The Hippopotamus
[Ted] 'T. S. Eliot said that
'the purpose of literature
was to turn blood into ink.
'Well, I tried that.
'I published five collections
'and I bled like a hemophiliac.
'Then, somewhere along the way,
'Over time,
the scab became a scar
'and now I can scarcely
feel the wound.
'All the arteries and veins
are dried out.
'I no longer turn blood
into ink.
'These days, I turn whiskey
into journalism.
'I haven't written a poem
since 1987.'
[Farts and blows bubbles]
[Men chant] Ah-ah-ah! Ah! Ah!
Ah-ah-ah!
Ah! Ah!
Ah-ah-ah! Ah! Ah!
Ah-ah-ah! Ah! Ah!
Aaah!
[Men] Aaah!
Aaah!
Yaaah!
Aaah!
Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!
Aaah!
[Saturninus] Noble patricians,
patrons of my right,
defend the justice
of my cause with arms...
[Men chant]
[Saturninus] And, countrymen,
my loving followers...
[Bassianus]
If ever Bassianus, Caesar's son,
were gracious
in the eyes of royal Rome,
take then this passage
to the Capitol...
Complete and utter crap.
Shh.
You're not defending
this fecal matter, are you?
- To justice! Continence.
- [Men] Huargh! Huargh!
- And nobility.
- [Men] Huargh!
[Horn sounds]
Princes, that strive
by factions and by friends...
- [prompt] ambitiously.
- Oh, f*** off.
Will you keep your opinions
to yourself?
Goes rather against the grain,
being a critic, doesn't it?
Know that the people of Rome,
for whom we stand
a special party,
- have for... for...
- By common voice.
Have, by common voice, in
election for the Roman empery...
- [Prompt] Chosen Andronicus.
- Chosen Andronicus...
- Right, that's it.
- Surnamed Pius for many...
Get off the stage
and find new representation!
Is this part of the performance?
On the contrary, madam,
this is an intervention.
Where is the man responsible
for this theatrical audia?
Where is Matthew Lake?
- Throw him out!
- Not me, madam.
It is the director
who should be ejected,
then tarred and feathered,
for inflicting such
loose-stooled effluent
- [horn sounds]
- upon the paying public.
Say that again.
Loose... stooled...
- [people gasp]
- effluent.
Oh, do you need the line again?
Sun got it.
'Oh, come on!
'Get your f***ing hands off me!
'I haven't seen such a load
of sh*t on the stage
'since "Copraphilia",
the musical!
'Get off me! Get off.
'You should be ashamed
of yourselves.'
We need to put up
a strong front,
but first we have to
check you in for some rehab.
I can hold my drink.
Ted, I'm trying to help you.
This... this all...
all just needs management.
Needs management!
The war cry
of the brown-trousered.
You know I venerate your work.
I know no such thing.
I know you've been told by
people cleverer than you
that I'm a feather
in your greasy cap.
I know my writing for you
makes you feel successful.
I know you know
I could walk into any job
from the illiterate
pricks in charge.
I also know you took culture
because you couldn't
get the news desk.
You're the one
bringing down the tone
with your mealy-mouthed mummery
and your prostration before
the gods of public approval.
I bet you never had a wank
that wasn't focus-grouped,
you sexually craven
provincial nerd.
Why don't you take your
freckled ass on a sabbatical
and let a real man
edit the paper?
You may have been the great
hope for British poetry
once upon a forever ago,
but when did you
last write anything?
Huh?
When... when did you last
do anything at all?
I have about as much need of you
as I do a f***ing fountain pen.
Is that all?
No.
Get out. You're fired.
Fine.
'No use denying the fact
we all feel undervalued.
'To be told officially
that we are off the case
'confirms our sense of being
not fully appreciated
'by an insensitive world.
'Paradoxically,
this increases our self-esteem
'because it proves that
we were right all along,
'even when what
'is that everyone considers us
a waste of skin.
'Finding myself at leisure,
'perhaps I shall have some time
of literature
'that I was once famous for.
'It was unlikely
a poem would come
'in such peaceful circumstances,
'but you won't get
if you don't ask.
'So, I listed, as is my custom,
'such few words
as my mood suggested.
'Egregious.
'Salsify.
'Monstration.
'The rare words
annoy the punter,
'but they never think
about a poet's lot.
'A painter has oils,
acrylics and pastels.
'Turpentine, linseed,
canvas, sable and hog's hair.
'A musician has entire machines
'of wood, brass,
gut and carbon fiber.
'The poet, though...
Oh, yes, the poor poet.
'Pity the poor bloody poet.'
[Background music plays]
[Coins clink]
Roddy?
I'm afraid I can't extend
your credit, Mr. Wallace.
Hell.
It's on me.
One of the finest phrases
in our language.
Your very good health, madam.
And yours.
You are Ted Wallace, aren't you?
You may not remember me.
We haven't done the deed,
have we?
I'm Jane Swann.
Jane Swann. One
of the Berkshire Swanns?
Cast your mind back to a small
font, a baby and a rising poet.
I'm Jane Burrell,
Rebecca's daughter.
F*** my best boots!
I haven't seen you since
[Laughs] I know.
And I was always
very proud of you.
Two of your poems
were set text at school.
Oh, you should have written.
I would have come and
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"The Hippopotamus" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 25 Apr. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/the_hippopotamus_20425>.
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