Ep 1: Trick or Treat

It's Halloween, and Bob is having a bad night. His basement broadcast is repeatedly disturbed by rowdy trick-or-treaters and by his mother's strange behaviour. Will Bob and his faithful dog, Stan, make it through the night in one piece?

 Featuring music by Rider with 'Welcome.'
https://www.allthings-rider.com/home

'If thee want to feature your music on show, email Bob.'
https://www.demon-hunter.co.uk

It must be original and your own work. No covers, please - Bob doesn't want to get sued. In exchange, Bob will promote your tune and share your links!

Transcript

Basement Bob & the Apocalypse
Radio comedy. Written & performed by Iestyn Long.
If you like Basement Bob, then give my books a try!
https://www.demon-hunter.co.uk

Episode One: Trick or Treat
feat. Guy Barnes/Rider
https://www.allthings-rider.com/home

Opening Jingle & Credits

Scene 1

Bob:
[radio crackle/switch/washing machine] 'Ow, do! This is Basement Bob. Is there anyone out there? Does anyone know what’s going on? [police/ambulance sirens outside] Why isn’t anyone answering? [mother screams/bob shouts] By Heck! Shut up, Mother! I’m broadcasting live, for god’s sake, woman! When red light shines above door at top of stair, thee don’t make a sound! Remember? Thee would 'ave thought she’d know better by now. For those who don’t know me, I used to host Bingley Hospital Radio. I made name for meself there. I can’t recall what it were, mind.

Mother: 
[mother moans/shouts] Scrote! Donkey! Wazzock!

Bob:
[bob shouts] Shut it, Mother! It were none of those names, thank thee very much. I were champion of indie music at Bingley Hospital, I’ll 'ave thee know. Playing nowt but new stuff. That were until they got rid. Apparently, I were too old for kids and too young for geriatrics. Anyhow, long and short of it, I converted Mother’s basement and started hosting my own show. It’s grand. I get to say and play what I like. So up yours, Bingley Hospital Radio!

It int ideal, mind, sharing basement with appliances: washing machine, tumble dryer, fridge-freezer. Not to mention dodgy pipework. When it’s not moaning and groaning like the undead, it’s dripping like snot of nipper’s nose. [spin cycle] Oh, here we go. Right on cue. Ruddy spin cycle going hammer and tongs! Mother likes to take advantage of cheaper elec-trickery after dark. Thee 'ave got to save where thee can. Look after pennies and pounds will look after 'emselves.

Bob’s jingle:  ‘Basement Bob, Bingley’s second-best DJ―tickling your inner ear with his Northern twang.’

Bob:               
By heck, what a night. I’ve never known a Halloween like it. We’ve had trick-or-treaters banging on door, and windows mind, since before dark―before dark, I say! That’s breaking the unwritten rule, that is. Thee can’t trick or treat 'til after nightfall. Everyone knows that. Mark my words; they’ve gone too far this year. Too far. Youngsters these days 'ave no respect for tradition. [smashed window] Ruddy kids! [stan barks] Now they’ve set damn dog off. It’s alright, Stan. Calm down, lad. Calm down. [stan whimpers] That’s it. Good boy. Good boy.

Now then, I tried calling local constabulary after one of them lickle scrotes bit Mother’s hand while she chased 'em out of yard with broom. But would officer Dibble pick up? No, he ruddy well wouldn’t. Snidey set of scallys. Disgrace that is. The yard were me dad’s pride and joy. Since he passed―god rest his soul―Mother won’t tolerate daft 'apeths spoiling grass. She gets right mardy. For her, it’s like spoiling his memory. Do thee know what I’m going on about? [bob chuckles] Thee ought to see what she did to Mr Selby’s Chihuahua after it did its business beside privet hedge.

[banging on door/doorbells] Eh by gum. Don’t answer door, Mother! [mother wails] It’ll be more trick-or-treaters! Oh, heck. Let’s play another jingle.

Bob’s jingle:  ‘Basement Bob, Bingley’s second-best DJ―Nowt but Northern charm’

Bob:         
I really don’t know what’s going on. It’s a ruddy disgrace; that’s what it is. The kids are all off their faces; god knows what on. The rozzers don’t do nowt. They don’t even answer phone. I blame the Conservatives. [gunfire/wolf howling/screaming] It’s like a riot out there. I’ve never known the like. Oh, except for when Bingley FA beat Leeds United on penalty shootout in cup. But that were more like celebratory riot, thee know, like carnival but with beered-up middle-aged folk all naked above waist singing out-of-tune and puking in street, not like this madness.

I bet me last penny lickle blighters 'ave done butchers again. Thee would’ve thought they’d 'ave done Brian’s Electricals on Bolten Street, or at least Ye Oldie Sweetie Shop up by castle and come away with fifty-inch widescreens under each arm and their pockets bulging with humbugs and sherbet lemons. But nay, our lot smash up Mary Dolittle’s Meat Market and go home with barrow-fulls of BBQ packs and as many sausages as thee can stuff down undies. Aye, there’s no denying it, Bingley folk love their meat.

[mother wails] For the life of me, I really don’t know what’s got into Mother tonight. [mother wails] For goodness sake, Mother! Pour yourself a ruddy Bacardi and get to bed. Better still, down whole bottle! [bob sighs] I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She didn’t even want to watch Strictly. It were Halloween special tonight. Mother’s favourite. She likes to see 'em dressed up all spooky like. Personally, I like the dancing, but I don’t like waffle in between. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for backstory but not in such detail. Who wants to know if what’s-her-name stubbed toe in practice and what’s-his-name sucked it better? Do thee know what I mean? Spoils a good show that. [police sirens/moaning zombies/gunfire] Hell’s bells, now what? I know; let’s pop wireless on and see what fuss is about, eh Stan? [stan barks] [crackle/switch]

Scene 2

News jingle

Reg:             
This is the National News at ten o’clock. Good evening, I’m Reginald Splattersby. Here are your headlines tonight. Mayhem reigns across Britain and the world. Riots, shootings, and spontaneous bouts of Morris dancing plague All Hallows’ Eve. Hampstead Heath nuns confront over-zealous trick-or-treaters in Liddle freezer aisle. Fires rage the width and breadth of the country. Westminster is under siege from a zombie horde. And the Archbishop of Canterbury has been murdered by axe-wielding choir boys. 

In other news, an elderly woman from Manchester has given birth to a litter of Jack Russels. And a middle-aged Nuneaton couple have claimed tonight’s Lottery jackpot but say they’ll carry on working regardless of their 200-million-pound pay-out. [news jingle] [crackle/switch off]

Bob:              
Ridiculous, Reg! The silly beggars win fortune and go straight back doing whatever mind-numbing job they’ve been doing for past thirty years. These people shouldn’t be allowed to play Lottery. Not if they’ve got nowt imagination to spend winnings. I know what I’d do with million pound. [long pause] A million things, that’s what. [long pause] Obviously, I’d need time to ponder me options like, of which they’d be plenty and all highly imaginative, make no mistake.

[bob speaks to his listeners] 'Ave trick-or-treaters gone too far this year? And what would thee do with fortune? Let Bob and Stan know. [bob mumbles] That's if anyone’s listening who int thieving sausages, setting place on fire, or murdering Archbishops.

I mean, what’s that all about? Half-inching meat produce and burning stuff is one thing but bumping off clergy is quite another. In my day, a trick were length of sticky tape plastered over doorbell and half dozen rotten eggs cracked over windscreen or two. If thee ask me, it’s about time government banned Halloween altogether. Make it illegal, thee know, like urinating in street or going naked in Wetherspoons.

[bob sighs] I don’t think anyone’s listening, Stan. [stan barks] We’ll call it a night. [mother bangs about/wailing/moaning] I best put Mother to bed. Let’s 'ave a jig and joke, then.

Scene 3

Bob:               
Here’s Guy Barnes and Rider with Welcome.

The song

Bob:               
That’s champion, that is. His going places, I tell thee. Very apt for tonight, too, don’t thee think? What with demons in song and all. He reminds me of a young Cliff Richard does that Guy Barnes. Thee know, before he turned into bible-basher.  I met Cliff once. He were buying sausage from our Mary Dolittle’s right here in Bingley. Not to talk to, mind. He were too busy opening new pie shop down Offal Street. Pity though, I’d 'ave loved to 'ave shared a battered jumbo or two with Sir Cliff. I’m a big fan. Anyhow, if thee like what thee hear, I’ll pop links on t’internet after show. That Rider tune is a belter though, int it? Go on, take a look at Rider’s other stuff now. Download a track or two. Go on, do it for Bob. 

Joke Jingle

Bob:               
Okay. It’s joke time. Are thee ready for this? I shouldn’t get too excited, mind. Drumroll, please. [drum roll] Why were nowt scran left at end of monster party? [drum roll] Because everyone were a goblin! [symbol crash/deflated sigh/bob chuckles] A goblin… That one’s for kids. Oh, aye.

Jingle

Bob:               
Tell thee truth, I don’t think it were lovely Cliff in Bingley thee know. Silly apeth! It were Eamon Holmes. I always get those two mixed up. Oh, deary me, Bob. Me brains like out-of-date cabbage sometimes. Anyhow, we can’t go t bed without thought of day though, can we? Okay, here’s Bob’s thought of day. Don’t play ruddy Lottery if thee don’t know how to spend winnings. [bob whispers creepily] And secondly, whatever thee do, don’t answer door tonight if thee know what’s good for thee.

Night, night everyone. Don’t let bed bugs bite. [satanic laughter] Happy Halloween. This is Basement Bob signing off. Until next time, tarra. [Bob drops the mic]

End credits/jingle