What About Dick?

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

Welcome to another edition of Aural Cinema,

- our popular series of Movies for the Ears.

Well, we'll be going on air live in just a couple of minutes,

- so please may we first of all test the applause level?

Thank you.

Excellent, thank you very much.

Well, tonight's Cinema for Sound features What About Dick?

An emotion picture for radio, which tells the story of the decline and fall-

- of the British Empire as seen through the eyes of a piano.

So will you welcome, please,

tonight's fantastic cast!

Yes, it's time once again for the Cinema of Sound-

- to transport you across the radio waves to bring you What About Dick?

Once upon a time, there were two sisters-

who lived with their Aunt Maggie-

- in a rambling old Edwardian novel in Kensington.

Emma, the older, was an emotionally repressed English girl,

- who spent all day staring out of the window dreaming of a submissive role-

- in a sick relationship with an older sadomasochistic Englishman.

Helena, her younger sister was a dark-haired, foxy minx-

- who stole umbrellas to repress her sexual urges.

What's a minx? Is it an Egyptian thing?

No, dear, that's the Sphinx.

Oh, I thought that was the backside of something.

No, dear, that's the sphincter.

Ah.

Anyway, these two sisters lived together-

- in a two-story novel with their Aunt Maggie,

- an amateur dipsomaniac, who spent the afternoons in Hampstead-

under a young Austrian doctor.

His name is Freud. Roger Freud.

He's licensed in massage and colonics.

And who exactly are you?

I am the narrator of this tale.

Everyone in this story has touched me,

- and played with me and run their fingers over me until I rang with joy.

For you see, I am a Piano.

- A piano narrating the story? - Yes.

Furniture doesn't narrate stories.

I'm not furniture, I'm an instrument.

Well, that's stupid. Are we to have Macbeth narrated by the bagpipes?

Or Les Mis told by the French horns?

Look, it's my fucking play and I'll play a piano if I want to.

Anyway, this is the story of a piano.

Heavens, is that the time? The third of August, 1910?

Evening Star and Standard. Read all about it.

Anuver 'eadless 'uman found 'alf eaten in 'Oundsditch.

Oh, dear, not the Ripper again.

No, this one's the Mutilator. Apparently, he eats his victims.

Oh, how disgusting.

Just then, the Reverend Whoopsie walked into the door.

Ouch.

Walked into the doorway.

Oh, sorry.

Hello, ladies. Do I intrude?

Not from this angle, Mr Whoopsie.

The Reverend Whoopsie-

- is a... Well, he's a...

He is a single clergyman, who's kindly disposed to all men.

Especially working men, who I adore above all-

- and put on a pedestal and offer five shillings to.

Your Christianity does you credit, Whoopsie.

Let us not forget, our Lord Himself-

had twelve little male friends,

- all sailors, and nobody said a word.

- Have you seen Dick? - Not for ages, Mr Whoopsie.

Not since a Coming Out Ball turned unexpectedly fruity...

No, I think he means your nephew Dick.

Oh! Oh, dear.

Yes... Oh, he's coming down today from Oxford.

I wondered if he'd like to come camping with me?

I'd love a weekend of Dick.

I always found 20 minutes quite sufficient.

Ah! Helena, why don't you play something for Mr Whoopsie on your harp?

I hate the harp. I'm sick of plucking.

Well you should try a mouth organ.

Like Dick. So you can suck and blow...

Yes, yes, yes, yes. Thank you, Emma.

Why don't you sing us one of your Victorian ballads?

Right-o.

Lovely, dear. Just lovely.

At that moment, they spotted Dick.

A young man with floppy hair, bee-stung lips-

- and a strangely ambivalent sexuality.

One of those impossibly pretty English boys with ravish-me bedroom eyes-

- and bathroom legs and drawing room thighs...

Yes, thank you, Piano. I think we get it.

- Dick! - Hello, everybody.

- Hello, Whoopsie. Hello, Emma, old sausage. - Hello, Dick.

What are you reading at Oxford, Dick?

Beauty On The Mountie.

That's Mutiny On The Bounty.

Sorry. How's the umbrella thing, Helena?

Oh, Dick!

Why does she take umbrellas?

Well, it's just female hysteria, dear.

She needs a little Rogering in Hampstead.

Ooh, he has a new machine called the Happy Chappy,

- which relieves all my female tension.

How does it work? Well, I lie down, and he attaches it to me.

Where?

Well, in Hampstead.

I say, Dick, do you fancy a weekend in Norfolk?

Golly. Sounds a bit dull.

Well, yes, it is a bit dull. But we can play tiddlywinks.

Oh, yes, that sounds spiffing.

Splendid. If you'll excuse me.

Mind the umbrellas...

Ouch.

Good heavens, look, it's Mr Hudson coming here,

- to this very house, to meet me for the very first time,

- and perhaps to fall hopelessly in love with me,

- which he will not be able to express because-

- he is English and cannot mention emotions-

and has a beastly sick wife,

- who cannot satisfy his perfectly normal manly urges,

- which could very easily be satisfied-

- with some cold cream, a hand towel-

- and a copy of the Guinness Book Of Records.

Thank you, Aunt Maggie.

I hope I don't disturb you ladies.

Hey, you, visitor, I'm not a Lady.

Oh, forgive me. It is your hairstyle.

My name is Hudson. I am in rubber.

Ooh, really? Are you wearing it?

No, no, not wearing it, it is my business.

Well, of course it's your business what you wear.

No, no, no, it is my business, my business.

Mr Hudson is the owner of the Hudson Rubber Company.

Oh, the manufacturer of the Happy Chappy?

Well, I find it most satisfactory.

Although, occasionally, I do miss the disappointment of a real man.

Mr Hudson discovered those gadgets in India.

He saw the future of rubber and embraced it.

How precisely this woman understands me.

And how perfectly lovely she is, with her warm eyes,

- her rosy lips and her firm, welcoming, cuddly, bouncy...

I can hear you, Mr Hudson.

I'm very sorry, Miss Schlegel.

Have you seen Dick, Mr Hudson?

Yes, quite a lot in India...

No, no. This is Dick. He's at Oxford.

Oh, oh, what is he reading?

The Three Musty Queers.

The Three Musketeers.

- Sorry. - Yes, no.

I read French philosophy. Trouble was it was all in French.

Didn't get a word of it.

Oh, Mr Hudson. You're such a card.

Yes.

Yes, yes, well... Well, we mustn't spend all day doing that.

No.

This isn't America.

How very witty Mr Hudson is,

- and he has such lovely eyes and such manly thighs,

- and such eloquent hips, and such-

- a big... - I can hear you, Miss Schlegel.

Oh, so sorry.

Well, I must be off, I need to lubricate a new oiler for my jigger.

I have no idea how that sounds.

It sounds so romantic.

Those boys in the pub seemed to take a real shine to you, Dick.

Dick, has anyone ever told you about the birds and the bees?

- I'm 26. - Oh.

Ah.

But did anybody ever tell you about the birds-

and the birds?

No.

Well, Dick...

...remember when we were very young in the nursery with Nanny,

being violently incontinent,

- and we were like Peter Pan, we never wanted to grow up.

Yes.

Well, when Peter comes fluttering in-

- through the bedroom window, he wants Wendy,

but not for a wife.

He's looking for a mummy for the Lost Boys.

You are one of the Lost Boys, Dick. Mmm.

Because I have no mummy?

Because you are different, Dick.

Lost Boys are not so much lost as hiding.

- From whom? - From the cruel world, Dick,

- which frowns on boys trying on Tiger Lily's flimsy dresses.

Or borrowing makeup from Tinker Bell,