This is a pantomime (obviously) which I began to write after videoing the Bredons Norton Amateur Dramatics Group's pantomime, 'The Christmas Cavalier'. Well, I say I wrote it, in fact most of the characters are simply stolen from 'Blackadder', and the jokes are mainly terrible puns too rubbish to have made it into cracker jokes, but hey. Feel free to print this script out, finish it off yourselves, and perform it with the rest of your talentless, lame-brained Am Dram cronies. Go on luvvy; you know you want to. I should point out that, being a pantomime, all the jokes are suitable for young and old, and offend only the most laudable social minorities. This is unusual for a script of mine, as my friends and solicitors know only too well. The jokes are also unfunny, as all true panto jokes must be. There are also references to common household names and personalities, in an attempt to be topical, like all pantomimes. In this way I mock the art of pantomime and sneer in the face of convention.    

CAST...

Botchjob: The king’s adviser, a nasty piece of work.

Prince Percy: Heir to the throne, a total drip.

Fido: A downtrodden court jester.

Jemima: A plucky servant lass.

Witch Wipple: A randy witch.

Cuffem & Stuffem: A pair of comically inept guards.

Scene 1: The throne room. Fido the jester enters, sweeping.

Fido: ‘Ello, everyone! My name’s Fido, the king’s jester. What’s your names? What do you reckon, eh? I’ve been sweeping all morning, ready for the party tonight. Did you know there was a party? Well, you’re all invited. It’s Prince Percy’s coronation, y’see. Now that the king’s so old, he can’t run up a flight of stairs, let alone the kingdom. So it’s up to his son, Percy, to take over! He’s a nice feller, is Percy- but lately he’s come over all strange. Hang about, here he comes now.

Enter Prince Percy, a wilting weed with a soppy smile on his face.

Fido: Morning, your highness- or should I say, your majesty?

Percy: (jumps at the word ‘majesty’) Daddy? Where? Oh, it’s just you, Fido. You scared me silly.

Fido: (aside) Easily done! (to Percy) Why are you so jumpy this morning?

Percy: I’m in love, Fido! With the most beautiful girl in the world!

Fido: Ah, that explains it.

Percy: Explains what?

Fido: You’ve been floating around with your head in the clouds for weeks, your highness. I thought you were ill.

Percy: Ah, there is no cure for what I’ve got, Fido! Cupid’s speared me in the behind with his most potent arrow.

Fido: I thought you said it was a girl.

Percy: Yes, and what a girl! As goblet stems are her legs! As chandeliers are her eyes! As punch-bowls are her...

Fido: What’s her name?

Percy: Her name? Ah yes, her name. The angels saw fit to call her... Jemima.

Fido: Not Jemima Wipple?

Percy: The very same! Oh, her voice is like the tinkling of...

Fido: Jemima Wipple who lives in the village? The witch’s daughter?

Percy: Show some respect for my future mother in law!

Fido: Alright, but she is a witch. This is the Dark Ages, you know. Anyway, you can’t be in love with a peasant girl! You’re a prince!

Percy: I know, that’s what daddy says. That’s why I’m so jumpy- he keeps following me around, keeping an eye on me.

Fido: So what are you going to do?

Percy: What can I do? Daddy won’t let me have anything to do with her. He says if I want a serf, I should visit the seaside.

Fido: Hoi, I do the puns.

Percy: Sorry.

Fido: So what does Jemima say about all this?

Percy: How should I know?

Fido: Haven’t you spoken to her?

Percy: (Aghast) Have you gone completely loopy? Speak to her? I couldn’t, I wouldn’t know what to say, I’d probably faint before I had got past ‘Hello, I’m Percy’.

Fido: So you’re madly in love with this girl, and you’ve never even spoken to her? Never even met her?

Percy: You must think I’m a dashed silly, brainless, sentimental young fool.

Fido: I don’t know about sentimental, your highness.

Percy: I say, Fido, you haven’t seen the royal advisor, have you?

Fido: Are you planning on taking up golf? Head visor, geddit?

Percy: No, I’m looking for Lord Botchjob, the Grand Vizier. He’s a brainy cove, perhaps he can help me in my predicament.

Fido: I dunno, your highness, that Botchjob’s a nasty piece of work.

Percy: Pish and piffle! Botchjob’s a fine Vizier, father couldn’t do without him.

Fido: He seems a bit shifty to me.

Percy: Nonsense! If you see the fellow, send him to my chambers, will you?

Fido: Righto.

Exit Percy.

Enter Botchjob. He is tall, and black-robed, and goateed. He doesn’t approve of pantomimes and so is in a permanent bad mood.

Fido: (Aside) Oh, look who it is. Botchjob, the slipperiest eel in the kingdom.

Botchjob: (Aside) Oh, look who it is. Fido, the jelly-brained jester. (to Fido) Morning, haddock-breath.

Fido: Good morning? Good morning? Maybe for you. I’ve got no end of work to do!

Botchjob: Makes a change.

Fido: I’ve got to clean the corridors, dust the drapes, tidy the tapestries, brasso the battlements, polish the portcullis, shine the sceptres, pluck the pheasants...

Botchjob: Careful...

Fido: ...preen the peacocks, suckle the swans, pickle the partridges and cheese the poofs ready for the party tonight.

Botchjob: Ah yes, Prince Percy’s coronation bash. I must say that I’ve never looked forward to anything more than this party.

Fido: Really, sir?

Botchjob: No, not really. I’d rather enjoy a quiet evening of bowel surgery.

Fido: Well, I’ve got the keys to the armoury, sir...

Botchjob: No thanks Fido, I was delivering an amusing joke. A concept which will be as alien to you as Brylcreem is to William Hague.

Fido: That’s a load of donkey droppings, my lord. As the court jester, I know every joke in the book.

Botchjob: Yes, but in your case the book is the Argos catalouge. You’re about as funny as a brick in the back of the head.

Fido: How funny’s that?

Botchjob: This funny. (a brick flies from the wings, and clocks Fido on the bonce.)

Fido: That wasn’t very funny, sir.

Botchjob: (looking at the audience) Obviously not. Who are this lot, anyway? I didn’t realise the circus was in town.

Fido: They’re my helpers, aren’t you, gang?

Botchjob: Gang? More like gag. This bunch of lepers looks about as useful as viagra for rabbits. Are you sure they’re not carny folk? Ee gad, look at that man’s jumper! I haven’t seen a sight like that since I had Channel Five retuned! Fido, remind me to pass a new law: The Noel Edmunds Act, we’ll call it.

Fido: Are you against light entertainers, sir?

Botchjob: Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to set light to an entertainer. Anyway, talking of irritating, monosyllabic brutes, did you remember to order the dancing bear?

Fido: Certainly did.

Botchjob: And you made sure that there was no confusion? A dancing bear, a bear that dances? I mean, the request is open to misunderstanding.

Fido: A dancing bear, sir.

Botchjob: It’s just that some people would take the opportunity to make amusing comments about, oh I don’t know, some berk in the nip doing the hot- shoe shuffle. I would appreciate it if you resisted temptation and didn’t turn up to the party au naturel.

Fido: Don’t know why you’d think that, sir.

Botchjob: Excellent, well, glad that’s sorted out. Frankly the sight of you wearing only a pair of castanets is enough to turn anyone green.

Fido: You already are green.

Botchjob: Ah, but not with sickness, my pasty-faced pollyp. I am green with envy! And would you like to know why?

Fido: (aside) No, not really.

Botchjob: What?

Fido: Er, speak more clearly!

Botchjob: I am at the end of my tether.

Fido: I’ll pop down the high street and get you some more, shall I?

Botchjob: Prince Potty-pants Percy and his idiot father have driven me to distraction.

Fido: Ain’t no tractor here.

Botchjob: Distraction, you dunce! A term you are demonstrating expertly. Here’s me, Lord Botchjob, twice Brain of Birmingham, and this kingdom is being run, or should I say staggered, by Pinky and flaming Percy.

Fido: Flaming Percy’s off, m’lord. We’ve got Battered Sweep instead.

Botchjob: No thanks, too early. I’d murder a little wood-smoked Muffin, though.

Fido: Mule?

Botchjob: No, just a little bark.

There is a rather long pause.

Fido: You were saying, sir?

Botchjob: Ah yes, the king. He’s as slow as a tortoise with no legs and about as dopey as a commune full of new romantics. I’ve seen paperclips with more political acumen. I mean, look at this castle! The turrets are crumbling, the moat’s full of crisp packets and old tyres, and these portraits all look suspiciously similar.

Fido: The artist had a photographic memory, sir. But only one film.

Botchjob: If I had my way, the whole monarchy would be packed off to Agrabah to build hospitals for Comic Relief. And let’s face it, we could do with a good laugh around here. If someone was to dispose of the prince, things would be a darn sight more sober around here. Hang on! That’s it!

Fido: What’s it?

Botchjob: If you’ll excuse the phrase, I Have A Cunning Plan.

Fido: Oh, dear.

Botchjob: Oh, dear?

Fido: Oh, dear.

Botchjob: (angrily) Oh, dear?

Fido: Oh, dear.

Botchjob: Why do you say that?

Fido: Because, whenever you get a cunning plan, it means more work for me.

Botchjob: Well volunteered, Fido. Go hence to the stables, and fetch me my fastest stallion, Midnight.

Fido: It’s only ten thirty.

Botchjob: No, frog-face, Midnight is my trusty steed.

Fido: Rusty pee? You should take him to the vet.

Botchjob: Look, the task, like you, is quite simple. Go to the castle stables, saddle up Midnight, and meet me in the courtyard in fifteen minutes.

Fido: Going out, are you?

Botchjob: Yes, Mystic Meg, I am. I shall ride this morrow...

Fido: ...you mean horse...

Botchjob: ...to yonder village, where I shalt secure the services of a woman.

Fido: You’ll be needing the extra riding gear, then.

Botchjob: I’m alright for tackle, thank you, Fido. I intend to call upon the adequate witch, Waspberry Wipple.

Fido: Are you sure, m’lord? I got this number out of a phone box, look... (He takes out a postcard, and gives it to Botchjob, who throws it over his shoulder.)

Botchjob: I am told that Witch Wipple is the best witch in all the kingdom, being neither a good witch, nor an evil witch, but an adequate witch.

Fido: So she’s a medium.

Botchjob: I believe she’s described as full-figured, homely, and has a chin you could strike matches on.

Fido: I heard she was a bloke in drag.

Botchjob: Hah! Village gossip. If you believed everything you hear, you’d think that every dame in the kingdom was a man in a powdered wig and a pair of false...

Fido: I’ll go and get your horse, then. Are you coming with me, gang?

Botchjob: No they’re not. I have plans for this shower of pansies.

Exit Fido.

Botchjob: Right, scum, listen up. That means making use of the two large things on the sides of your head. No madam, those are warts. Now, as you may have guessed, I am the villain of the piece. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s peace. And during this reign of King Duffy, there’s been nothing but happiness, jollity, and morris dancing. The people of this kingdom rise with the lark, sing as they cheerfully labour in the fields, and skip merrily back home each evening in time for Countdown. Now that the king is too old to rule, he must be abdicate to a prince regent. Unfortunatley, his only son, Percy, looks set to continue the trend. It occurs to me that this kingdom needs a ruler of might, of power, of intellect and discretion. And since the only person around here who fits the bill is me, well, steps must be taken. My plot is thus: I shall procure a serum of intoxicating headiness, to so excite the young prince into a sonambulatory enterprise of mine own devising. (looks at the audience’s blank faces) In peasant terms, I will get a mind-control potion from the village witch, feed it to the prince, and get him to disgrace himself in front of the king. The king will believe his son is as mad as a elephant’s shoemaker, and summarily cancel the coronation. Without a ruler, the kingdom will be brought to it’s knees, whereupon I, Lord Botchjob, self-styled supergit, will sieze control and appoint myself Chancellor of this land and rule forever! I can see it now, the parades, the statues, the palaces, the commemorative mugs! I shall tax the peasants until they are left penniless, work the animals until they are skin and bone, and spend my holidays in a quaint rustic golf village in Spain, sipping sangria and wowing them with my version of ‘My Way’ on the kareoke! I’ll be cock of the walk and you’ll be the jocks that support me. But beware, you festering snotbags, if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll have your kneecaps for noseplugs. It’ll be straight in the castle dungeons for you!

Exit Botchjob.

Enter Jemima Wipple, a pretty yet resourceful supporter of girl power. She is accompanied by Cuffem and Stuffem, two amusingly incompetent palace guards. Cuffem is thin, Stuffem is fat.

Jemima: Right, that’s the seven hundredth quiche in the oven. How are we for pineapple and cheese on sticks?

Cuffem: The last wagon load is on it’s way, miss Jemima.

Jemima: Well, I think that’s all for now. I should really be heading back to the village.

Stuffem: Would you like an escort, miss?

Jemima: (She has picked up Fido’s card) No, but here’s the number for one.

Cuffem: I’ll just, er, hold on to this. (Tucks the card in his breastplate.)

Stuffem: You coming to the coronation party tonight, miss?

Jemima: Oh, yes! I have to help serve the banquet.

Cuffem: I shall have to have a dance with you, fair lady. (He leers).

Jemima: Will you? That’s a pity. Because I like my men to have a bit of meat on them. (Stuffem beams).

Cuffem: I’ve got a pork chop somewhere, just a minute...

Jemima: Look, I have to go, mum’ll be getting worried.

Stuffem: Nice for Witch Wipple to be so concerned for he daughter, eh, Cuffem?

Jemima: Oh no! She’s worried that she won’t get her third breakfast on time.

Stuffem: Now there’s a woman who’s got her priorities right.

Cuffem: Put a sock in it, Stuffem. Now miss, I must insist that you allow us to accompany you back to the village.

Stuffem: Too right, Cuffem. There’s bandits in these parts.

Cuffem: And highwaymen.

Stuffem: And brigands.

Cuffem: And cutthroats.

Stuffem: And thieves.

Cuffem: And pickpockets.

Stuffem: And muggers.

Cuffem: And blaggards.

Stuffem: And scoundrels.

Cuffem: And beggars.

Stuffem: And squirrels.

Cuffem: Squirrels?

Stuffem: I mean wolves.

Jemima: So you two big, strong men will protect me? (Cuffem and Stuffem look behind them, then realise who she’s talking about).

Cuffem: Absolutley, miss! I’d like to see a villainous knave get past me.

Stuffem: Seen it, done it, bought the jerkin.

Cuffem: Oh yeah? I’m a better guard than you!

Stuffem: Call yourself a guard? You could have the bicycle clips stolen from your breeches, and you’d never notice.

Cuffem: I ain’t wearing bicycle clips.

Stuffem: You see? Right from under your nose.

Jemima: Are you two going to stand there bickering all day, or are you going to walk me home?

Cuffem: Oh, er, yes, right! Corporal Stuffem, ‘ten-shun! About turn, quick march! Left, er... left, left, left, left...

Exeunt.

Scene 2: outside Witch Wipple’s cottage. Witch Wipple is sunbathing in an ample bikini. She is still wearing her pointy black hat, though.

Enter Botchjob.

Botchjob: A lovely morning for sunbathing, old crone.

Wipple: Oooh! You cheeky beggar! You’ve caught me in my unmentionables. (Wipple throws on a black cloak.)

Botchjob: Unmentionable being the operative word.

Wipple: State ye name and purpose, lest I curse thee with my witchy magickings!

Botchjob: My name is Botch... I mean, Maria. Yes. Maria.

Wipple: Can I offer you some tea, ah, Maria?

Botchjob: No thank you, I’m driving. But I’d accept a spot of tea.

Wipple: Gaze upon my wonders, doubting mortal, as I weave my spells and get some cups. (She disappears inside).

Botchjob: I am beginning to have doubts about this witch’s qualifications. (Wipple returns with two cups, and hands one to Botchjob).

This tea tastes like the wringings from an ogre’s underpants.

Wipple: There’s nothing like PG Tips, is there?

Botchjob: And this is nothing like PG Tips. Is there any tea in this at all?

Wipple: No.

Botchjob: This is just hot water?

Wipple: Yes.

Botchjob: Why?

Wipple: Oh good sir, my daughter and I have been reduced to such poverty that we can no longer afford tea! I fear I am wasting away...

Botchjob: Fat chance. Look, are you the village witch or not?

Wipple: Yep. Look, I’ve got a hat and cloak and everything.

Botchjob: Thank goodness for small mercies.

Wipple: I’ve got some cream if it’s your mercies that’re troubling you.

Botchjob: Listen, hag, I have better things to do than stand here trading single entendres with a raving loony dressed like a wigwam.

Wipple: Ooh, hark at him! Somebody’s been in the knife drawer.

Botchjob: Yes, I have, and you’re about to get first hand experience of what I found in there. Now here is what I want.

Wipple: Ooh yes, I can guess what you want.

Botchjob: Spare me the details. I require an elixir that will force the drinker to do exactly as I command.

Wipple: I have here a potion called ‘Wipple’s Patented Hairpiece Hypnotiser’. But beware, it makes your head swell to twice it’s normal size.

Botchjob: No good.

Wipple: Then try this: ‘Wipple’s Patented Shirt Serum’. But beware, it makes your chest swell to three times it’s normal size.

Botchjob: Not that one either.

Wipple: Here is a bottle of ‘Wipple’s Patented Trouser Tipple’. But beware,...

Botchjob: Yes, I think I can see where this is leading. Have you a drug that will allow me to hypnotise a man, with no unpleasant side-effects?

Wipple: I wouldn’t call them unpleasant side-effects.

Botchjob: Answer the question.

Wipple: Yep. I do. I got it in Amsterdam.

Botchjob: I bet you did.

Wipple: Voila! A potion, one drop of which will force anyone to do anything! And with absolutely no side effects!

Botchjob: Just the job. How much?

Wipple: Five hundred groats and a kiss.

Botchjob: Here’s five groats and a clean pair of heels.

Wipple: Don’t go, young man! Why, my darling daughter, Jemima, will be back soon. Will you stay for a hot crumpet? Or perhaps something to eat?

Botchjob: Well, I...

Cuffem, Stuffem, and Jemima appear.

Cuffem: Left, left, left, left.

Jemima: Mother!

Wipple: Ah, here she is now. And with two strapping lads in tow!

Stuffem: Pleased to make your aquaintance, ma’am.

Wipple: And so polite, too! Not like grumpy guts here. (She is referring to Botchjob).

Botchjob: Put a cork in it, hag. And you two, what are you doing away from your posts, galavanting around with young girls?

Cuffem: That’s right, sir.

Jemima: Sorry, Lord Botchjob, they were just walking me home. It’s my fault.

Botchjob: Do I know you? Yes, you’re that serving wench from the kitchens.

Wipple: Don’t talk about my daughter like that!

Botchjob: Your daughter? I must say I can’t see the resemblance. Perhaps if she grew a beard...

Stuffem: Now sir, I really must stop you there.

Botchjob: Hmmph. Cuffem, Stuffem, accompany me back to the castle. It’s latrine duty for you layabouts. We must prepare for Prince Parmesan Plimsolls’ coronation party.

Exit Botchjob, Cuffem, and Stuffem.

Wipple: There there, poppet. Don’t listen to that horrible vizier.

Jemima: But he’s right, Mum. I’m just a serving girl. How’s a young girl like me going to make anything of myself when I’m surrounded by such horrible, power hungry men?

Wipple: Jemima, in the words of Monica Lewinsky...

Jemima: But we’re so poor, mum! If only Prince Percy would notice me, and sweep me off my feet.

Wipple: You can lend him my broom, if you like.

Jemima: No! I mean, if he’d fall in love with me, and marry me, only then would I be happy.

Wipple: You’ve got the hots for the Prince? That damp-eyed pansy?

Jemima: He’s not damp-eyed, he’s super. He’s a real man, not like that Botchjob you keep swooning over.

Wipple: Me? Swooning over Botchjob? You must be joking. He’s a snobbish, big-headed, oafish barbarian.

Jemima: With nice legs.

Wipple: With nice legs. Hey! Don’t try to trick me into admitting I like him!

Jemima: I suppose neither of us will ever be lucky in love, Mum. True love only exists in fairy tales.

Wipple: Well, we have to stop daydreaming. There’s housework to be done, my girl, and the day isn’t getting any younger.

Scene 3: Back in the throne room. Fido is riding on the dancing bear’s shoulders.

Botchjob: That’s the dancing bear, is it?

Fido: Certainly is, m’lord.

Botchjob: Looks more like a man in an unconvincing beaver costume. But it’ll have to do. What’s it’s name?

There is a long, long pause.

Fido: Tony.

Botchjob: Why the big pause?

Fido: ‘Cause he’s a grizzly.

Botchjob: You’ve been planning that crack, haven’t you?

Fido: (Looking behind him, at his arse) No, it came with the bum.

Botchjob: Tony, eh?

Fido: Yes. Tony Bear.

Botchjob: Don’t try to be clever, Fido, you’re on a hiding to nothing.

Fido: No, I’m on a bear.