thylacine60
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- Banned
- #1
Office of Gil McLachlan, CEO of the AFL. The desk phone buzzes.
VO “The delegation from Big Footy is here, Mr McLachlan”.
Gil “Ah, geez. How many?”
Pause
VO “Um, one, two......five.......seven....... eight maybe?”
Gil “Ok. Bring them in – and maybe some chairs. And he's out of celery again”.
The door opens, in walks a rag-tag bunch of people, the last pushing a Weber bbq. The man parks the Weber against Gil's desk.
Gil “What's this?”
Weber Guy “My homage …............to the speccy”.
A handsome, lithe man in a Save The Thylacine T shirt gestures casually.
Thylacine Guy ”What my gentle friend wishes to present is a meat themed diorama of Australian Rules Football as it used to be played. How it must be played again”.
Weber Guy “Giddy up”.
Gil “I see”.
He presses a button on the phone.
“Diana, call the police”.
A woman with two small boys perches in a chair consulting her phone.
“Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you”.
All eyes turn towards her.
Gil “And who might you be?”
Woman “I may just be your worst nightmare. Bring up the Gimp”.
A trapdoor in the floor pops open and a short man in white, coiffed hair appears. He rolls on all fours about the desk like an elderly monkey. A man with a quiver of arrows on his back looks closely.
Quiver Guy“That really is Nick Graham!”
Mebbie “Yep”.
Quiver Guy “Still slow off the mark. We should have taken a KPP”.
Gimp “You are! Hi, Mebbie”
Mebbie “We don't use er, usernames, GimpyBoy”.
Gimp “Sorry. Like my hair? You get the file?”
Thylacine Guy “She likes your hair. We all like your hair”.
Mebbie “My good gosh, what are you even using right now?”
Gimp “Head & Shoulders with added things. It's gentle. You get the file?”
Thylacine Guy “We're here aren't we? Well? Aren't we? Well?
Gimp “I guess. Geez, what a campaigner”.
Thylacine Guy “I'm not sure I can work like this. Play it. You played it for us now play it for him”.
Mebbie “Jesus, alright, will you relax?”
Gil “Can someone please tell me what's going on?”
Thylacine Guy “Entitled much?”
The phone buzzes.
Gil “Yes?”
Diana “The police won't come”.
Gil “Why not?”
Diana “Something about you being a corrupt knob”.
Gil “I see”.
Mebbie's phone rings.
Mebbie “Now what? With me. Because they wanted to see the Gimp. They're fine. Good. And for the last time, get those milk-crates out of the garage. Did I marry a man or a circus act?”
We hear a squeaky voice coming from the phone.
Phone “Harsh, Meb. I'll be the judge of my manhood!”
Mebbie “Whatever”.
One of her children looks up at her.
Child “Is daddy a booger head, mumma?”
Mebbie “Sometimes, baby”.
She hits a button then holds out the phone. From the tinny speaker we hear a voice. It is Gil's.
Phone Recording
“Integrity? When was that ever the point? We're in the entertainment business and he entertains. Make sure he walks tonight, Michael, or some of those property deals of yours might just get looked at”.
Gil turns a deep shade of puce.
Gil “Where did you get that?”
Thylacine Guy “Nick played for Carlton before transforming to Gimp. Where do you think his loyalties lie, with you? Well? Do you? Well?”
Gil “Then it seems you have me at somewhat of a disadvantage”.
Weber Guy “Noice”.
Another button.
Gil “Diana, has Ray Chamberlain finished washing my car?”
Diana “Not yet”.
Gil “Send him up when he's done”.
Gimp has moved to the CEO's side. Gil holds out a stick of celery and the Gimp starts chewing on it.
Thylacine Guy “That's not something you see every day”.
Gil strokes the Gimp's head.
Gil “I trusted you, my beauty. Perhaps I'll never trust again”.
Gimp “Meh”.
Gil “So. How did you find out about …............my little friend?”
Mebbie “Let's just say.........we've had dealings”.
Gil “I see. I still don't get the bbq”.
Weber Guy “Check it out”.
A knock and the door opens. Diana appears pushing a shopping trolley.
Diana “This was left outside. Ray is here”.
Thylacine Guy “That can stay outside.............no really”.
In the trolley, a bulbous 3-headed mutant baby peers from a sports bag. 3 arms wave like alien tentacles. A tag on the side says “Thank-you For Not Feeding Wicky, SB & Stammy”.
Mutant Baby “Cowuption! Cowuption! Guurrgghh!”
Thylacine Guy “Ignore them”.
Ray Chamberlain appears carrying a bucket and sponge.
Ray “I used my tears on the hubcaps like you said, Mr McLachlan”.
Gil “Good, Ray. Excellent. I have this weeks rule for you here somewhere”.
Mebbie “Numbers, show the ump your idea”.
Ray looks at Gil quizzically.
Gil “Just do what they say”.
Ray “You said just the car”.
Gil “Do it, you arseclown!”
Ray “That's dissent!”
Mutant Baby “Dizzen! Arzclow! Cowuption! Guurrgghh!”
Weber Guy lifts the bbq lid to expose a pile of various meats. He picks up a rissole and moves it slowly across the hotplate to where 3 sausages lie entangled. With his other hand he slides a sausage up and over the other two to intercept the rissole. Everyone watches transfixed.
Ray “That's extraordinary. What looks like a Sage & Rosemary snag has taken that rissole at full stretch without impeding the Onion & Tomato – or the Mild Chorizo!”.
Weber Guy “Giddy up! No whistle, more speccys and hangers!”
Ray “No whistle? Gee Wizz. Could that work? I say maybe, just maybe”.
Gil “Easy, Ray”.
Gimp “Easy Ray!”
The last member of the group is a very short man wearing a propeller hat. He is running circles repeatedly around the CEO's desk. Suddenly he stops next to the Gimp. He lifts his cap.
Very Short Man “Celery Cap! Get it? Salary Cap?”
Thylacine Guy “You idiot, Matthew”.
Gimp “No you!”
Gil “Ok, I think we're done here”.
Quiver Guy “Not by a long shot. And don't throw that pathetic strawman argument at me again”.
Gil “Strawman? What?”
Mutant Baby “Demangs, thow da demangs!!”
Gil “What is that thing?”
Thylacine Guy “You might call it the silent or severely traumatised majority”.
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a piece of paper. He holds it up.
Thylacine Guy “Our demands!”
The group reacts with excited murmurs, slurps, fist pumps and the odd gurgly fart.
Gil “What's that?”
Mebbie “You deaf?”
Gil “Only to outrage from the general sporting public”.
Quiver Guy “That's pretty specific”.
Gil “I read it on Big Footy”.
Thylacine Guy “This is our list of demands. You have 48 hours to implement them. Should you not follow each and every one to the letter, the recording will be sent to the media, state and federal governments, WADA, NADA, the RSPCA, RSVP and other vastly, I repeat vastly, interested parties. It will be distributed along Tram route 19 and played on loop in the waiting room of the Port Melbourne Physiotherapy clinic. We s**t you not”.
Everyone in the room shouts in unison:
“We s**t you not!”
Mutant Baby “Shi oo nooooo!”
Gil takes the sheet. He scans it whilst opening a drawer and placing a box on his desk. He flips the lid with a heavy sigh and starts emptying its contents onto the desk. Cheap, generic phones pile up.
Quiver Guy “So many burners”.
Gil “What's so special about Carlton anyway?”
Suddenly the door bursts in. Players in navy coloured training gear file towards the CEO of the AFL. He recoils in horror.
No 42 grabs him by the suit jacket.
No 42 “Have some respect! Carlton is my home now! Allahu Akbar! Here's some felafel my mother made. She sends her love and veiled threats”.
He leaves it on the desk and steps aside.
Gil “Ah, thanks?”
No 1 steps up.
“I'm more than my looks! Here's some free vitamins from mum. She says you need zinc”.
Gil “I don't need zinc”.
No 1 “She says you have a tic”.
Gil “I don't have a tic!
No 42 “Take the zinc!”
Gil “Alright, ok”.
No 15 looks closely at Gil.
No 15 “Are you being the best version of yourself you can?”
Gil “Not a chance”.
No 15 “Then do better. And respect Carlton – cause Carlton respects”.
Gil “I do respect Carlton”.
No 42 “Respect us!”
Gil “Ok, ok, I will. I'll respect Carlton”.
Thylacine Guy “Good. Now make the calls”.
Gil slumps into his chair and picks up a phone.
Gil “That's it. It's over. Mum said this day would come. *”.
Montage begins to Eiffel 65's I'm Blue (Babadee Babadaa)
Each call he makes with a different phone.
Sorry Ed, that's the final word. Port wear the prison bars and your old mob are travelling 20 weeks next year. Spread the word. Tim, Tim, Timmy, listen, ffs – it's not up for negotiation. Channel 7 deserve a better hand. Carlton deserve a better hand. 10 Friday nights and 10 Saturday 2.10pm starts at the G next season. Oh and curtain raisers, every game. Tell whatsisname. I don't care. Ta. Rupert. It's simple. Chief football writer Robbo out, Terry Dehghani in. I don't either. Just trust me. Bye. Richo, Dan, Danny, Danny Boy, my man, come on. There's no need for another review. Full-time umpires as of Round 1, 2023. Enough dissent. And a moratorium on rules changes. How long? How does forever sound? Yeah. Make it happen. Xavier, mate, we just think the mighty bombers are the best team for Tassie right now. Make us proud, my friend. Dan, Dan, my man! Gonna leave ya with a thought. Beautiful boutique football ground on Royal Parade. Lots of votes. Catcha.
He throws the last phone on the desk.
Gil “All done. I'm done”.
Mebbie “Not quite”.
We see a cafe at Chinggis Khaan International Airport, Mongolia's central air hub. Four large men crowd around a tiny table. Wayne Carey, Brian Taylor, James Brayshaw and Luke Darcy.
A waiter with a broken nose and bushy red moustache delivers a dish. 4 sheep eyeballs float in oily goo. The bowl is a replica blue eskie on tiny wheels. 4 tiny forks are clipped to the side.
Taylor “Guys, ya know when Gil said this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to take the game to the next level?”
Brayshaw “What about it, big man?”
Taylor “Ah, we're in ******* Mongolia?”
Carey “There'll be chicks somewhere”.
Darcy “Say that again?”
Taylor “Hey, is that coffee bloke Sam Durdin?”
The End
VO “The delegation from Big Footy is here, Mr McLachlan”.
Gil “Ah, geez. How many?”
Pause
VO “Um, one, two......five.......seven....... eight maybe?”
Gil “Ok. Bring them in – and maybe some chairs. And he's out of celery again”.
The door opens, in walks a rag-tag bunch of people, the last pushing a Weber bbq. The man parks the Weber against Gil's desk.
Gil “What's this?”
Weber Guy “My homage …............to the speccy”.
A handsome, lithe man in a Save The Thylacine T shirt gestures casually.
Thylacine Guy ”What my gentle friend wishes to present is a meat themed diorama of Australian Rules Football as it used to be played. How it must be played again”.
Weber Guy “Giddy up”.
Gil “I see”.
He presses a button on the phone.
“Diana, call the police”.
A woman with two small boys perches in a chair consulting her phone.
“Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you”.
All eyes turn towards her.
Gil “And who might you be?”
Woman “I may just be your worst nightmare. Bring up the Gimp”.
A trapdoor in the floor pops open and a short man in white, coiffed hair appears. He rolls on all fours about the desk like an elderly monkey. A man with a quiver of arrows on his back looks closely.
Quiver Guy“That really is Nick Graham!”
Mebbie “Yep”.
Quiver Guy “Still slow off the mark. We should have taken a KPP”.
Gimp “You are! Hi, Mebbie”
Mebbie “We don't use er, usernames, GimpyBoy”.
Gimp “Sorry. Like my hair? You get the file?”
Thylacine Guy “She likes your hair. We all like your hair”.
Mebbie “My good gosh, what are you even using right now?”
Gimp “Head & Shoulders with added things. It's gentle. You get the file?”
Thylacine Guy “We're here aren't we? Well? Aren't we? Well?
Gimp “I guess. Geez, what a campaigner”.
Thylacine Guy “I'm not sure I can work like this. Play it. You played it for us now play it for him”.
Mebbie “Jesus, alright, will you relax?”
Gil “Can someone please tell me what's going on?”
Thylacine Guy “Entitled much?”
The phone buzzes.
Gil “Yes?”
Diana “The police won't come”.
Gil “Why not?”
Diana “Something about you being a corrupt knob”.
Gil “I see”.
Mebbie's phone rings.
Mebbie “Now what? With me. Because they wanted to see the Gimp. They're fine. Good. And for the last time, get those milk-crates out of the garage. Did I marry a man or a circus act?”
We hear a squeaky voice coming from the phone.
Phone “Harsh, Meb. I'll be the judge of my manhood!”
Mebbie “Whatever”.
One of her children looks up at her.
Child “Is daddy a booger head, mumma?”
Mebbie “Sometimes, baby”.
She hits a button then holds out the phone. From the tinny speaker we hear a voice. It is Gil's.
Phone Recording
“Integrity? When was that ever the point? We're in the entertainment business and he entertains. Make sure he walks tonight, Michael, or some of those property deals of yours might just get looked at”.
Gil turns a deep shade of puce.
Gil “Where did you get that?”
Thylacine Guy “Nick played for Carlton before transforming to Gimp. Where do you think his loyalties lie, with you? Well? Do you? Well?”
Gil “Then it seems you have me at somewhat of a disadvantage”.
Weber Guy “Noice”.
Another button.
Gil “Diana, has Ray Chamberlain finished washing my car?”
Diana “Not yet”.
Gil “Send him up when he's done”.
Gimp has moved to the CEO's side. Gil holds out a stick of celery and the Gimp starts chewing on it.
Thylacine Guy “That's not something you see every day”.
Gil strokes the Gimp's head.
Gil “I trusted you, my beauty. Perhaps I'll never trust again”.
Gimp “Meh”.
Gil “So. How did you find out about …............my little friend?”
Mebbie “Let's just say.........we've had dealings”.
Gil “I see. I still don't get the bbq”.
Weber Guy “Check it out”.
A knock and the door opens. Diana appears pushing a shopping trolley.
Diana “This was left outside. Ray is here”.
Thylacine Guy “That can stay outside.............no really”.
In the trolley, a bulbous 3-headed mutant baby peers from a sports bag. 3 arms wave like alien tentacles. A tag on the side says “Thank-you For Not Feeding Wicky, SB & Stammy”.
Mutant Baby “Cowuption! Cowuption! Guurrgghh!”
Thylacine Guy “Ignore them”.
Ray Chamberlain appears carrying a bucket and sponge.
Ray “I used my tears on the hubcaps like you said, Mr McLachlan”.
Gil “Good, Ray. Excellent. I have this weeks rule for you here somewhere”.
Mebbie “Numbers, show the ump your idea”.
Ray looks at Gil quizzically.
Gil “Just do what they say”.
Ray “You said just the car”.
Gil “Do it, you arseclown!”
Ray “That's dissent!”
Mutant Baby “Dizzen! Arzclow! Cowuption! Guurrgghh!”
Weber Guy lifts the bbq lid to expose a pile of various meats. He picks up a rissole and moves it slowly across the hotplate to where 3 sausages lie entangled. With his other hand he slides a sausage up and over the other two to intercept the rissole. Everyone watches transfixed.
Ray “That's extraordinary. What looks like a Sage & Rosemary snag has taken that rissole at full stretch without impeding the Onion & Tomato – or the Mild Chorizo!”.
Weber Guy “Giddy up! No whistle, more speccys and hangers!”
Ray “No whistle? Gee Wizz. Could that work? I say maybe, just maybe”.
Gil “Easy, Ray”.
Gimp “Easy Ray!”
The last member of the group is a very short man wearing a propeller hat. He is running circles repeatedly around the CEO's desk. Suddenly he stops next to the Gimp. He lifts his cap.
Very Short Man “Celery Cap! Get it? Salary Cap?”
Thylacine Guy “You idiot, Matthew”.
Gimp “No you!”
Gil “Ok, I think we're done here”.
Quiver Guy “Not by a long shot. And don't throw that pathetic strawman argument at me again”.
Gil “Strawman? What?”
Mutant Baby “Demangs, thow da demangs!!”
Gil “What is that thing?”
Thylacine Guy “You might call it the silent or severely traumatised majority”.
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a piece of paper. He holds it up.
Thylacine Guy “Our demands!”
The group reacts with excited murmurs, slurps, fist pumps and the odd gurgly fart.
Gil “What's that?”
Mebbie “You deaf?”
Gil “Only to outrage from the general sporting public”.
Quiver Guy “That's pretty specific”.
Gil “I read it on Big Footy”.
Thylacine Guy “This is our list of demands. You have 48 hours to implement them. Should you not follow each and every one to the letter, the recording will be sent to the media, state and federal governments, WADA, NADA, the RSPCA, RSVP and other vastly, I repeat vastly, interested parties. It will be distributed along Tram route 19 and played on loop in the waiting room of the Port Melbourne Physiotherapy clinic. We s**t you not”.
Everyone in the room shouts in unison:
“We s**t you not!”
Mutant Baby “Shi oo nooooo!”
Gil takes the sheet. He scans it whilst opening a drawer and placing a box on his desk. He flips the lid with a heavy sigh and starts emptying its contents onto the desk. Cheap, generic phones pile up.
Quiver Guy “So many burners”.
Gil “What's so special about Carlton anyway?”
Suddenly the door bursts in. Players in navy coloured training gear file towards the CEO of the AFL. He recoils in horror.
No 42 grabs him by the suit jacket.
No 42 “Have some respect! Carlton is my home now! Allahu Akbar! Here's some felafel my mother made. She sends her love and veiled threats”.
He leaves it on the desk and steps aside.
Gil “Ah, thanks?”
No 1 steps up.
“I'm more than my looks! Here's some free vitamins from mum. She says you need zinc”.
Gil “I don't need zinc”.
No 1 “She says you have a tic”.
Gil “I don't have a tic!
No 42 “Take the zinc!”
Gil “Alright, ok”.
No 15 looks closely at Gil.
No 15 “Are you being the best version of yourself you can?”
Gil “Not a chance”.
No 15 “Then do better. And respect Carlton – cause Carlton respects”.
Gil “I do respect Carlton”.
No 42 “Respect us!”
Gil “Ok, ok, I will. I'll respect Carlton”.
Thylacine Guy “Good. Now make the calls”.
Gil slumps into his chair and picks up a phone.
Gil “That's it. It's over. Mum said this day would come. *”.
Montage begins to Eiffel 65's I'm Blue (Babadee Babadaa)
Each call he makes with a different phone.
Sorry Ed, that's the final word. Port wear the prison bars and your old mob are travelling 20 weeks next year. Spread the word. Tim, Tim, Timmy, listen, ffs – it's not up for negotiation. Channel 7 deserve a better hand. Carlton deserve a better hand. 10 Friday nights and 10 Saturday 2.10pm starts at the G next season. Oh and curtain raisers, every game. Tell whatsisname. I don't care. Ta. Rupert. It's simple. Chief football writer Robbo out, Terry Dehghani in. I don't either. Just trust me. Bye. Richo, Dan, Danny, Danny Boy, my man, come on. There's no need for another review. Full-time umpires as of Round 1, 2023. Enough dissent. And a moratorium on rules changes. How long? How does forever sound? Yeah. Make it happen. Xavier, mate, we just think the mighty bombers are the best team for Tassie right now. Make us proud, my friend. Dan, Dan, my man! Gonna leave ya with a thought. Beautiful boutique football ground on Royal Parade. Lots of votes. Catcha.
He throws the last phone on the desk.
Gil “All done. I'm done”.
Mebbie “Not quite”.
We see a cafe at Chinggis Khaan International Airport, Mongolia's central air hub. Four large men crowd around a tiny table. Wayne Carey, Brian Taylor, James Brayshaw and Luke Darcy.
A waiter with a broken nose and bushy red moustache delivers a dish. 4 sheep eyeballs float in oily goo. The bowl is a replica blue eskie on tiny wheels. 4 tiny forks are clipped to the side.
Taylor “Guys, ya know when Gil said this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to take the game to the next level?”
Brayshaw “What about it, big man?”
Taylor “Ah, we're in ******* Mongolia?”
Carey “There'll be chicks somewhere”.
Darcy “Say that again?”
Taylor “Hey, is that coffee bloke Sam Durdin?”
The End
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