep within the bowels of the vessel, unaffected by the mystical massage stands the ironwrought ZX Ilfracombe, who fires a warning glance at the Clubba Rubbs Trio, and ominously presses down the Play button on the stereo system embedded in his chest.
RUBYA: You monster, you've knocked out Kay Wye, she's allergic to Sting and the Police.
BUBBA: You freak; half man, half machine.
RUBYA: What does it mean? What does it mean?
ZX: ABSENCE OF SOUND! IT IS MY ROLE TO EJECT YOU FROM THIS VESSEL.
BUBBA: Try it Captain Aluminum.
ZX: I AM NOT THE CAPTAIN. NEITHER AM I CONSTRUCTED FROM ALUMINIUM. I FIND YOUR WITTY BADINAGE LACKING AND LABORIOUS.
RUBYA: We will not be talked down to in this way, we are the massaging genies of Clubba Rubbs, the most renowned floating massage parlor on all of the 7 Seas and also in 98 of the 141 major Scottish lochs.
BUBBA: Those Jocks can massage your bones right outta yo body.
ZX: THEY CAN INDEED.
RUBYA & BUBBA: GASP!
RUBYA: I'd heard rumours of the twisted experiments of crazy Scottish massage-scientists, but I never for a moment believed they had the massage skills and scientific knowhow to create a cyborg.
ZX: I AM NO CYBORG. I AM A PIRATE. AND I WILL BEHAVE AS ONE. ENOUGH! I WILL PARLAY NO MORE WITH YOU PARLOR-MONKEYS.
BUBBA: Then its time for battle.
RUBYA: But Bubba, we aren't warriors!
BUBBA: (remembering like the guy off 3rd Rock from the Sun) Oh yeah.
ZX: I AM DESIGNED AND CONSTRUCTED FOR BATTLE. DESTRUCTED. CONSTRIGNED. MY LEFT ARM IS AN ENFIELD RIFLE. MY RIGHT, A WINCHESTER. I AM ALSO EQUIPPED WITH A BLUNDERBUSS, BUT I AM NOT ABLE TO NOTIFY YOU OF ITS WHEREABOUTS, DUE TO TASTE AND DECENCY REGULATIONS.
RUBYA: Don't shoot!
ZX: I AM AFRAID I MUST.
BUBBA-RUBYA: AAAAARGH!
Narrator
And thus the hero of the hour was ZX Ilfracombe, who bore no grudges against his narrow-minded crew, despite being hidden away in the dank underbelly of the ship, due to his metallic nature. The Clubba Rubbs Trio were scooped up and replaced in their bottle container, which was fired into over the horizon using the mighty power of the inappropriately-located blunderbuss. With the massage-genies now miles away, the crew begin to come around.
CNBY: What in the name of Sephiroth's glorious platinum locks just happened?
BORIS: It seems we were held under the genies' massage-based powers, which is quite the embarrassment.
BVN: We haven't seen this calibre of sea-based masseuse-related catastrophy, not since that brouhaha with that old Arsenal midfielder from the 90s and early Noughties.
CNBY: Yes, the infamous Ray Parlour Parlor-Parlay Pirate Pile-up. Awful business.
ZX: BUT I HAVE SAVED THE DAY.
CNBY: (exclaiming) ILFRACOMBE! What are doing above deck? Get back in your cage you metal freak!
TEAL:
Narrator
And so it goes to show, that even if you save the day, you don't always get the respect you deserve. Especially if you are a futuristic robot man, with an embarrassingly situated blunderbuss protrusion.
*****
We aren't on FM anymore, but business will continue as usual on www.rhonddaradio.com which is good for a number of reasons: it is further reaching, the sound is cleaner, and there are no ofcom-style bodies overseeing it. We'll still have our 12-3 slot Saturday and Sunday. I am glad, as my weekends would be dull without them.
A podcast will definitely happen, I have already edited 3. Rejoice. Or if you haven't done so yet, simply joice.
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