Hi, I write comedy sketches and have them performed at theatres and comedy venues in Scotland. On this page, I've included the scripts for three of my sketches.
'Stuck in Scotland with no ray gun' is one of my personal favourites and centres around an alien who has crash-landed in Bonnybridge in Scotland. Bonnybridge is known for its many UFO sightings. By means of an inter galactic translation device a local cop and two mysterious agents are able to query the alien.
'What did you want to do?' was the first sketch I ever wrote and was performed at the Traverse Theatre's Monday Lizard show on the 5th of July 1999.
The other sketch, 'A dog's gotta do what a dog's gotta do' was written on the train back from Glasgow to Edinburgh after a Wright side of the Moone rehearsal and was inspired by a very small dog that was on the train with its owner.
Stuck in Scotland with no ray gun
The Plot:
A UFO has crashed just outside Bonnybridge. The local police are soon on the scene and recover an extra-terrestrial from the vessel. They take him to a holding cell and alert the appropriate authorities. Very shortly afterwards, two mysterious individuals turn up. They are from a top secret unit that deals with the threat of alien invasion.
The Dialogue:
Inspector Hendry:
'Right laddo, it's confession time'
Alien:
(urgently)
'Zig zorg za zed zed'
Inspector Hendry:
(Turns towards the two agents)
'This could be tricky. He doesn'nae seem tay speak nae English?'
Special Agent Lambert:
'You what? ... Oh, got ya. It's okay. This handy little device oughta do the trick.'
(extracts gadget from pocket and places it on the table)
Inspector Hendry:
'Whaa the hell is it?'
Special Agent Becker:
'Trans-lay-shun dee-vice. Ve did get it from von of our E.T. friends'.
Special Agent Lambert:
'Okay, look dude, we ain't got much time, so here's what we need. Your name, species, reason for being here and planet of origin.'
Alien:
(Slightly nervous)
'Right big lad, what's the craic?'
Inspector Hendry:
'Eh?'
Special Agent Lambert:
'Ah, one of the quirks of this device ... last week we had a Grey with a deep south drawl. Every other word was 'y'all this, y'all that'.
Special Agent Becker:
'Vat is it this time?'
Inspector Hendry:
'Sounds Irish, eh?'
Special Agent Lambert:
'Northern Irish actually. (Sees Hendry looking at him) I'm trained to recognise numerous regional accents. Luckily, this is one of them.'
(Lambert turns and looks purposefully at the alien)
'Right, look kiddo, are you gonna co-operate or do I need to get Agent Becker here to get her dissection kit out?'
Alien:
'Lookey here, there's no need for the strong arm tactics man!'
Special Agent Lambert:
'Ok then. Let's start at the beginning, shall we? What's your name?'
Alien:
'My name's Zorg, so it is.'
Special Agent Lambert:
'Good ... Progress .... And where are you from?'
Alien:
'I'm from the planet Zellsell, just aways south of Pluto'.
Special Agent Lambert:
'Right. That would make you a (Looks in his notebook) ... a Zelldellian?'
Alien:
'Sure thing. There's no flies on you mate!'
Special Agent Becker:
(Leans forward meanacingly)
'Ven is ze invasion planned? Vat ver your orders?!'
(Becker shakes the alien roughly)
Alien:
'Calm yourself down woman dear. Invasion? What invasion?'
Special Agent Lambert:
'There's no invasion?'
Alien:
'Nah. Least not that I knows of anyways. Nah, I was in the Inter Stella Three One Thousand Championship, doing rightly, minding me own business, when some bastard smashed into me arse causing me to crash land in this here hinterland. Then, before I knows what's going on, some fellas has carted me away and locked me in here!'
(Zorg looks pointedly towards Hendry)
Special Agent Becker:
(Facing Lambert)
'Ze alien is lying!'
(Turns to face Zorg)
'Maybe ve should cut ze tentacles off?'
Alien:
'I'm not lying, so I'm not! ... And don'y you dare try to cut my tentacles off ya wizened biped!'
Special Agent Lambert:
(Thoughful)
'What do you think, Inspector?'
Inspector Hendry:
'To tell the truth, ah dinnae ken what to think. Ah mean, ah've been in the force fur thirty-odd years, seen things that would .... but this ...'
Alien:
'Look guys, it's been nice talking to ya ..... but can I be getting back home then?'
Special Agent Lambert:
'Home? Oh, I'm afraid that will be quite out of the question. (Sees questioning look from Zorg). We will be taking possession of your spaceship for 'scientific investigation' so unless you suddenly sprout wings and fly back ... (looks hastily at notebook) ... you can't do that, can you?'
Alien:
'Very funny. So what about me then? What am I supposed to do?'
Special Agent Lambert:
'You will be detained here whilst we work out what to do with you.'
Alien:
'So I'm gonna be a prisoner is what yer saying?!'
Special Agent Lambert:
'Not exactly a prisoner, I mean you won't be handcuffed or anything ...'
Alien:
'But what will have to happen for me to get back home then?'
Inspector Hendry:
(Conspiratorially)
'Well, if I was you laddo, I'd start praying for a Conservative government, they'll have you shipped back in no time at all!'
What did you want to do?
Background:
The 21st century has arrived as so has Armageddon. We are in a bunker during war time. Overhead bombs are raining down, the sound of automatic gunfire is prevalent and all the foot soldiers can do is keep their head down and pray that they remain lucky.
Characters (in order of appearance):
Private Micky MacConnell, a Glaswegian
Private Alex Stone. Nickname: Stones
Sergeant Frank Locke, hard as nails but with a soft centre.
Private Biggins. Young, slightly dim but the joker amongst the group. Nickname: Bigs.
The 3 privates are young men, none older than 23. The Sarge, at the age of 29, is a veritable antique given mortality rates in this war. His is also a father figure to his men.
The Dialogue:
F/X: Sounds of gunfire and the occasional mortar exploding.
(A small group of men are sheltering in a bunker. All of a sudden another man rund in bringing bad news)
Private MacConnell:
(Shouts hysterically)
'Eddie's been hit!'
Private Stone:
'How bad?'
Private MacConnell:
'He's lost his fucking arm. I'd say that's pretty bad, Stones!'
Sarge:
'Poor Eddie. That kid wanted to be a classical painist you know.'
F/X: Hushed silence, punctuated only by the sounds of the dying and the injured and another bomb landing somewhere in the distance.
Private Stone:
'What did you want to do Sarge?'
Sarge:
'Eh?'
Private Stone:
'When you were a kid? What's you want to be when you grew up?'
Sarge:
(Deadpan)
'A lorry driver'
MacConnell/Biggins/Stone:
(General disbelief. Mutterings of 'No', 'Get away!', etc)
Private Biggins:
(Laughing)
'I'd a thought you'd a wanted to be a mean motherfucker killing machine, Sarge?!'
Sarge:
'No ... That came later!'
Private Biggins:
'What kind of lorry?'
Sarge:
(Turns to look at Biggins)
'A big red one!'
Private Biggins:
'Yeah, but what make Sarge?'
Sarge:
'I was five years old, Biggins. I didn't know what a fucking make was! ... Look, all I knew was that I wanted to drive a big red lorry, like the toy one I had got for my birthday!'
Private Stone:
'Well, we've got green lorries in the army, Sarge?'
Private Biggins:
'And yellow ones!'
(The others turn to look at the excited Biggins)
Well, in the desert anyway.'
Sarge:
'It may have escaped your attention, Biggins. But we're not in the desert. In fact, we're up to our fucking eyeballs in mud, here in good old Scotland!'
Private Biggins:
'You could always ask for a transfer, Sarge?'
All:
(Laughter)
Sarge:
'If I get out of here in one piece I may just do that. I believe Hawaii is good this time of year.'
F/X: More laughter, then the sound of another bomb, nearer this time. A worried silence descends upon the group of men.
Sarge:
'Anyway, Biggins, I wanted to drive a big red lorry, not a fucking yellow one. Have you any bright ideas about how I might achieve that in the army? The words 'red' and 'camouflage' don't usually go hand-in-hand - unless we're going to be fighting on Mars!'
Private MacConnell:
'Me uncle Pete was a fireman.'
Sarge:
'Glad you shared that with us, Private MacConnell. I'd begun to think that you'd gone to sleep over there!'
Private MacConnell:
'No, I mean, he drove a fire engine. And it was big and red. Don't know what happened to it though.'
Sarge:
'I don't think that helps us much, son.
(Indicates towards where the fighting is coming from)
Your uncle's from Glasgow, ain't he?'
Private MacConnell:
'Yeah. Just outside Anniesland.'
Sarge:
'Well, there's about five million nasty buggers swarming about up there looking to kill the first stupid wanker sticks his 'ed above ground level. And Glasgow, my fine men, lies beyond them!'
Private Biggins:
'My ma used to say if you dreams hard 'nuff ya can be anything ya wants ta be.'
Private Stone:
'Take it you didn't dream for looks then Bigs?!'
Sarge:
'Or brains!'
Private MacConnell:
'Yeah, what did you dream for Bigs? What did you wanna be?'
F/X: Bomb lands, very near this time. We hear a scream and then silence falls.
(biggins had been just about to respond but shrapnel hits him, killing him. Stones and the Sarge cradle the limp form of Biggins in their arms. The mood has suddenly transformed from a jovial, if slightly nervous, one to one of utter despair.)
Private Stone:
(Speaking softly)
'He wanted to be a fucking soldier boy.'
Copyright © 1999 Simon Wright
A dog's gotta do what a dog's gotta do
(Sound of dogs barking)
Some people think we dogs got it easy. Cars to chase, cats to bark at and humans on hand to look after our every need. But those folks that say that don't know what they're talking about .... especially for a dog such as me.
You see I'm a Chihuahua, oh hell what am I saying, of course you can see that, as long as you're looking low enough anyway.
Maybe life as a dog ain't too bad if you're an Alsatian or one of them bloody Rottweilers, no-one bosses you around in a hurry then, I'm sure.
But me, I need to be a whole lot more wily than that Wily Coyote if I'm not to end up a light snack in some critter's belly. It's not good for your self esteem either; you're standing there barkin' at a cat for all you're worth and then you have to turn tail and flee for your life if the bloody moggy decides to bear his claws. It's bloody undignified so it is, a disgrace really.
Mind you, I'm not saying that I blame the cats, not that I like them either you understand, the mouse eatin' flea-bags. No, the ones I blame are the humans, them that say that they run this planet of ours. I mean, I'm descended from a wolf, a great big shaggy-coated beast with canines like knives and a howl to strike terror into the heart!
I mean, would you credit it, me descended from a wolf?! And I ask you, how did it come to this? Well, I'll tell you! Those bloody humans decided it'd be a 'fun' thing to create a dog so small that he could be put inside a doll's house. I've still not recovered from the ignominy of that!! Indeed, it was exactly that occurrence that started me on the course that's led me here, to tell you my story.
You see, Fluffy the cat, a flea-infested rag-eare runt of a cat, was laughing at me. I couldn't get him to stop, I mean what with me being stuck in the doll's house and all. And the embarrassment of it, being laughed at by a cat called Fluffy! I was right sore I can tell you. Sore at the humans, sore at the cat, most of all sore at the world. So I decided I needed to do something big, something dramatic, to win back my respect, however small, in the neighbourhood.
I'd heard that there was this new dog in town, a poncy as hell Poodle. Not just any poodle either, no one of them toy poodles, the type you see pickin' up all the awards on Crufts every year, not that I watch that bloody programme! Anyhow, I'd seen him prancing around the front lawn of his house, yapping away any time anybody happened to walk by.
If ever there was a dog that I could better in a fight, this was my dog! So I gathered up my courage, strode purposefully across the road and sneaked in through the hedge - there are some benefits to being small you know.
My plan was simple. I was going to sneak up on him, all commando like, and sink my teeth into his pedigree backside. It would have worked too, I'm sure, if it wasn't for the fact that wee Jenny had covered me in perfume whilst I was detained at her convenience in HMS Doll House! The result was that Oliver smelt me coming. What kind of name is Oliver for a dog anyway? Yep, he smelt me coming all right and before I knew what was happening he was upon me, his teeth in my fur, my teeth in his fur, we were a mass of teeth and fur, legs thrashing about there on that lawn.
I still reckon I'd have had him but for the humans, you see they came along and broke us up. I've never been told I was a bad dog so much, no tea and I was banished to he pantry, cold hard floor and no dog basket.
And now, as if my life isn't full enough of shame, I'm here having to tell you all this, here at this bloody dog school for the misbehaving dogs!
My name's Spot, don't snigger I didn't choose it, and this is my story!
Copyright © 2003 Simon Wright