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*Voice-over man*:
Rosie and Jim, much loved child stars, have lived colourful lives since their days of fame.
With their friend Duck and the tramp who steered the boat (there was Jim, and Keith, and Julie, and Maureen. All crap) they became the most loved hunks of material in television history.
Now, twenty years on, we obtain exclusive interviews with the stars - reminiscing about the past and telling happy, amusing stories about each other.
*End voice-over*
**
“ROSIE!” Rosie bellowed, dribbling slightly.
Most of her hair had fallen out and a badly-sewn rip knifed across her face.
Behind her, slightly to one side, stood a policeman with a tazer pointed at her head.
“Welcome to the show, Rosie.”
“BLARG!”
“Indeed. Thankyou for fitting us into your busy institutional schedule.”
“MMMKAY!”
“Indeed. Now, what are your best memories of your partner, Jim?”
“THE FEET! THE FEET! GRUMBO!.” She made a weird kind of hacking sound and coughed up a furball.
“Right, I see. And isn’t it true you’re relationship transcended that on-screen kiss at the start of each episode?”
She shook violently. “RRRAAARRRGGGHHH!” The puppet launched herself at the interviewer, but fell to the floor, inches short, with two wires sticking out her head. The policeman chuckled and turned up the voltage.
She burst into flames.
**
“Well, it’s a pleasure to be here. I always try to make time for the fans.” Duck sat in a director’s chair in a busy film studio. He wore a snappy suit and a cheesy grin.
“That’s great. Now, Duck, we’ve got here one of your favourite clips from the show. Tell us about it.”
“Yes, thankyou. This was one of the first scenes I ever did with Rosie and Jim, so it has a special place for me. And, I think, it conveys all the emotion and the anger Duck would have been feeling. I try to put that across in the rawest way possible, to really connect with the audience. You’ll see me, and by the end, you’ll KNOW me. It’s really very moving.”
*A video clip*
Ducks sits on the stupid hippy boat. He flaps his stupid wooden wings, swivels his stupid head a bit and goes “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCKKKK.” Then flaps his wings a bit more.
*End clip*
Duck is silent, a single tear runs down his cheek. He sniffs and blinks back more tears.
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
**
A very strange man in a purple cape with gold buttons sits on a throne. He’s bald, with a funny black beard and big eyebrows. A giant laser made from Frosties boxes wobbles behind him.
“So,” the interviewers starts, “Tell us about your role in the series.”
“Well.” The man says, he makes a stroking motion with his hands, but there’s no cat in his arms. “I’m Tempest Zivardo Kalasnikov-Sith, ruler of the known universe and master of darkness.”
“Wha -?”
“I played the hippie on the boat for one episode.”
“Only one?”
“Yes, they didn’t like me for many reasons. None of them had any substance.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I insisted on using my full name, which didn’t really fit into the song very well. And I attached a giant missile launcher to the boat. And turned Rosie and Jim to the dark side for a bit. So they sacked me.”
“Really? What was your reaction?”
“I said - “A plague a both your houses!” - to the puppets. “I’m no queer trampish Shakespearean dropout!”. And they said - “We just don’t think you’re right for the part.” So I said - “You’re just the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on. I am gold!”
“Wow, then what?”
“I stormed out and stole their minds with my lasers. Then I captured Rosie and Jim and fed them to the squarkglobs!”
“Really?”
“Errrrr ..... whatwasthat?”
“What?”
“Errrrr .....bye!” He legs it from the studio, calling in an elite death squad on a library card.
**
“And I was like - that’s no loris, that’s my wife! AHAHAHAHAHAHAH + 7”
“Yeah, hilarious.”
“Ah, good times. Then she divorced me of course... took all my money... the house ... my liver ...”
“Yeah. So, Jim, what’ve you been up since your rise to fame.”
Jim reclines in a fake-leather chair. A used needle hangs casually out his arm, a few hundred vodka bottles litter the stained carpet.
“Oh, I’ve been living it up. The good life. Erm ... you seen that Bonjela advert?”
“I think so...”
“Well ... I was the guy in the ulcer. That stretched my talents.”
“Sure it did. Anything else?”
“Yeah, LOADS! Erm .... let’s see .... oh! You know that coke advert, where the lady’s walking down the street, singing, handing out bottles of coke to everyone?”
“Oh yeah ... she gave you one?”
“No ... I just had to stand there and looks happy. They wanted her to give me one but I was like, no way I’m taking an open bottle from that black muddafukker.”
The interviewer gives a little cough, eyes averted.
“Wasn’t ... Rosie black?”
“More of a diarrhoea colour, stupid b!tch. I tried pouring bleach on her face once when she was sleeping. Didn’t work too good. I should have scrubbed a bit harder. And to think, I had to kiss that stained whøre everyday. Makes me sick.”
“... right ... we’re gonna ... go now.”
“What! Why!? Please stay - I’ve haven’t spoken to anyone in six years!”
“Sorry. And, er, don’t be too worried if you don’t get a check.”
Jim looks shocked. “What!? WHAT!? Oh no, man, come on. I need the money. I haven’t been paid in twenty years! I know puppets don’t need much ... but the booze and the drugs - they don’t come cheap! You gotta help me!”
The interviewer backs away slowly. Jim lunges at him with a old syringe in p!ss-stained hands.
**
Rosie is now chained to a metal table, looking rather crisp. Fourteen armed guards have rifles aimed point-blank at her head, three cloth-hungry dogs stand on her chest. A good few hundred red dots from distant snipers hover around her sagging body. Three squads of Japanese ninja assassins lurk moodily in the rafters.
“So ... Rosie ...” The interviewer looks very sick. His face is white, eyes red, and sweat pours from every available hole (yes, all of them.) It turned out Jim had also contracted rabies somehow - that, coupled with repeated stabbings with a rusty, used needle wasn’t a very nice experience.
“YAAARRR, BUCKO?”
“What the hell’s happened to you?”
“BBRRUUMMM!”
“Mmmmm ... go on ...”
“WACK! ATE MY ARMS! BLURG!”
“Really? And then what ...?”
“HIPPIE TRAMP STUPID BOAT LOVING MORON! MY BUTTONS! MY BEAUTIFUL BUTTONS!”
Rosie started shaking violently. Her head popped right off in a cloud of stuffing. It rolled across the floor and bit into the interviewer’s leg. Despite have cotton teeth, she had a mean bite.
“GRAG-GRAG-GRAG!” She screamed through a mouthful of skin. “MY BUTTONS!”
The interviewer passed out, sobbing.
**
The interviewer rubs his temples, groaning, a near-empty bottle of aspirin clasped in one hand.
“So ... gay hippy dicksquat ... what the feck is your problem?”
The hippy sat opposite him looks a little confused.
He gives a little cough and answers a question already formed in his head.
“Well, they were great! Rosie and Jim, it was a pleasure working with them - always laughing and joking, playing tricks on me. It was the best time I’ve ever had.”
“Lies!”
“What - no, it’s true.”
“Listen, you flowery, incestual cretin - Jim’s a racist, skint, depressed addict, and Rosie’s locked up in a mental institution, moaning about her buttons. Tell the truth, or I’ll rip that peace-loving, organic head right off your inner calm.”
“Okay.” He leans in close and whispers. “It was the Duck.”
“...”
“It’s true! He’s evil.”
“...”
“You know - when he was saying “WWAAAAAAAAACK”? He was really saying “MWU-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAA! I SHALL HAVE MY WAY!”
The interviewer downs the rest of the aspirin, punches the hippy in the face and leaves.
He returns a few seconds later and puts a few kicks in.
**
A lighter illuminated Duck’s face. Just behind the flame, the interviewer holds up a can of deodorant.
“No! No! Not the paintwork! They stopped making this shade of green three years ago!”
“Talk, Duck, talk. Or I’ll melt you.”
“What do you want from me!”
The interviewer sighs. He face is drawn and haggard, massive patches below his eyes. Rosie added some rare puppet form of malaria to the disease list. His legs had stopped working a week ago, and his brain had melted slightly, dribbling out his ears.
“I want to make this show! I want to be famous! Don’t you see - this is my first ever show! You’re all supposed to be nice and friendly and get on together - it’s not supposed to be like THIS. You were the comedic element, stuck on one catch-phrase. My life is ruined.”
“Now, don’t be like that.”
“You don’t know me! Make the the noise!”
“Sorry - the stage of my life is over. I’m a movie director now.”
“Make the noise, bizatch!”
“No. I -”
“BURN, YOU SEH-LAG!” The interviewers sprays the deodorant. Flames surround Duck, the age-old paint quickly catching alight.
“ ... ugh! ... UGH! .... NOOOoOoooooOoooOo!” Duck screams.
The interviewer stops spraying. His breath comes in ragged gasps through grinning teeth. His eye twitches rapidly.
A black, smouldering Duck, turns his stupid hippy head, flaps his stupid hippy wings.
A maniacal “WAAAAAAAAACCCKKKKK!” rips through the studio.
Through the smoke, only faint sounds can be heard. None of them happy. Most of them could be associated with words such as ‘ripping’ , ‘gouging’ and ‘ouch’.
***
The interviewer sits slumped in a chair, seven morphine drips hooked up to his veins.
His selection of diseases have reached their final stages, with include a lot of bits dropping off and other bits oozing.
His eye twitches like there’s no tomorrow.
And the left side of his face is missing, the remaining flesh checkered with beak marks.
*Voice-over man*:
Well, that’s it folks - a fantastical look back into the past.
“Quiet!” Hisses the interviewer.
You’ve seen all your favourite characters
“Shut up!” shouts the interviewer.
Caught up on recent events
“SSHHHHHHH, FOOL!”
And heard what’s yet to come.
“Heh heh heh”
‘Til next time - goodbye!
*End voice-over.*
The interviewer starts giggling uncontrollably.
He brings out a machete from his back and strokes the blade lovingly, wiping it clean. Patches of cloth, stuffing, a wooden eye, a massive black eyebrow, accordion parts and hippy grass fall to the floor.
Rosie and Jim, much loved child stars, have lived colourful lives since their days of fame.
With their friend Duck and the tramp who steered the boat (there was Jim, and Keith, and Julie, and Maureen. All crap) they became the most loved hunks of material in television history.
Now, twenty years on, we obtain exclusive interviews with the stars - reminiscing about the past and telling happy, amusing stories about each other.
*End voice-over*
**
“ROSIE!” Rosie bellowed, dribbling slightly.
Most of her hair had fallen out and a badly-sewn rip knifed across her face.
Behind her, slightly to one side, stood a policeman with a tazer pointed at her head.
“Welcome to the show, Rosie.”
“BLARG!”
“Indeed. Thankyou for fitting us into your busy institutional schedule.”
“MMMKAY!”
“Indeed. Now, what are your best memories of your partner, Jim?”
“THE FEET! THE FEET! GRUMBO!.” She made a weird kind of hacking sound and coughed up a furball.
“Right, I see. And isn’t it true you’re relationship transcended that on-screen kiss at the start of each episode?”
She shook violently. “RRRAAARRRGGGHHH!” The puppet launched herself at the interviewer, but fell to the floor, inches short, with two wires sticking out her head. The policeman chuckled and turned up the voltage.
She burst into flames.
**
“Well, it’s a pleasure to be here. I always try to make time for the fans.” Duck sat in a director’s chair in a busy film studio. He wore a snappy suit and a cheesy grin.
“That’s great. Now, Duck, we’ve got here one of your favourite clips from the show. Tell us about it.”
“Yes, thankyou. This was one of the first scenes I ever did with Rosie and Jim, so it has a special place for me. And, I think, it conveys all the emotion and the anger Duck would have been feeling. I try to put that across in the rawest way possible, to really connect with the audience. You’ll see me, and by the end, you’ll KNOW me. It’s really very moving.”
*A video clip*
Ducks sits on the stupid hippy boat. He flaps his stupid wooden wings, swivels his stupid head a bit and goes “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCKKKK.” Then flaps his wings a bit more.
*End clip*
Duck is silent, a single tear runs down his cheek. He sniffs and blinks back more tears.
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
**
A very strange man in a purple cape with gold buttons sits on a throne. He’s bald, with a funny black beard and big eyebrows. A giant laser made from Frosties boxes wobbles behind him.
“So,” the interviewers starts, “Tell us about your role in the series.”
“Well.” The man says, he makes a stroking motion with his hands, but there’s no cat in his arms. “I’m Tempest Zivardo Kalasnikov-Sith, ruler of the known universe and master of darkness.”
“Wha -?”
“I played the hippie on the boat for one episode.”
“Only one?”
“Yes, they didn’t like me for many reasons. None of them had any substance.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I insisted on using my full name, which didn’t really fit into the song very well. And I attached a giant missile launcher to the boat. And turned Rosie and Jim to the dark side for a bit. So they sacked me.”
“Really? What was your reaction?”
“I said - “A plague a both your houses!” - to the puppets. “I’m no queer trampish Shakespearean dropout!”. And they said - “We just don’t think you’re right for the part.” So I said - “You’re just the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on. I am gold!”
“Wow, then what?”
“I stormed out and stole their minds with my lasers. Then I captured Rosie and Jim and fed them to the squarkglobs!”
“Really?”
“Errrrr ..... whatwasthat?”
“What?”
“Errrrr .....bye!” He legs it from the studio, calling in an elite death squad on a library card.
**
“And I was like - that’s no loris, that’s my wife! AHAHAHAHAHAHAH + 7”
“Yeah, hilarious.”
“Ah, good times. Then she divorced me of course... took all my money... the house ... my liver ...”
“Yeah. So, Jim, what’ve you been up since your rise to fame.”
Jim reclines in a fake-leather chair. A used needle hangs casually out his arm, a few hundred vodka bottles litter the stained carpet.
“Oh, I’ve been living it up. The good life. Erm ... you seen that Bonjela advert?”
“I think so...”
“Well ... I was the guy in the ulcer. That stretched my talents.”
“Sure it did. Anything else?”
“Yeah, LOADS! Erm .... let’s see .... oh! You know that coke advert, where the lady’s walking down the street, singing, handing out bottles of coke to everyone?”
“Oh yeah ... she gave you one?”
“No ... I just had to stand there and looks happy. They wanted her to give me one but I was like, no way I’m taking an open bottle from that black muddafukker.”
The interviewer gives a little cough, eyes averted.
“Wasn’t ... Rosie black?”
“More of a diarrhoea colour, stupid b!tch. I tried pouring bleach on her face once when she was sleeping. Didn’t work too good. I should have scrubbed a bit harder. And to think, I had to kiss that stained whøre everyday. Makes me sick.”
“... right ... we’re gonna ... go now.”
“What! Why!? Please stay - I’ve haven’t spoken to anyone in six years!”
“Sorry. And, er, don’t be too worried if you don’t get a check.”
Jim looks shocked. “What!? WHAT!? Oh no, man, come on. I need the money. I haven’t been paid in twenty years! I know puppets don’t need much ... but the booze and the drugs - they don’t come cheap! You gotta help me!”
The interviewer backs away slowly. Jim lunges at him with a old syringe in p!ss-stained hands.
**
Rosie is now chained to a metal table, looking rather crisp. Fourteen armed guards have rifles aimed point-blank at her head, three cloth-hungry dogs stand on her chest. A good few hundred red dots from distant snipers hover around her sagging body. Three squads of Japanese ninja assassins lurk moodily in the rafters.
“So ... Rosie ...” The interviewer looks very sick. His face is white, eyes red, and sweat pours from every available hole (yes, all of them.) It turned out Jim had also contracted rabies somehow - that, coupled with repeated stabbings with a rusty, used needle wasn’t a very nice experience.
“YAAARRR, BUCKO?”
“What the hell’s happened to you?”
“BBRRUUMMM!”
“Mmmmm ... go on ...”
“WACK! ATE MY ARMS! BLURG!”
“Really? And then what ...?”
“HIPPIE TRAMP STUPID BOAT LOVING MORON! MY BUTTONS! MY BEAUTIFUL BUTTONS!”
Rosie started shaking violently. Her head popped right off in a cloud of stuffing. It rolled across the floor and bit into the interviewer’s leg. Despite have cotton teeth, she had a mean bite.
“GRAG-GRAG-GRAG!” She screamed through a mouthful of skin. “MY BUTTONS!”
The interviewer passed out, sobbing.
**
The interviewer rubs his temples, groaning, a near-empty bottle of aspirin clasped in one hand.
“So ... gay hippy dicksquat ... what the feck is your problem?”
The hippy sat opposite him looks a little confused.
He gives a little cough and answers a question already formed in his head.
“Well, they were great! Rosie and Jim, it was a pleasure working with them - always laughing and joking, playing tricks on me. It was the best time I’ve ever had.”
“Lies!”
“What - no, it’s true.”
“Listen, you flowery, incestual cretin - Jim’s a racist, skint, depressed addict, and Rosie’s locked up in a mental institution, moaning about her buttons. Tell the truth, or I’ll rip that peace-loving, organic head right off your inner calm.”
“Okay.” He leans in close and whispers. “It was the Duck.”
“...”
“It’s true! He’s evil.”
“...”
“You know - when he was saying “WWAAAAAAAAACK”? He was really saying “MWU-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAA! I SHALL HAVE MY WAY!”
The interviewer downs the rest of the aspirin, punches the hippy in the face and leaves.
He returns a few seconds later and puts a few kicks in.
**
A lighter illuminated Duck’s face. Just behind the flame, the interviewer holds up a can of deodorant.
“No! No! Not the paintwork! They stopped making this shade of green three years ago!”
“Talk, Duck, talk. Or I’ll melt you.”
“What do you want from me!”
The interviewer sighs. He face is drawn and haggard, massive patches below his eyes. Rosie added some rare puppet form of malaria to the disease list. His legs had stopped working a week ago, and his brain had melted slightly, dribbling out his ears.
“I want to make this show! I want to be famous! Don’t you see - this is my first ever show! You’re all supposed to be nice and friendly and get on together - it’s not supposed to be like THIS. You were the comedic element, stuck on one catch-phrase. My life is ruined.”
“Now, don’t be like that.”
“You don’t know me! Make the the noise!”
“Sorry - the stage of my life is over. I’m a movie director now.”
“Make the noise, bizatch!”
“No. I -”
“BURN, YOU SEH-LAG!” The interviewers sprays the deodorant. Flames surround Duck, the age-old paint quickly catching alight.
“ ... ugh! ... UGH! .... NOOOoOoooooOoooOo!” Duck screams.
The interviewer stops spraying. His breath comes in ragged gasps through grinning teeth. His eye twitches rapidly.
A black, smouldering Duck, turns his stupid hippy head, flaps his stupid hippy wings.
A maniacal “WAAAAAAAAACCCKKKKK!” rips through the studio.
Through the smoke, only faint sounds can be heard. None of them happy. Most of them could be associated with words such as ‘ripping’ , ‘gouging’ and ‘ouch’.
***
The interviewer sits slumped in a chair, seven morphine drips hooked up to his veins.
His selection of diseases have reached their final stages, with include a lot of bits dropping off and other bits oozing.
His eye twitches like there’s no tomorrow.
And the left side of his face is missing, the remaining flesh checkered with beak marks.
*Voice-over man*:
Well, that’s it folks - a fantastical look back into the past.
“Quiet!” Hisses the interviewer.
You’ve seen all your favourite characters
“Shut up!” shouts the interviewer.
Caught up on recent events
“SSHHHHHHH, FOOL!”
And heard what’s yet to come.
“Heh heh heh”
‘Til next time - goodbye!
*End voice-over.*
The interviewer starts giggling uncontrollably.
He brings out a machete from his back and strokes the blade lovingly, wiping it clean. Patches of cloth, stuffing, a wooden eye, a massive black eyebrow, accordion parts and hippy grass fall to the floor.
Page:
Err...
Twas good, i actually read it all!
bump
.:CGJ:. wrote:
> Rosie and Jim, Rosie and Jim....
>
...riding along on the old Ragdoll...
Ok, I'll leave it there :)
> Rosie and Jim, Rosie and Jim....
>
...riding along on the old Ragdoll...
Ok, I'll leave it there :)
Messy wrote:
> That were good.... Aye.
>
> I used to watch that. They lived on a barge didn't they?
'Stupid trampish hippy boat' to use the correct term.
> That were good.... Aye.
>
> I used to watch that. They lived on a barge didn't they?
'Stupid trampish hippy boat' to use the correct term.
That were good.... Aye.
I used to watch that. They lived on a barge didn't they?
I used to watch that. They lived on a barge didn't they?
I actually read it, a rarity for stories on here.
I laughed a bit too. I am, some would say, 'pleased'.
I laughed a bit too. I am, some would say, 'pleased'.
Just read it myself.
I changed tense about 15 times. In 1 sentance.
Bad.
I changed tense about 15 times. In 1 sentance.
Bad.
AHHHH!
I cant get the song out of my head now!
I still watch Paddington Bear.
I cant get the song out of my head now!
I still watch Paddington Bear.
Rosie and Jim, Rosie and Jim....
Got carried away there.
Got carried away there.
Page: