Ep 2: The Apocalypse Party

Bob's show is interrupted by a series of party political broadcasts, but Bob is more interested in a cat that can meow the national anthem.

Featuring music by Fatal Crowbar Injury with 'Not Entitled.'
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Transcript

Basement Bob & the Apocalypse
Radio Drama
Written & Performed by Iestyn Long

Episode Two: The Apocalypse Party - feat. Fatal Crowbar Injury.

Fatal Crowbar Injury | Facebook

Stream Fatal Crowbar Injury music | Listen to songs, albums, playlists for free on SoundCloud

Fatal Crowbar Injury are:

Pete Fisher - Vocals and Words
Adrian Ling - Guitar and Imagery
Joel Furniss - Bass
James Macfarlane - Guitar and Lap Steel
Mark Ennew - Drums

Opening Jingle & Credits

Scene 1

Bob:   
[radio crackle/switch] ‘Ow do, one and all, this is Basement Bob. Who’s out there tonight? [silence] Who’s still with us after chaos of last twenty-four hours? [silence/radio static/tumble weed] We’re here for thee, me faithful mutt Stanley and I, ready to get thee through night. Say hi, Stan. [stan barks]

Can thee believe what’s gone on? Anarchy, that’s what. Anarchy in streets of Bingley. I’ve got to level with thee; we thought it all a joke at first, didn’t we, Stan? [stan barks] Tell thee truth, I’m still not convinced this int sum wind-up. Like April fool jape gone wrong or summat. ‘Ave thee heard announcements? It’s on radio every chuffin hour. No doubt, it’ll be on again in a mo. I don’t know where thee live, but it were bedlam here all through night. I expect shelves at Mary Dolittle’s had nowt on em this morn. I bet she’s been cleaned right out. By sound of things, every beggar were on rampage and not only nippers and them lot forever leathered from up at Speckled Pigeon; thee know, pub across street from Cow & Udder. Thieving beggars.

 I took stroll to chippy lunchtime. I tell thee, I was shocked at what I saw. [bob shouts] Shocked to bone! Bernie’s put price of battered bangers up… again! Third time this month. Cheating wazzock. He’ll use any excuse to make an extra bob or two. He loves a national calamity does our Bernie: covid, energy crisis, war, end of world, thee name it, Bernie will ave used it to hike price of sausage. It near on doubled after death of Queen, God rest her soul.

Town looks like it were bombed by Russians. Thee know, indiscriminately, like they couldn’t decide what to hit first, so they hit everything at same time―that or daft apeths are still using bombs from Second World War. It wouldn’t surprise me. Did thee see footage of jet fighter with Ford Mondeo Sat Nav strapped to dash?

[in russian accent] [jet engine/radio crackle] ‘At thee next junction, drop two thousand feet and launch missiles. [missiles firing] Congratulations, comrade, you have destroyed your destination.’ [explosion]

Bunch of arses. That Putin chap is a total headcase. Donkeys roaming up on moors ave more sense than he.

By the way, if thee are new to radio show, I warn thee, I do like a sound effect or two―or twenty. If thee don’t like effects, thee can do one. I’ll not change me ways for thee or anyone―and especially not for thee la-di-da London types from down south. Go listen to Big Geoff on Bingley Hospital; he’ll take thee. He’ll take anyone, just like he took my job―wazzock!

[crackle] Oh, listen up, Stan, here come news. [stan barks]

Scene 2

News jingle

Reg:         
This is the National News at ten o’clock. Good evening, I’m Reginald Splattersby. This is a party-political broadcast by the Apocalypse Party.

Astaroth:         
[sounds of hell/whips/screams] I am Astaroth, Chamberlain of Hell. My master, the Dark Lord, king of demons, Lucifer the Morningstar, has claimed dominion over your kingdom. The forces of light have fallen, extinguished by the might of the Underworld. It is the end of days… the beginning of Hell on Earth. In time, proclamations will be issued. New laws and policies announced. Eternal damnation awaits those who fail to comply. [satanic/sinister laughter]

Reg:                
[radio static] And now we have a party-political broadcast by the Conservative Party.

Tory MP:        
Good evening. On behalf of the government and the Conservative Party, we would like to be the first to congratulate Lucifer on his victorious conquest of our lands and feel that it is only too right to give the demon king our full support and concede all remaining powers to him and his dread lords in the hope that he will spare our posteriors and allow us to serve him like lapdogs. Although we understand this is not the traditional democratic process that we are all used to in this great country of ours, we feel, after careful thought and deliberation, that an exception should be made in the circumstances because we believe Lucifer’s Britain will be a better Britain. And we hope you, its faithful citizens, wholeheartedly support the government’s decision. Thank you. [boos/tory scum/shame]

Reg:               
In other news, the cast of Eastenders have tragically been involved in a series of fatal chainsaw-related accidents. And lastly, a cat in Tunbridge Wells has learnt to meow the National Anthem [play clip of meowing cat] Good night. [crackle/jingle]

Bob:               
Ridiculous, Reg! Only first verse? Cat should be ashamed of itself! Thee call that animal entertainment? Stars In Their Eyes? No chance! Britains Got Talent? Thee ave got nowt! Go on, Stanley, show ‘em how it’s done. Stan can bark anthem start t’ finish, all six verses, can’t thee Stan? Go on then, Stanley, give us a blast. [stan barks] Stan, go on. Go on, Stan. Stan, go on. [stan barks] Go on, Stan. Go on, Stan. [bob shouts] Stanley! Do it! [stan growls] You’re showing me up in front of listeners now. [stan whimpers] Man’s best friend? You’re a swine, Stanley. A swine, I tell thee! 

As for cast of Eastenders? It were bound t’ happen sooner or later. There’s only so much cockney drivel the world can take―and by heck, nearly forty years of drivel is more than enough to drown in. If thee want to watch proper soap, thee can’t go wrong with Emmerdale or Coronation Street. Proper northern telly. None of that southern tripe.

Bob’s jingle:     
‘Basement Bob, Bingley’s second-best DJ―Bringing you new talent whether its any good or not.’

Bob:               
Now then, as for business with demons, this Dark Lord can stick his new laws up his hairy satanic backside. What’s more, if he shows his ugly red mug in Bingley, we’ll be first to boot his bony backside out of town. Int that right, Stan? [stan whimpers] Ruddy dog.

Trust Tories to roll over. Not a single spine between lot of em. Call emthelves a politically legitimate constitution. Shame on them. Shame! What we need is a Labour government in charge. They’d show this Morningstar scrote who’s who.

Reg:                
[radio crackle] This is a party-political broadcast by the Labour Party.

Labour MP:   
Further to today’s announcements, the Labour Party would like to take this opportunity to pledge their support to the new government and is greatly looking forward to working with the demon horde and their diabolical overlords to ensure the rights of the British people continue to be upheld and their concerns addressed in a diplomatic yet sensible manner.

Bob:               
Oh, ruddy hell. Oh, well. Lucifer’s Britain, hey Stan? I suppose it can’t be any worse than Thatcher’s Britain. [zombie moans/banging/sirens/gunfire/screams] Tell thee truth, it sounds about same. Let’s ave a jig and joke then, shall we? We all need cheering up.

Scene 3

Bob:               
[bob introduces song] A word to the wise. Turn this one up. Here’s Fatal Crowbar Injury with Not Entitled.

The Song

Bob:              
[bob remarks about the song/links] Ruddy hell, weren’t that loud? I had to turn it down halfway through for fear of me eardrums exploding. Good though, weren’t it? Go on, give the lads a proper listen. Stream a track or two. Links at end of show. Voice of an angel, that lead singer. He reminds me of a young Gary Barlow. Thee know, before Take That when he were on road as rocker. Or am I thinking of Will Young? Anyhow, go buy their albums. There’s nowt better than a good blast of the loud stuff. Did thee know, I met Gary Barlow once. A fine northern lad. Not to talk to mind. It were at airport in Mozambique. He were busking outside at time. Thee know, upturned fez in dirt and all. He had best part of a fiver in that there hat. He always did know how to make a few pound did our Gary. 

[mother wails/bangs] Eh by gum, now Mother’s awake. [bob shouts] I’ll be up in a bit, Mother! She’s not herself again. She sleeps all day and moans all night. I even had to sort washing out meself. Best get on with joke, I suppose.

Joke Jingle

Bob:               
Here it comes. Drumroll, please. [drum roll] If thee are northern when thee go into bog, and northern when thee come out, what are thee inside bog? [drum roll]European! [symbol crash/deflated sigh?] What do thee mean, thee don’t get it? Your-a-pee-in. [bob chuckles] That’s champion, that is. 

Bob’s Jingle:   
‘Basement Bob, Bingley’s champion DJ―Tickling your fancy with Northern charm.’

Bob:                
Come to think of it, I don’t think it were young Gary Barlow busking in Mozambique. No, I think it was that Uri Geller. That’s it. He were polishing spoons for money. Must ave been before he could bend em with his mind like. [bob chuckles] I’m such an apeth. Brain like a suet pudding. Right, thought of day. [jingle] Simple. Thee can’t trust politicians. Nowt truer words ever spoken. Let’s hope for a better day tomorrow. [werewolf/monster howl] That’s if we make it through night in one piece. This is Basement Bob signing off. Tarra. [drops the mic]

 End credits/jingle