Soap Opera 2

Watching the examination closely is a local kid. Name of Joe. He regards the scene, detached and bored. Slightly intellectual, might be a misfit. He gazes with passive, dark eyes. Thin, gawky, a certain inscrutability and mawkish silence, but a silence which might precede a violent revelation. Something of the religious mystic about him. Eyes and hair dark, of Mediterranean or Middle Eastern parentage.
He lies on the cool boards, flat on his slim stomach, his shirt open, watching the medical examination with eyes wide with boredom. He hearkens to the words of Doctor Jeff, who throughout the examination throws back sweet, cloying words to Joe, delivered in puzzling couplets from the side of his mouth, like lying riddles. His mellifluous, gentle voice.
"You'll be a great man one day Joe. You're born to it. Did you ever dream of riches? Of millions? All that'll be yours one day, and more".
His voice drones on, weaving a spell on Joe, who seems to picture it all, like a pageant before his eyes.
"This is a country where men can strike gold, and be kings, but freer than kings ever were before. D'you want beauty Joe? D'you want sex? A luxury apartment Joe, a yacht, champagne in your veins. Think about it Joe. Your face on every front page, your name on every breath, your heart as full as a bank vault, your blood enriched, gold bullion like shingle on a beach. Joe, the world is in your heart and you can win it."...
Joe is awed, frightened, wondering.
.... Dr Jeff turns his face away from him and his monologue runs into a dry mumble. As though the river of his discourse had come suddenly to stony, barren ground.
"Next there'll be a dry run. Fortune, the old whore, abandoning men. Man made humble again. In the far future. All the gold eroded, all the young girls gone. Ice water in your veins, no boat at anchor. Your face on no front cover..."
Joe has become perplexed, and is straining to listen.
"The inside of a cell, the fall of an empire, the rise and fall, the final collapse! Where then your finery? O, the public are fickle swine. Whom they love today they revile tomorrow. They have executed lesser kings. The poisonous mob-baiters, that write newspapers, taunts, calls for resignation. Joe, my boy, there is no idol that cannot be torn down. Look at the faces of the fat cats when the cream disappears. Yes now son, all this is to come, the world in your heart that it will kill you to lose!"
Joe looks up to see Dr Jeff's face. Shadows in the eyes, unsmiling. The prophecy complete.

Soap Opera 1

Golden endless sunshine of New South Wales. Suburban frivolity and a certain sexiness.
Here comes the hunk-hero, the main event, fresh from modelling agency into daytime TV. Surfer-type. Athletic, clean, not entirely empty-headed. Hair longish, blonde-streaked, dried and honeyed by a lifetime under sun. Teeth impossibly white and uniform, as though tipex'd. Could be a motor mechanic.
Up from the beach and into the local café, an airy wood-panelled building, old and honourable, where boards and salty apparatus are stacked and where hang the plaques of past Iron Men, their tough names scribed in gold.
His name is Doctor Jeff. He's there to appeal to the female contingent of the TV audience, sunplashed and bright of tooth, efficient but roguish, white coat and stethoscope.
Here for an examination. The girls who works serving drinks behind the counter succumbs to his bedside manner, quiet, courtly, wicked gleam in eye. She's a snub-nosed, sturdily built brunette, large-bosom'd, and she begins to unbutton her loose shirt.
She reclines easily, her body slightly tensed, along the length of the floor, while the doctor, grinning warmly, stoops over her.
Ah, a game of doctors and nurses. Doctor Jeff listens, slightly excited, to the thump of her heart. He sounds out her chest with discreet but precise taps between the rising swell of her breasts. Her mouth opens to receive his thermometer, which after a few minutes Dr. Jeff retrieves and examines closely, always maintaining his charming and comforting smile.

Transmission 2

Transmission: Later in the evening, an odd variety package of unknown origin. Forgettable, quirky, from an obscure production company. Like fill-in shows they stick on when a programme has under-ran. Wanna see Hollywood's Greatest Stunts?
One individual is set to repeat his own record in bicycling across a high wire. This stunt has taken a special twist; he would bicycle along an electricity line. This is tricky- It entails carrying up the bike to the top of the pylon and balancing it effectively on the cable... crowds of spectators below. The pylon stands in open, scrubby countryside.
The performer after placing the bike-wheels firmly on the line hesitates for a good few minutes... now perhaps it would be easier with a unicycle?... a motorbike even!...
An amazingly precise equilibrium must be maintained if the rider is not to plummet to his death, the rate of speed must also be consistent if a smooth passage is to be gained. Tires should nicely absorb the lethal electrical voltage.
(Apparently the stunt was accomplished.... although trick photography may have been used).

Transmission 1

Transmission: A plush, artfully-made-up studio, foreground shows a comfy red sofa against a yellow backdrop. There sits the pop singer, slouched relaxedly forward, but as though ready to spring into action, her fountaining cascade of hair, her limbs bare.
Her mouth playfully loose, as though playing pierced tongue against palette. She conveys jumpiness, excitability, as though ready to jump up and wrestle someone.
Sitting next to her is a Dame or Duchess of somewhere or other.
We tune in half-way through the conversation, an informal dialogue or the pop singer is interviewing. Her interview skills are not well developed, lines of inquiry somewhat flat, and too ready to burst into coarse laughter.
This Dame what's-her-name sits fragile and dour, in fact she looks slightly frightened, a partial downturn of mouth, her old wrists resting limply on her knees. Now this one belongs to the upper echelons of society, she's perhaps a distant cousin of the Queen.
So aristocratic is she that she has seemed to transcend class and become frozen into absolute rigidity, like a pristine, priceless piece of crystal. As though even to speak would be partially to lower herself.
The pop singer, playful and provocative, and at the same time brash and loud-mouthed, irks the lady somewhat. After a few polite and well-delivered phrases, an outmoded witticism in the best possible taste, the pop singer interrupts: "Yer accent's very posh. D'you ever get embarrassed by it?"
At last a serious line of questioning.