The Year of the Sex Olympics and other TV Plays (19 page)

BROCK
: Yes.

SERGEANT
: In there a long time, sir. They said there would be a summons. When they went one of ’em said did you know about the room.

BROCK
: Eh?

SERGEANT
: Just that, sir.

BROCK
: What did he mean?

SERGEANT
: That’s all, sir, just did you know about the room.
(Brock looks along the passage)
Feel okay now, sir?

BROCK
: Yes. Thanks. You can go.

SERGEANT
: Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.

Brock takes out his keys.

Reaching the door, from which the builders’ sign has been removed and a small official-looking notice substituted, he puts a key into the newly fixed lock.

THE STORAGE ROOM

The room looks much the same. Builders’ equipment is still scattered about.

Brock shivers slightly.

As a rational man rejecting any alternative explanation, he buttons his jacket.

He walks across the floor—

There is a sudden scream in the air, close by. A woman’s voice, sharp and clear.

VOICE
: Help me—!
(He glances round but sees nothing)
Peter!
(He is stung by the unmistakable sound of his name)
Help me—Peter—!

BROCK
(whispers)
: Jill.

Then it screams again, and again, and again. And there is nothing he can do.

Except stand there stunned by the knowledge . . . that there is a new voice on the stone tape . . .

THE
YEAR
OF THE
SEX OLYMPICS

THE YEAR OF THE SEX OLYMPICS

CAST OF CHARACTERS

UGO PRIEST,
(Co-ordinator)
... Leonard Rossiter

NAT MENDER
... Tony Vogel

DEANIE WEBB
... Suzanne Neve

KETEN,
(their child)
... Lesley Roach

LASAR OPIE
... Brian Cox

MISCH
... Vickery Turner

KIN HODDER
... Martin Potter

GRELS
... George Murcell

BETTY
... Hira Talfrey

NURSE
... Patricia Maynard

PRODUCER
... Ronald Travers

DIRECTOR
... Michael Elliott

Produced on BBC Television, July 29, 1969

INSIDE SPORTSEX STUDIO

A young man and a girl in close shot. Both are nude, as far as can be seen, and he is crouching passionately over her. It is the stock scene of any successful film of the 1960’s.

But it is followed immediately by another very similar shot—of a different couple, blond instead of dark.

And then a third couple, identifiably different but locked in the same embrace.

A magnified voice booms:

NAT’S VOICE
: Right, studio. That’ll do for the warm-up. Thank you.

The couple in shot break a little. The man moistens his lips. The girl licks a finger and straightens an eyebrow. Their attention is vaguely elsewhere.

NAT’S VOICE
: Now stand by, please.

They glance up. Above them looms a shape that at first sight suggests a lunar probe. It is the studio’s control pod, with bristling antennae, lamp stalks and holographic laser pickups. Stencilled beneath its belly is “Output, Area 27”.

NAT’S VOICE
: Stand by, studio.

INSIDE THE PRODUCTION POD

Inside, the pod has a family resemblance to a present-day control gallery. There is a moulded desk with the highly individuated controls that are typical of this tactile society. Facing it is a single big monitor screen, with a blurred, twisting image on it as holographic beams range the studio below to assemble the desired image. Cameras and booms are things of the past, but a certain amount of de-focussed ranging and shock zooming may give the approximate effect.

There are other miniature zooming screens set in the desk face. We do not see the images on them, but their flickering glow lights up the faces of the two men watching them. Both are under 30. Nat Mender is the senior, a high-drive man who has always enjoyed his work. Yet his very vigour has pulled him slightly out of shape. He is still far from being a square peg in a round hole—say, a decahedral peg in a nonahedral hole. Lasar Opie, on the other hand, fits his perfectly.

Between them and the monitor screen sits a pretty girl with a plastic dome suspended just above her head. This is Misch, the introducer and Nat’s current girl.

These three are the only occupants of the pod. All other functions are automated. Their clothing, in this totally weather-conditioned environment, is not worn for warmth or decency but only as a sort of cosmetic, to reflect the wearer’s mood. It is a harmless diversion in an age that values stability above all else . . . a playing at identity where identities no longer matter much.

The whole of Output has a vague feeling of being indoors but nowhere in particular. One place blurs into another to form a worldwide long-house for this retribalised, McLuhanised society.

NAT
(to desk)
: One minute, studio.

OPIE
: Audience sampler?

NAT
(reluctantly)
: Punch ’em up.

OPIE
: At last.

He prods a button. A monitor screen at one side of the pod jumps alive.

Behind the caption “Audience Sampler” which seems to be permanently stencilled on it, it shows a group of people staring lazily to front. Men and women of all ages up to an apparant 50, though they are in fact less. Mostly overweight, they wear light, grimy clothes—unlike the elaborations of the Output personnel—and seem to have no regard for their appearance. They recall those American films about boxing—a small-town audience on a hot night, all sweat and singlets. Several of these are munching now.

Behind the Sampler caption, the group dissolves to a different, smaller one of even more apathetic people . . . then to a standing group somewhere outdoors under a dark sky like those who watch TV sets in shop windows, gloomy. The picture goes on mixing regularly, automatically, from group to group, every few seconds.

MISCH
: Matter with him?

OPIE
: Due to be on five minutes before show starts.

NAT
: Tell me more!

OPIE
(smugly)
: What it says, Nat.

MISCH
: Nat don’t bother.

OPIE
: He’s out of line.

MISCH
(grimacing)
: Oh, aagh!

NAT
: I bother. It’s just . . . well, five minutes more to watch ’em.

MISCH
: They sick me too. You, Lasar Opie—you like ’em?

OPIE
(evasively)
: Got to do it.
(He concentrates on a strip of light that throbs in the surface of the control desk)
Calibrate the ratings.

MISCH
: All automatic, what’s it matter?

OPIE
(conscientiously)
: Got to check Audience feedback, instant and constant.
(Nettled by her grin)
It matters! Play to the reaction. Whole point of a live show.

MISCH
: Grandma’s eggs!
(She catches Nat’s eye and they smile. She giggles, to discomfit Opie. Then she turns back to the Audience Sampler)
They look sticky tonight. They hot?

NAT
: No hotter than us.

MISCH
: Just their own sticky, then. Uggh! Old and sticky. Look at that one. Shiny . . . grey. There, see. How old?

NAT
: Maybe . . . thirty.

MISCH
: Ugh! Nat, you be thirty some day.
(Teasing)
You get like that?

NAT
(shortly)
: No.
(To desk mike)
Fifteen seconds.

MISCH
: But if?

NAT
: Not me.

MISCH
: But if?

NAT
: We don’t get like that. End.

MISCH
(creepily)
: But if—!

OPIE
: Misch, how can he? Here in Output? High-drive personnel? You crazy?

MISCH
: Nat, if you get like that . . . ugghh!

NAT
: Five seconds.

He jabs a button. Instantly the plastic cover comes down over Misch and she is lit up by tiny moving beams. She composes her face.

OPIE
: Cueing studio. Autolock . . . on!

He throws a master switch and sits back. Music sounds, at once brazen and soporific, like a lullaby played by distant brass bands. The large monitor screen in front of them fills with captions:

“SPORTSEX PRESENTS . . . TONITE AND EVERY NITE”

Then Misch’s face fills the monitor screen, so that we see her in the transparent dome in front of her own giant image. Her voice comes out slightly processed.

MISCH
: Here we go again, bubbies and coddies! Comfy and cosy are you all? Tonight we got lots of real super-king talent for you all, so keep your eyes with us! Stay looking! First we got those two top lovers, Cara Little and Stewart Tenderleigh! Hello there, Stewart and Cara!

The first couple appear on the giant screen, looking round and smiling. And now we see for the first time that the man has a large competition number “4” stuck on his bare back.

MISCH
: Been on this show a jumbo lot of times. Winners of the Kama Sutra Prize last year. Now in training for the Sex Olympics. Area 27 got big hopes of these two!

A brief roar of conventionalised, synthetic applause as Opie holds down a button. Then a cut to the second couple, who look nervous under their competition numbers but manage to grin and wave.

MISCH
: Next—Eppy Roth and Norm Halsey, new to Sportsex but two lovely lovers! Glad to see you, Norm and Eppy!
(More synthetic applause at Opie’s touch)
. . . and now our bigpal two! Melamine Tarr and Jay Fowler! Lots of wins in lots of areas, top tip for the Sex Olympics this summer! And you know what? Melly stitches all their competition numbers herself, says it makes luck!

There is a tiny shrilling from the contact-apparatus strapped to Nat’s wrist. He presses a cut-out on the desk to kill Misch’s voice while he answers it.

NAT
: Nat Mender, Sportsex. What? Who is that? . . . Deanie? Look, Deanie, I got a show just on. What’s with you? . . . No, I can’t. Not now.

He cuts the wrist contact out and restores the studio sound.

MISCH
: . . . So here we go! The first round!

A raucous klaxon squawk.

In rapid succession we see the three couples going into passionate embraces, the competition numbers plain upon the men’s backs as they press their female partners down.

Nat glances at the Audience Sampler. The expressions there show little change.

OPIE
: Nice clean start.

NAT
(doubtfully)
: Mm.

OPIE
: Some nice action there. Smooth.
(His appraisal is that of the expert, nothing salacious)
I go for that Melamine Tarr. Always neat leg work, dainty.
(They watch in silence for a moment or two)
. . . Ah, yes . . . nice . . .

NAT
: All a bit slow.

OPIE
(ready to agree)
: Maybe a bit. Maybe is you let ’em warm up more—

NAT
: Thanks as usual!

OPIE
: I only said—

NAT
: You full of help!

OPIE
: Look, Nat—

NAT
(snapping his fingers)
: Come on. Back-up tapes, quick!
(Opie stabs a button. Heavy passionate breathing instantly swamps everything, mingled with gurgles and gasps. Much too loud)
Take it down!

OPIE
: Okay, okay—

Flustered, he mutes the volume. Nat checks the Audience Sampler, finds no change in the faces.

His wrist contact shrills again.

NAT
: Yes? . . . Deanie, I tell you no . . . Sick? How sick? When? You see her? . . . Look, we talk later—

He cuts the contact. Misch has raised her plastic dome and turns towards him.

MISCH
: Deanie?
(Nat nods)
You shudder me, Nat. That Deanie, she was . . . how many ago?

NAT
(shrugging)
: Thirty—forty—

MISCH
: Forty girls ago. That’s real old-days! You want her still?

NAT
: We talk.

MISCH
: Oh.

NAT
: We got to talk. The kid’s sick.

MISCH
: You had a kid? You and Deanie?

Opie, watching the big screen, is suddenly worried.

OPIE
: Hey—hey, look at these two! The way they act.

Nat and Misch look. We see only their reactions.

MISCH
: The new two.

NAT
: Getting down to it . . .

OPIE
: No, not getting down to it. They just . . . mess about and . . . Look at that! What she doing?