A transgender sit-com based in Hoxton.
Characters:
SARAH. Early 30s. An aspiring writer. Attractive slim brunette. Exeter graduate. Met best mate KEN through a support group three years ago, where opposites obviously attracted. Urban, sophisticated. Lives in an apartment with KEN, on a platonic basis.
BOB. Same age as SARAH. In and out of work. Largely supported by SARAH, his best friend and flat-mate. Went to Preston Uni to do mechanical engineering, but dropped out. Laddish, football and curry loving, beardy man, who finds it difficult to pull. Prone to lying and fantasising.
DOREEN. Early forties, sex mad, North London Jewish. Clever, fun-loving and flippant. Hides the her Cambridge education well, and makes a virtue of being shallow and sluttish.
KEN. Former female policeman with ten years in the force. Serious, sincere, but unpredictable. Good looking, with both men and women fancying him.
INT. SITTING
ROOM IN HOXTON FLAT.
Attractive woman, SARAH sits
staring at a laptop. Bearded man, BOB, lies on a couch reading the
Biography of George Best.
SARAH SIGHS
AND SITS BACK.
SARAH:
How about
this, Bob? This is the main character in the play. . (IN CHARACTER). As long
as I can remember, I wanted to be a girl. I loved pretty things, and longed to
be a princess. But there I was in a boy’s body, off to school in blazer and
tie. Later, after I hit puberty I felt even more imprisoned - horrified, as my body began to change into that of a man . .
BOB:
God, it
sounds like Heaven.
SARAH:
Excuse me?
BOB:
All that
balls dropping, first shaving, having erections stuff. Footy, farts and feeling
up Fiona behind the bike shed. That’s what I wanted.
SARAH:
Why do I
even talk to you . . .
SARAH
CONTINUES TO TYPE. BOB RESUMES HIS BOOK.
BOB:
Anyway, that
bit about wanting to be a princess is hackneyed.
SARAH:
Excuse me?
BOB:
Why a
princess? Why not an aid worker in Somalia. It’s kind of obvious.
SARAH:
Well in my
case it was true.
BOB:
Yes, but you’re the perfect media miss. Most of
us aren’t like you.
SARAH SITS
BACK AND SIGHS.
SARAH:
Oh it is difficult.
It’s great that the Beeb is inviting plays on this theme, but it’s
tricky. Obviously, I thought I could do this - but characterisation is
complicated . . .
BOB:
People like us are
complicated.
SARAH:
Yes, I guess
we are. So the characterisation has to be
. . multivalent.
BOB:
Wow, sounds
interesting. What does multivalent mean?
SARAH:
It means
that our personalities are disjoined from our bodies.
BOB:
There’s no
disjoining with mine. Once I got that cock op and a prescription for Cialis, I
was ready to go. I think I’m univalent.
SARAH:
Actually, I think you
are too. Like men generally.
BOB:
There is no
higher praise, my dear. You can be multivalent all you like. My idea of heaven is Leyton Orient, and a night down the boozer with Sharon. A
bag of chips and back to hers for a night au passionelle.
SARAH:
Only au
passionelle gave you away there (Frowning
at the screen). Actually, I think I’m going to work that into the
script. How do you spell passionelle?
BOB:
Passion with
an elle - as in Elle McPhereson.
SARAH:
Passion and
elle. Two dreamy words.
BOB:
Elle
McPherson has two dreamy tits.
SARAH TYPES.
SARAH:
Anyway, who
is this Sharon, you meet at the pub, and go all passionelle with?
BOB:
One of my
current fantasy women. I've got five at the moment. Tracy. Belinda. Paige. Susan
. . and Mumu.
SARAH:
Mumu?
BOB:
Yes, she’s a
Thai massage worker. Pure woman.
SARAH:
Sure she’s
not a ladyboy?
BOB:
I don't understand the question.
SARAH:
Good answer.
(Frowns). I guess I’m a ladyboy.
BOB:
What a
ridiculous term. That would make me a gentlemangirl.
SARAH:
There’s
no gentleman about you. And no girl.
BOB:
There never
was. No girl inside here. (CLUTCHES HIS GROIN). But here wanted to be inside a girl.
SARAH:
Nice. I’ll put that in somewhere
BOB:
That’s what
I said when I first saw my cock.
Knock on the door. BOB rises and answers.
DOREEN eNTERS WITH SHOPPING.
BOB:
Hey, Doreen.
How you doing, darling?
DOREEN kisses BOB.
DOREEN:
Very good,
deary. And how’s the playwright?
SARAH Looks up and smiles.
SARAH:
Not good.
It’s one thing being, you know . . But, writing about it is something else. And making it funny is . .
DOREEN:
Oh just put
a lot of cock jokes in there. Cocks are always funny, aren’t they, Bob?
BOB:
Oh, yes,
mine is the new Milton Jones.
DOREEN:
Who?
BOB:
Oh, I
forgot. You don’t watch telly, do you?
DOREEN:
No, the
laptop is my universe. All I need is Gmail, the Guardian and a Dating Site. My
needs are few.
SARAH:
Talking of
which, how’s the dating going? Any luck?
DOREEN:
Oh yes. Most married.
All looking for a quick leg-over.
BOB:
Perfect
then.
DOREEN:
Do I
look like I’m not happy? I click. They come. I come. Bye bye. Lovely.
SARAH:
I can’t
understand how you do that. Don’t you find it a little shallow?
DOREEN:
Oh no, the
deeper the better. Mmmm.
BOB:
That’s the
one problem with being a man. You’re geared up to shag everything in sight, and
all these women want is, well . .
SARAH:
Well, yes,
that is what we want.
DOREEN:
Speak for
yourself, deary. I want cock.
BOB:
I could
help you there, honey.
DOREEN:
You? Oh god,
that would be weird. Like having sex with my former self.
BOB:
Oh, I do
that all the time. I look quite cute in old photos.
DOREEN AND SARAH:
Eeeugh.
SARAH:
Well, I’m
not putting any of this in the play. The BBC want affirming personalities – and
neither of you are that.
DOREEN:
Cocks, dear. Affirming cocks.
INT. LOCAL
PUB.
Later that evening. BOB at the bar, collecting
three drinks. One beer, a wine and a G&T. BOB joins DOREEN and SARAH, and
opens a packet of pork scratchings.
BOB:
Want one?
DOREEN:
Yuck. No,
I’m Jewish.
BOB:
You never
mentioned that. Why didn’t you tell us?
DOREEN:
It’s on a
need to know basis. Like my past. Looks
over at the bar, spots somebody. Oh God! Hide me.
SARAH:
What? Why?
How?
DOREEN:
He’s the one
from the dating site last night. Turns out he’s one of us.
SARAH:
What?
Jewish?
DOREEN:
No, you
idiot. Oh, the last thing I need is another one obsessing about their
identity. This one disclosed the whole thing before we started.
BOB:
You still
shagged him, though?
DOREEN:
No, I bloody
didn’t. I want straightforward sex – not an existential wrestling match.
BOB:
I’d settle
for one of those at the moment. What’s existential?
SARAH TURNS
TO DOREEN.
SARAH:
Did you tell
him?
DOREEN:
What about?
SARAH:
About you?
DOREEN:
No I bloody
didn’t. What’s that got to do with anything?
BOB SITS
WORKING SOMETHING OUT.
BOB:
Hang on –
that means he thinks you’re a bigot. He thinks you scarpered because he’s
like us.
DOREEN:
Well I did
scarper because he’s like us!
BOB:
Well, then
you are a bigot.
DOREEN:
How can I be
a bigot when I’m like that myself?
BOB:
No, you’re
right. That makes you more than a bigot.
SARAH:
Yes, you’re
a kind of treasonal bigot. That’s pretty bad.
DOREEN:
Oh, shut up,
you two. He’s getting closer. Watch out for me.
DOREEN creeps under the table.
KEN spotS her, and smiles. Comes over, and
leans down under the table.
KEN:
Hello
Stella. What you doing down there.
BOB and SARAH:
Stella!?
BOB:
What webs of
deceit we wilfully weave . . . .
DOREEN looks up to KEN and smiles nervously.
DOREEN:
Oh, hello, Ken.
I – I just dropped a pork scratching.
KEN:
But you said
you were Jewish.
SARAH WHISPERS
TO BOB
SARAH:
Oh she told
him that much!
DOREEN
EMERGES FROM BELOW THE TABLE. SMOOTHS
HER HAIR.
DOREEN:
I’m picking
it up for a friend. Err . . these are my friends, Sarah and Bob . . .
KEN:
Oh, I’m
sorry. Hello, I’m, Ken. (Shakes hands.) I’m assuming you are Bob, and you are Sarah.
BOB:
Assumptions
are dangerous things . . .
KEN:
Sorry?
BOB:
Oh, nothing.
Please, Ken, take a seat. It’s nice to have a bit of male company.
KEN SITS
DOWN.
KEN:
Oh, thank
you.
SILENCE.
KEN:
It’s nice to
see you again, Stella. I hope your brother’s alright.
DOREEN:
(CLIPPED
VOICE). He’s fine now thank you.
KEN:
Falling off
stage at the Royal Opera House must have been painful.
BOB:
(TO DOREEN).
Err, what brother is that . . . Stella?
DOREEN
(whispers and smiles):
Shut up.
SARAH:
So, Ken. How
long have you known . . . Stella?
KEN:
Oh, we only
met last night. Through a dating site. First time I’ve ever done it . . and, so
far so good, I guess.
SARAH:
Oh, yes,
Stella was just telling us . . .
DOREEN:
My name is not
Stella.
KEN:
Excuse me?
DOREEN:
My name is
not Stella – it’s Doreen.
KEN:
Oh. Oh. Umm
. .
DOREEN:
Alias. Can’t
be too careful.
BOB:
Yes, you
can’t be too careful. Look at what happened to your brother . . .
DOREEN:
(Winces. To KEN). I haven’t got a
brother.
KEN:
Oh. Right.
So, who fell off stage then?
DOREEN:
Nobody.
KEN:
Aha . . . I
see . . . An excuse . . Oh dear, this is a bit awkward.
You are still Jewish, though?
BOB, SARAH and DOREEN:
Yes, still
Jewish.
KEN:
Right, that all makes sense then . . . apart from the pork scratching and the table. Oh - now
they make sense too. Right – I’ll head off. Err, nice to meet you all.
Errm, Stella I mean Doreen.
KEN wanders off, hesitantly.
BOB SMILES
AND LOOKS MISCHIEVOUS.
BOB:
You dirty
little liar. You big porky pie telling, pork scratching picking, bigot.
SARAH:
Treasonal
bigot. My God, you are evil. He was a lovely person. Look, he’s gone off now.
DOREEN:
Oh, I know.
I’m sorry. But what are the chances of him walking into our local pub? You’d
expect that in a sit com, but not in real life.
BOB:
You know, I
rather liked him too. Poor fellah. First time on a date site. Lands up with a
cracker like
Stella, I
mean Doreen – and then this! He really didn’t deserve that. I’m going after
him.
Ext. Out in the street.
KEN is walking determinedly.
BOB:
Oi, Ken.
Hang on, mate!
KEN continues to walk. BOB catches up with
him.
BOB:
(OUT OF
BREATH). Phew! Sorry – I just wanted to say, don’t take any notice of Doreen.
She always does this kind of thing.
KEN:
(STOPS).
Yes, well. I’m a bit new to all this. She was my first venture into the dating
game. I wasn’t quite prepared for Baron Munchausen. I mean Baroness Munchausen.
BOB:
Either is
fine . . .
KEN:
Sorry? Oh, perhaps
I’m not ready for this stuff yet.
BOB:
Oh, I think
you are, KEN. A good looking fellah like you. I mean, it should be easy for
you.
KEN:
Well, I’m
kind of getting used to things. I’ve been going through some changes recently,
and . . .
THEY PASS ANOTHER
PUB.
BOB:
Pint?
KEN:
Pardon?
BOB:
Pint? With
another bloke? In a pub?
KEN:
OK. Perhaps,
I will . . . .
Int. Back in the original local pub:
SARAH:
Well he was
very good looking . . .
DOREEN:
Yes, that’s
why I clicked into him in Uniform Dating.
SARAH:
Uniform
dating?
DOREEN:
Yes, he’s a
policeman. Or was. I mean a policewoman . .
SARAH:
Wow, you
went on a date with ex female copper . . Lucky you didn’t produce your usual PCS.
DOREEN:
Post Coital
Spliff. Wow – Yes, I would have too . . . had we reached post coital.
SARAH:
It’s all
smoke and mirrors with us, isn’t it? Do you think we’ll ever lead normal lives?
DOREEN:
No, thank
God.
SARAH:
That’s why
this play is so difficult to write.
DOREEN:
Oh yes, the
play.
SARAH:
It’s meant
to portray wholesome, worthy, upstanding people – and the only ones I know are
loopy nutters.
DOREEN:
Who wants worthy and upstanding. Unless it’s a cock.
SARAH:
I rest my
case.
DOREEN:
Actually, my
dear. All is not lost. You are worthy
and upstanding – an example to us all. You are sickeningly normal, well-adjusted,
virtuous – all the things I despise. It’s amazing I like you really.
SARAH:
Oh, thank
you very much.
DOREEN:
No, but my
point is, you should write about yourself. Make yourself the centre of this fantasy – that way you can write about other the other characters as fuck ups, but they’re only
supporting parts. Oh, supporting parts. Sounds rude.
SARAH:
Everything
sounds rude to you. (Pause). Hey,
I like that idea of making the play autobiographical, though. I’ll make it like
Sex and the City.
DOREEN:
With you as
that virtuous ragdoll princess.
SARAH:
I know that
was meant as an insult, but I rather like that. But that would make you that ancient
slut, wouldn’t it . . . ? Oh, that works too . . .
DOREEN:
Yes, there
always has to be somebody like me in a sit com. For Doreen read Dorian. Why
d’you think I chose the name?
SARAH:
(Takes a drink and looks wistful). Sex
and the City . . Maybe, I’ll find love after all.
DOREEN:
A BAFTA would help.
SARAH:
Yes, but
then, everybody would know.
DOREEN:
What’s wrong
with that?
SARAH:
Actually (smiles) . . nothing at all. (Raises her glass). Cheers!
DOREEN:
We are what
we are. Here’s to you meeting the man of your dreams, who knows you’re
the way you are, and
prefers it that way.
SARAH:
Maybe my
play will help in changing attitudes.
DOREEN:
Well, get
writing then, love. Write your way to acceptance. No, bugger that.
Write it so that the whole nation gets wants to have a sex change!
SARAH:
I'll drink to that.
Int. Second pub.
BOB and KEN, worse for wear in the pub:
BOB:
(A little confused). So, you’re a
policeman?
KEN:
Ex
policeman, actually. I was in the force for ten years.
BOB:
Wow . . (Drifting off). You know, I always had
a fantasy about women in uniform. Policewomen. There’s something so sexy about
them. Did you have many in your unit?
KEN:
One or two .
.
BOB:
Fit?
KEN:
One was. Not
me . . . I mean, not my type though.
BOB:
(Coming to). Oh, yes. Of course, not
your type at all.
KEN:
(Suddenly Alert). She told you, didn’t
she?
BOB:
Told you
what?
KEN:
That I’m
different.
BOB:
Err . . Yes,
she might have mentioned something . . .
KEN:
(Sighs). Honestly, my first venture out
into mainstream sexuality . . My first date is a psycho, and I’m outed to all
her mates.
BOB:
Oh, not all of them exactly . . (Pauses). Err, both of them.
KEN:
Well, I hope
you’re OK with it . .
BOB:
Well, of
course I am. Except that there’s one less policewoman in the world.
KEN:
Yes, I’m
probably not your usual company.
BOB:
Oh, you’d be
surprised . . . . Fancy another?
BARMAID:
Yes, love?
BOB:
Two pints of
Tetley, please.
KEN:
And a pack
of pork scratchings . . .
BOB:
I thought
you might have had a bellyful of those . . .
KEN:
Oh that.
Yes, a bit embarrassing . . though there’s something about that Doreen.
BOB:
There
certainly is. Women, eh? Can’t live with ‘em . . .
KEN:
Can’t live
with being one . . .
BOB:
A
policewoman, eh? What did you look like?
KEN:
Opens his
wallet. Like this. It’s me on the beat.
BOB:
(Takes the picture). Oh, Ken, you were
a sexy thing . . .
BARMAID places pints on the bar and looks at KEN
flirtatiously.
BARMAID: He
still is. (Walks off).
BOB:
Ken. I think you’ve pulled.
KEN:
You think so?
BOB:
(Puts down the pint). Err . . . Can I
keep the picture?
Int. Sarah and Ken’s apartment.
Later that evening. SARAH and DOREEN sit
watching TV, drinking pinot grigio.
DOREEN:
Not bloody
Pride and Prejudice again. Talk about flogging a dead horse. When was
it made?
SARAH:
1995. I
wanted to be Jennifer Ehle.
DOREEN:
Well, you
achieved that, didn’t you? All rosy cheeks and fuck me Sir faux bashfulness.
SARAH:
AS ELIZABETH
BENNETT. I’ll take that as a compliment, Ma’am.
DOREEN:
It is, you
pretty, young virginal thing.
SARAH:
Who did you
want to be, when you were a little girl?
DOREEN:
Oh, Madonna.
Didn’t everyone want to be Madonna?
SARAH:
Not me.
Manky old cow. Hey, when you star in my play, maybe Madonna will get in touch.
She likes these kind of things.
DOREEN:
Yes, I’ll be
famous. A star on the screen. A Trans Vision Vamp.
SARAH:
That was a
pop group, wasn’t it?
DOREEN:
Yes, crap
group – great name, though. Good name for the screenplay?
SARAH:
Too obvious.
Door opens. In walks BOB
BOB:
Evening all.
SARAH:
Bob, did you like Madonna?
BOB:
Madonna? To
shag? Yes, why not?
SARAH:
Men. Yuck.
Anyway, where have you been? Did you catch up with Ken?
BOB:
Indeed, I
did. Top bloke, Ken.
DOREEN:
Is he very
cut up about me?
BOB:
Couldn’t
give a shit. I left him with the barmaid in the
Red Cow. She couldn’t keep her hands off him.
DOREEN:
Well, that’s
charming. He’s obviously a serial adulterer.
SARAH:
Excuse me?
The way you treated the poor fellah, I think he’s entitled to what he can get.
DOREEN:
Makes me
feel cheap. Used.
BOB: Well . . . derrr.
SARAH:
What about
yourself, Bob. Pull any birds?
DOREEN:
Oh Bob never
pulls. It’s that horrible beard. You should shave it off.
BOB:
Well, as a
matter of fact, I’ve got a date.
DOREEN:
What – with
a woman?
BOB:
Of course,
with a woman.
SARAH:
So, who is
she?
BOB:
Met her at
the pub. She’s a policewoman. Very tasty too.
SARAH:
You’ve got a
thing about policewomen, haven’t you? This sounds like one of your fantasies,
along with Thelma, Paige and Mu Mu.
BOB:
No, she’s
real. Really real.
DOREEN:
Oh, sure. If
you’ve managed to snag a policewoman in the Red Cow on a rainy Thursday, I’ll . . . I’ll eat your underpants.
BOB:
Used?
DOREEN:
Yes, of
course.
BOB:
(Reaches into his wallet. Hands over the
photo.)
Look and
weep, baby.
DOREEN:
What’s this?
She gave you a photo – who is she? Is she a hooker?
BOB:
Nope. She’s
real.
SARAH:
Hookers are
real too. Wow – she’s not bad looking. When are you seeing her again?
BOB:
On Saturday.
We’re meeting at the pub, after the Orient match.
SARAH:
You’re going
to the match?
BOB:
Sort of. She’s
policing it. Clocks off at six.
DOREEN:
Well, I
never. I was lying about the underpants, by the way.
BOB: You
can’t do that.
SARAH: No
you can’t.
DOREEN:
Well, before
I go pant crunching I want proof. I want to see her. I don’t believe a word of
it.
BOB:
Not a
problem, come along to the Red Cow on Saturday, and you can meet her. I won’t
change my pants until then.
SARAH:
No change
there, then.
Int. In the flat. The next evening.
SARAH:
(Sitting typing again). I know you
better than that, Bob. You made that policewoman up.
BOB.
I didn’t.
SARAH:
What’s her
name then?
BOB:
Cindy.
SARAH:
Cindy? A
Police Constable called Cindy?
BOB:
Well, she
likes to be called Sin.
SARAH:
Very likely. You really should shave that beard off. You’d have more
chance pulling real women. Hey, you could join that date site,
Uniform.com.
BOB:
I’m already
on it. Been on it for six months.
SARAH:
No interest?
BOB:
Nah.
SARAH: (Does a shaving motion).
Beard . . .
Actually, a fascination with uniform is the one thing both you and Doreen have
in common. (Thinks). No,
actually, you’ve got two things in common with Doreen.
BOB:
Two’s quite
enough.
Knock on the door.
BOB goes to
answer the door.
BOB: Talking
of the devil . . .
DOREEN
BURSTS IN IN A STATE OF AGITATION.
DOREEN:
OMG, I think
I’m in trouble.
SARAH:
(MOCKING.) OMG.
You in trouble?
DOREEN:
No, really.
I think I’ve done it this time. Anyway, I had a nuit blanc last night, and well
. . one thing led to another . . and I ended up smoking my last PCS.
BOB:
Police
Constable Smith?
DOREEN:
Post Coital
Spliff. Anyway, this afternoon, I went to my usual friend who helps in these
substantial matters. I handed over fifty quid, and as I walking up the street,
noticed I was being followed.
SARAH:
Followed? By
who?
DOREEN:
One man one
woman. I think.
SARAH:
. . .and then, what?
DOREEN:
Well, I
wasn’t going to go home, was I? So I came here.
SARAH:
Here? With
your fifty pound stash?
DOREEN:
Err, yes. Oh
no – that wasn’t very bright was it?
BOB:
Not bright
at all. What’s the opposite of bright. Not bright.
DOREEN:
Oh, well,
I’m sure it’ll be alright. I’m just being paranoid . .
Three Loud Knocks on the Door.
SARAH:
Oh my God. Doreen,
what have you done? Well, go on, Bob – answer it.
BOB:
Why always
me?
SARAH:
Oh, I'll
answer it then.
Opens door. Two Police Officers enter. One
man, one woman.
DOREEN:
OMG. It's
that fictitious girlfriend of Ken's. I can't be arrested by one of Ken's
fantasies.
MALE PC:
Ms Doreen
Polanski?
DOREEN:
Yes?
MALE PC:
Of 32,
Grange St, Hoxton . . .
DOREEN:
Oh God, they
know my address.
MALE PC:
I believe
you know, a Mr Kenneth Jones?
DOREEN:
Yes, that's
him? There! There! The beardy man over there.
KEN looks exasperated.
MALE PC:
Thank you,
madam. You've been very helpful. Mr Kenneth Jones, I am arresting you on
charges of theft. You do not have to say anything . . .
KEN:
Theft?
Theft? What of?
MALE PC:
Can I see
your wallet?
KEN quickly
picks it from his pocket. FEMALE PC picks out the photo.
FEMALE PC:
This.
KEN:
Oh, God.
Cindy? (Turns to DOREEN and SARAH.)
See! See! I told you she was real.
KEN:
My name was
Mandy.
BOB:
Mandy! Yes.
KEN:
Now it's
Ken.
BOB:
Yes, Ken, of
course.
SARAH:
So you're
having a date with Ken? That's not like you.
KEN:
No chance of
that I'm afraid. I like women, like Doreen. Doreen, shall we?
They link arms. DOREEN feels Ken's bum.
DOREEN:
Damn right,
you hot potato.
They kiss and leave. The MALE PC lingers.
BOB:
So . .
You're a policeman.
MALE PC:
No, actually,
I'm just a friend of Ken's. Sorry, when Ken told me about you going on a
fantasy date his former self, it was difficult to resist.
BOB:
How did he
know? . . . Doreen!
MALE PC:
Yes, she
rang Ken to apologise for the other night. She mentioned that you met a female
PC in the pub, and were going on a hot date. Ken checked his wallet and the
photo had gone. So he decided to brush off his old togs.
BOB:
Damn! (Looks leerily at MALE PC). Err . . you
don't happen to be a woman, then?
Male PC:
No.
BOB:
Trans?
MALE PC:
No, gay.
BOB:
Transvestite
gay? Women's Police uniforms?
MALE PC:
God, no.
Anyway, dear. I don't like beards.
SARAH:
I told you!
(Makes a shaving motion).
Knock on the door. BOB opens the door.
DOREEN enters with quickly changed Ken. She waves
a reefer.
DOREEN:
Pre Coital
Spliff anyone?
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