Situation Tragedy Read Free

Manager, a hearty young man called Robin Laughton, who had ambitions to direct, took this as a cue for the start of the dress run. ‘Okay, boys and girls, let’s have a bit of hush. We are in a Dress Run situation. Can we have all the artistes for –’
    â€˜Not yet!’ blazed Sadie Wainwright. ‘I’m not in the box. You can’t start till I’m in the box.’
    â€˜But Scott says –’ Robin Laughton gestured ineffectually to the earpiece which kept him in direct communication with the director in Production Control.
    â€˜Sod Scott! You can’t start till I’m in there to do the count-down.’
    â€˜Scott says we’re pushed for time.’
    â€˜And if we are, whose bloody fault is that? What do you expect with directors who don’t know what they’re doing? Scott Newton – huh. He couldn’t direct piss into a pot.’
    This colourful invective impressed the studio into silence. The cast stopped muttering in the audience seats. The cameramen disengaged themselves from their cameras. The sound-boom operators hung expectant from their mobile platforms. The assembled throng of scene-shifters, painters, carpenters and men whose only function seemed to be to wear lumberjack checked shirts, suspended their discussion of racing and overtime rates. The dressers stopped bitching and the make-up girls arrested their powder-puffs.
    Only one man seemed unaware of the atmosphere. Rod Tisdale, author of many television comedy gems, including
What’ll the Neighbours Say?
and
The Strutters
, stepped out of the shadows towards Sadie. He was a man totally without distinguishing features, so ordinary as to be indescribable. The only thing that distinguished him from the archetypal man in the street was the huge amount of money he made from his well-tried writing formula. But since he never spent any of it, even the money was hardly distinctive.
    â€˜Sadie,’ he said in his toneless voice, ‘while there’s a lull. I wonder if you could just give a note to Scott. In the Estate Agent’s Office scene, I think it’d be better if the Colonel said, “Not in these trousers”, rather than “Not in this suit”.’
    â€˜What?’ demanded Sadie scaldingly.
    â€˜Should have thought of it before,’ Rod Tisdale continued, impervious and without inflection. ‘Old rule of comedy – suits aren’t funny, trousers are. See what Scott thinks.’
    â€˜Suits, trousers – what does it matter?’
    â€˜Oh, it matters a lot, Sadie. One’s a joke, one isn’t.’
    â€˜Well, don’t bother me with it. Tell your “joke” to little Jane. Maybe she’ll write it down in her immaculate shorthand – there must be something she can do.’ Sadie turned to leave, but thought of one more parting shot. ‘Maybe sometime, Rod, you’ll point out the other jokes in this script to me – I was damned if I could see any!’
    And she stalked off majestically to the Production Control. The atmosphere relaxed. Charles Paris suddenly was again aware of how much he wanted to do a pee.
    But too late. Robin Laughton leapt forward on a cue from his earpiece and cried, ‘Okay, we are in a Dress Run situation. We’ll take the opening titles as read to save time, and go straight to the Sitting Room scene. Strutters and Removal Men – Okay? And it’s only a short scene, so stand by in the Golf Club Bar.’
    Oh damn, thought Charles, have to use a bit of self-control.
    George Birkitt and Aurelia Howarth took up their opening positions outside the Sitting Room door. On the set the two Removal Men, played by a couple of those character actors who are never out of work, prepared to deliver Rod Tisdale’s computerised jokes.
    â€˜Okay, bit of hush,’ bellowed Robin Laughton. ‘This is a Dress Run situation. Good luck, boys and girls. Imagine titles, music,