Thursday, 10 July 2008

at a folk festival, no-one can hear you scream...

Parental advisory: the following scene contains violence, language, and folk musicians.

Coming to a theatre near you, the summer action blockbuster everyone’s talking about. Skirmishes, silver dagger ballads, and sex, only not really any sex, because come on, who are we kidding?; but if there’s one movie you must see this summer it’s..

*with thanks to First-Eyes Leslie Bee for creative input

Four ancient and bearded men playing assorted instruments are illuminated on a stage beneath a mysterious pergola. At least two of them have their fingers in one ear, enabling them to sing out of tune with themselves. The camera pans back to reveal the raptly attentive faces and strongly individual fashion sense of assorted hippies and academics in the audience, drenched in rain. The last strains of the ninety-third verse of whatever tedious epic the ancient bearded ones were singing die down. The folk festival-goers clap enthusiastically.

THE CHARISMATIC EMCEE: And that was the Neverending Shirtless Barbecue Party Choir with the classic Ballad Of The Buxom Wench Who Was Much Younger Than Me, And What I Did With Her. Next up, Kate Rusby, with…

It is becoming increasingly difficult to hear him over the sounds of approaching helicopters. There is an almighty crash as suddenly the marquee roof is smashed by balaclava-d men in black rappelling from the choppers, carrying assorted firearms.

THE BAND: scattering, yet managing to pick up their beers on the way Eeek!
THE MEN IN BLACK: Ha ha! Shoot the motherf***ers, etc.
THE CROWD: Run, run for your lives!
EMCEE: Again, wha…?
THE MEN IN BLACK: We are from the local council, and we are sick and tired of your clogs and your ceilidhs, your tattoos and your tie-dye, your dobros and your didjeridus. We cannot stand by while your unwashed hordes descend upon our nice town and make a lot of noise for a week every year. Folkies out!!

They shoot indiscriminately into the crowd. There is much bloodshed. A grenade is thrown. Plastic cups of beer are spilt upon children. Hippies try to run, but they are wearing flip flops, so they can't, and are gunned down in a merciless rain of bullets. A unicycle wheel rolls forlornly through the confusion.

THE GRENADE: F**k y'all and this mandolin stand! BOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!
BEDLAM: ensues
WOMAN IN FLORAL SKIRT AND FADED TIE-DYE SHIRT, FROM THE CROWD: I’m a teacher! I’m a respectable member of the community and I have been coming here for years to shed my sensible exterior for one stinking week of the summer, wear brightly-coloured leather sandals and sing with my fingers in my ear! I will not be…

She is shot in the face. The camera follows the blood dripping onto her hand-made sandals.

THE MEN FROM THE COUNCIL: surveying the carnage Hurrah! Our town is our own again!
The camera pans across to reveal a cloud of dust approaching from the direction of the pub. We can make out ghostly figures advancing through the haze. Gradually, the figures become clear.

MORRIS DANCERS stride through the bloodbath in bell-pads and slo-mo
MORRIS DANCERS: chant menacingly One can whistle, two can play, we can dance a Shepherd's Hay! Charge!

The MORRIS DANCERS pitch well-aimed sticks into the vital organs of THE MEN FROM THE COUNCIL, spraying blood and gore over the Neverending Shirtless Barbecue Party Choir's bassist. Some MORRIS DANCERS caper threateningly toward THE MEN waving hankies, and attack Thuggee-style, breaking their necks and leaving THE MEN in crumpled heaps.
KATE RUSBY: Suck my working-class Northern accent, council men!

She winds up and pitches a deadly pair of Northwest clogs, taking out an enormous bunch of THE MEN, who fall backwards into each other in spectacular and bloody fashion. They pile up in a broken heap against a VW camper with a raised-tent roof.

MORRIS DANCERS: regrouping into foot-up formation and singing Oh dear, mother, what a fool I be! Six young men have come a-courting me! Five were blind and the other couldn't see! Oh dear, mother, what a fool I be!

They bring out a set of rapper swords and dance in a circle, weaving the swords together to make a star-shape, which is what rapper sword dancers have done _at the end of every single dance since the beginning of time_ and yet still hold it up high in the air for applause.

MORRIS DANCERS: hold up the star of swords
MORRIS DANCERS: toss the star of swords to THE CHARISMATIC EMCEE
THE CHARISMATIC EMCEE: skims the star of swords ninja-style into the last remaining MEN FROM THE COUNCIL.

THE MEN are instantly decapitated by the whirring blades. Their heads bounce across the trampled grass. A lone flip flop sinks into a pool of blood.

MORRIS DANCERS: Time for a pint, then?


Anonymous said...

So THAT'S what happened on all those trips to Sidmouth - no wonder we never saw any photos! Who knew, eh?


Allison Fairbairn said...

I've been to 'academic' conferences with these people. I'm glad someone has finally taken justice into their own hands, so I didn't have to.

Amber said...

The scene with the ocarina salesman got cut for the rating. But you can imagine how brutal.