Speaker 1: Hello everyone, and welcome to Underwooden Flinch, Season six, episode eight.
I'll save our little chat until after the story bit
of this episode, and that means we can just get
straight into things here, which of course is what you want.
Speaker 2: So yeah, here we go.
Speaker 1: Let's rewind to the old catch up from the original
Patreon episode.
Speaker 2: Here we go.
Speaker 1: This episode is another Lydia episode, and the reason for
that is because her storyline is still a few days behind,
you know, in the timeline, a few days behind the
other storylines, and so it has a bit of catching
up to do. Fortunately, the last Lydia episode, as you know,
wasn't that long ago, so you shouldn't have to strain
the old gray matter trying to remember what's been going
on with her. But for those of you like me
who can't remember anything unless it's written down on a
sign hanging around your neck, here's a short recap. Lydia
and Miguel, as you know, are now vampires. The Bensons aren't.
And in the last episode that featured these characters, Miguel
killed Monica, that prostitute that they'd kidnapped, and then they
left Spain for London after disposing of her body. Gerald
and Cynthia were feeling a bit used and ticked off.
But you know, that's essentially all that you need to
know before we begin this episode. Oh and before we
start the episode, just a quick accent apology in case
they do it horribly wrong, and an explanation for people
who are outside the UK and may not be familiar
with the accent in question. In this episode, I attempt
to reproduce the London accent that academics call m l
E on Multicultural London English. This is apparently known as
grime or road talk. You know, I read that much
online and it's essentially the new Cockney accent, and it's
spoken by working class young people from all ethnic backgrounds
throughout London. I don't try to embellish my character dialogue
with authentic slang because most of you wouldn't know what
these words meant, and frankly neither would I, so I'd
probably use them incorrectly and young Londoners, should any be listening,
would laugh at me, isn't it anyway? So that's everything.
Time now for me to shut my north and south,
to use old Cockney rhyming slang and raise the curtain
once again on Underwood and Flinch season six in Tannibrius.
Written and performed for podcast by Mike Bennett. This podcast
is intended for an adult audience. Listener discretion is advised.
Episode eight, Well here it is My Home from Home.
From the passenger seat, Lydia pointed ahead to one of
the elegant Georgian houses in the terrace to their left. Gerald,
Cynthia and Miguel all followed her finger. The houses were
three story four if you included the basement levels, and
in immaculate condition. They were on Princess Street in the
Primrose Hill district of Camden. It was shortly after one
am and they were driving in the BMW Series seven
saloon Lydia had rented at the airport. She had wanted
a four wheel drive, but since they hadn't booked an advance,
they'd had to settle for something else. She felt that
BMW was a good call, classy without being ostentatious, a
nice family car that wouldn't look out of place in
the neighborhood. Gerald was driving. Lydia had convinced him he
should be the first nominated driver, as he'd want to
use the car to get around during daylight hours, something
she entirely intended him to do, whether he wanted to
or not. He now looked left and right, searching for
somewhere to park. Ah, looks like all the parking spaces
had taken. Yes, bloody typical, isn't it, said Lydia. Never mind,
If you drop us here, we can bring in the
bags while you find us part in a neighboring street.
There's always somewhere nearby. This was a lie. Finding a
parking spot at this hour of the night was as
easy as finding a needle in a haystack. Gerald stopped
in the road outside the house, and Miguel, who shared
the back seat with Cynthia, sat forward, thrusting his face
between the two front seats. Which house is it? Lydia
pointed again to the house which was now beside them.
This one, oh my, said Cynthia. It's gorgeous, Yes, isn't it.
Dad bought it for a song in the seventies. He
needed a bass for whenever he was over here on business.
The sex lawyers sorted it all out, But it is
ours or other mine. Dad left it to me in
his will after much persistent begging on my part. I
don't mean to be vulgar, said Cynthia. But at today's prices,
it must be worth an absolute fortune. Oh, yes it is.
Lydia opened her door and got out. Cynthia and Miguel
did the same, following her round to the rear of
the car, where she popped the boot. Cynthia took out
her in Gerald's cases, Miguel his, and Lydia's. In the end,
Lydia had only brought a few outfits. She felt she
absolutely had to have everything else that Benson's had retrieved
for her from her homes. She left in their spare bedroom.
She would she told them sort it all out when
she got back. Gerald and Cynthia had been annoyed but
had said nothing, And as Cynthia looked back to the
car from the pavement, she saw from the look on
Gerald's face that he was feeling much the same way.
Now see you in a bit, then he said, through
the open passenger window. Cynthia waved and gave him a
sympathetic smile. We'll put the kettle on. Dear Gerald wound
up the window, but not in time to conceal his
harumph as he drove off. After dropping their bags in
their rooms and a brief tour of the house, they
went to the kitchen, where Cynthia drew to her promise
put the kettle on. Not for us, sin, said Lydia,
We have to go out and hunt. She directed this
remark equally to Miguel, who was just about to remove
his coat. Really, said Cynthia, standing with tea bags poised
over cups. But you already had Monica. I imagine she
must have been quite feeling since you, you know, had
all of her. Well, yes, we're fine now, but I'm
thinking ahead to breakfast. When we wake up, we won't
have fit for twenty four hours. Who will be famished?
I could eat something now, said Miguel. Yes, I'm sure
you could, said Lydia. But you need to learn to
rain in your appetite and eat tactically. Miguel shrugged. Sure
I can't do this either. Good, So we'll do it now.
There'll be fewer witnesses around at this time of night
than in the early evening. We can nab someone, bring
them back.
Speaker 2: And have them ready to eat when we wake up.
Speaker 1: Yeah, but you say there will be fewer witnesses, won't
there also be fewer victims? Oh, we'll find a tramp.
I'm sure that's one thing London can always be relied on.
For Miguel grimaced ough a stinking tramp. I was hoping
for a sexy ore. Well, of course you were. But
this is a nice neighborhood, Miguel. We don't do street walkers,
and it's just as well too dining on the grimy
bearded neck of a tramp. That might remind you to
hold back when you're feeding. Miguel's lip curled in disgust,
but he nodded, then grunted okay. Just then the door
bell sounded. Ah, that'll be Gerald, said Lydia. She looked
at her watch and in only twenty minutes he must
have found something nearby. Nearby, said Cynthia. Twenty minutes is
hardly nearby.
Speaker 2: It is round here.
Speaker 1: When you're trying to find a parking space at night.
They all went to the door and Lydia opened it.
Speaker 2: Four.
Speaker 1: Gerald huffed, I had to drive round for bloody ages.
Not a space to be found. Anywhere Where did you park?
Asked to Lydia. I don't know. Somewhere on the road
by the park. Almost got lost finding my way back again.
Speaker 2: And yet here you are.
Speaker 1: Safe, sound and victorious. Home is the parking space hunter? Yes, well,
next time you can be the bloody parking space hunter.
He looked to Cynthia. Did someone mention tea?
Speaker 2: Yes?
Speaker 1: Through here kettle's just boiled though, it's just us, darling.
These two were off out tramp hunting. Oh delightful. But
why you ate earlier? It's for breakfast, Gerald said Lydia,
stepping past him and outside.
Speaker 2: Don't wait up.
Speaker 1: Gerald found himself momentarily lost for words as Miguel went
out to join Lydia on the doorstep. It had only
been a few hours earlier that they'd had to dispose
of Monica's corpse, and the thought of fresh murder left
him cold. You he checked his voice, glancing at the
houses around them, dropping it to a whisper. You won't
kill this one, will you.
Speaker 2: You're going to keep them alive and then let them go.
That's what you said, of course.
Speaker 1: Said Lydia quietly. The last thing we want to do
in a city like London is murder anyone. Gerald looked
at Miguel. You understand that too, right, Miguel looked, offended.
Speaker 2: What one, tame?
Speaker 1: I have an accident and now I'm the little kid,
of course I understand.
Speaker 2: All right, Well, I suppose we will say good night.
Speaker 1: Then good night, darlings, said Lydia. Sleep well, and if
I need anything tomorrow, I'll leave you a note on
the kitchen table. Then she linked Miguel's arm and led
him off in the direction of Primrose Hill. Yes, Gerald
murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Cynthia to hear.
Speaker 2: I'll bet you will.
Speaker 1: Primrose Hill, the actual hill, as opposed to the surrounding
residential district, makes up the northern section of the Regent's Park.
By day, the park can be seen as one of wide,
open green spaces peppered with occasional trees and crisscrossed by pathways.
But at night it is a lake of darkness. The
street lights along the pathways brighten the roots of nighttime
joggers and dog walkers, but everywhere else is pitch black.
Unless you happen to be a vampire. Lydia and Miguel
entered the park with linked arms to any casual observer,
of which there were none save for those in the
infrequent cars that glided past. They might appear as two
lovers out for a nighttime stroll. The night was cold,
and Lydia huddled close to me. Girl, isn't it amazing?
Speaker 2: She said?
Speaker 1: Look around, you can see everything just as plain as
if it were day. Yes, and you know what I
see what?
Speaker 2: Nothing?
Speaker 1: This is a bad place to hunt, Lydia.
Speaker 2: We're wasting our time.
Speaker 1: Let's go to a nightclub. We can pick up a
drunk girl. Oh you'd like that, wouldn't you? A real challenge.
I don't care about the challenge. I don't want a
good time. We can dance, have a few drinks, have
some fun, picking out a chic aboracha, and then boom,
we move in, fascinate her and take her home. Yes,
we could do that, but there'd be witnesses. Drunk girls
tend to travel in packs, as I'm sure you're aware.
It's what gives them sense of security enough to get
drunk in the first place. On their own, they'd be
beating off the likes of you with a shitty stick,
the old you, I mean, not the knew you then
knew you.
Speaker 2: Well.
Speaker 1: Not even a shitty stick could save them, could it.
Miguel laughed, ha ha ah, I know this stick. I've
always been good at dodging it. The trick is not
to technov for an answer. Oh how charming. You're a
regular David Niven, aren't you? Who is this Lydia smiled
at his puzzled expression. Oh, never mind, just a dead
film star. Yes, we can go to a club if
we absolutely have to. But I feel the need for
a walk, don't you. We've been cooped up in cars
and planes all night. Isn't it lovely just to be
out in the fresh air and just feel the night
around you. She stepped away from him to throw her
arms wide and turn around on the spot. It's ours, Miguel.
Speaker 2: We own the night.
Speaker 1: Once upon a time, I would have been nervous walking
through a park like this at this hour, worried that
there might be some mugger or rapist lying in wait
for me. But now.
Speaker 2: Now I relish it, I can think of nothing I'd
like more than some.
Speaker 1: Wanker to come rushing out at me with a hard
on and a kitchen knife. She laughed and called, come on, wankers,
come and get me. Miguel, amused, but also seeing an
opportunity to labor his earlier point, looked around with a
searching eye. He shook his head no, no, I gnaw
the eh, Lydia. The only food in this place is
the fucking owls. He turned back, Come on, let's go.
But Lydia stood still, her head cocked towards the path ahead,
and a look of concentration on her face. What said Miguel.
She held up her hand sh listen. Can you hear it?
Miguel listened. Voices, distant male voices carried on the wind
that blew in intermittent gusts from the northeast. They were boisterous,
probably drunk. He raised his eyebrows.
Speaker 2: Maybe is your anchors?
Speaker 1: No, Lydia smiled the mating cry of the common to ussa.
Speaker 2: Let's find out.
Speaker 1: Jake Bradley was trying to roll a joint by the
glow of his friend Brian Barrett's phone. This would have
been tricky enough when drunk, stoned and standing up, but
to do so in these windy conditions made it considerably
more so. They were sheltering behind a large oak tree,
huddled against the trunk and hunched over their work. That's it,
said Jake, crumbling a pinched lump of heated cannabis resin
into the three papers he'd stuck together. And held shakily
between his finger and thigh.
Speaker 2: I got it a fuck.
Speaker 1: A gust of wind snapped the paper sideways, and the
contents vanished. Brian burst out laughing, not so much with joy,
for he'd wanted the operation to succeed as much as
Jake had, but with surprise. Shit, man, what fucking waste. Yeah,
it's a fucking waste. And it's not fucking funny either. No,
I know, Brian continued, still laughing.
Speaker 2: It was just you were like so careful and so close,
and then.
Speaker 1: He blew a raspberry to represent the moment in replay.
Speaker 2: Is gone, isn't it.
Speaker 1: We should have rolled one before we come out, said
a voice from the other side of the tree. I
told you we should, didn't I This was Kevin Evans,
whose eighteenth birthday was the reason the three were out
this late on a Tuesday night. No, you didn't, said Jake.
You said, roll another one. You didn't say, But the
fucking journey. He was talking about having that back at Trickies. Yeah,
but if you'd rolled it there and we left, we'd
have it now, wouldn't we. I shut up, man, What
you doing around there?
Speaker 2: Anyway?
Speaker 1: You've been pissing for like half an hour. Yeah, and
I've still got a bit more. No, you ain't you
just imagining you do? Put your knubber way. Let's get
a move on now, I've got more in there, I
know it. I wanted to come out and piss in
my pants. The thought of Kevin wetting himself set Brian
off into another fit of laughter. Jake rolled his eyes,
went around the other side of the tree and shoved
Kevin in the back. Kevin staggered forwards into the tree
trunk and hid his head. Oh fucking hell, Jake, I
could a pistol over my fingers. Yeah, but you didn't
because you ain't pissing in it. Kevin pushed his penis
back into his trousers and turned on Jake with his
fingers extended like claws.
Speaker 2: How do you know you want to lick it off?
Speaker 1: Do you? He lunged at Jake and for a second
was able to rub his fingers and hands over Jake's
face before Jake pushed him away.
Speaker 2: Are you day, bastard?
Speaker 1: He's all right, I didn't piss on him, Kevin laughed.
So fucking what, man, said Jake, grimacing and wiping his face.
Speaker 2: With his sleeve.
Speaker 1: You've had your filthy cock in your hands, and now
you've gone to touch my fucking face. What You're a
stranger having a filthy cock in your face, Kevin laughed,
You fucking love it his lag, Yeah, Jagie. Brian joined
in Kevin's laughter, Just another night in the park for
you in it Outnumbered, Jake surrendered to the funny side
of things. He laughed begrudgingly and gave his face a
last wipe with his sleeves. Yeah, you fucking wish. After
exchanging a few playful punches between them, the three young
men continued on their journey home through the park. Official
celebrations for Kevin's eighteenth were planned for the weekend, but
to have not gone out on the night itself would
have been unthinkable. The three lived in the Charlcott's estate
on the north side of the park, where they had
grown up together. Jake and Brian had left school at sixteen,
Jake to sign up with a recruitment agency and begin
a string of zero hours contracts, including, amongst other things,
turns as a road sweeper, a factory hand, and currently
as a worker in hospital laundry, which he hated with
the passion. Brian had joined his dad's plumbing firm as
an apprentice, and Kevin had stayed on in school to
do a levels. If he could get enough good results,
he was hoping to study business at Warwick University. None
of them had intended to be out quite so late,
or to be quite so wrecked, but one thing had
led to another, and here they were. Jake and Brian
had arranged to meet a local drug dealer, Tricky, early
on into the pub crawl to buy a gram of
cocaine as a surprise birthday present for Kevin, but Tricky
had taken them throughout the course of the night, repeatedly
putting the meeting back, until ultimately asking them to come
to his girlfriend Durvler's flat on the southeast side of
Primrose Hill Park. This had resulted in the whole gram
of coke being snorted there by everyone, including Tricky and d'urvler,
but none of the three young men had minded, especially
since Durvler, whose rich parents indulged and financed their aspiring
modeling career, had plenty of beers in the fridge. But
when their cocaine had run out, so had their welcome
You guys want to come back to mind for a
last smoke, said Jake. My old deer will be out
for the count, so as long as we keep it
down will be good. No man, said Brian, I've got
to get up in the morning. Picturing the awful reality
of that in his mind made him laugh. Fuck nosow man,
I'm done for the night, ain't you?
Speaker 2: Shit?
Speaker 1: Man? You got to get up even earlier than me.
A fuck that and going in I fucking hate that place.
What you gonna pull a SICKI asked Kevin. Nah, I'm
gonna tell them to stick up their fucking asses in it,
fucking shitthole. I can't get the stink of that cleaning
shit out of my nose for hours after work. I
can even smell it now just thinking about it. What's
his smell? Ac asked Brian. Your mother's pussy in it.
Jake laughed and raised an arm to ward off a
slap from Brian.
Speaker 2: What you know what that smells like? Man? You down
there every night?
Speaker 1: That earned him a volley of blows, which he fended off, laughing,
as were they all. Then Kevin said, whoa, guys, check
it out. He pointed a head to a bench beneath
the street light, and the dark shape stretched out along.
It looks like a homeless Jake reacted with disgust. Ah,
fuck man, I hit them fucking homeless. Ah, his fucking
beg And shit, it's not a lifestyle choice, said Kevin.
Could happen to anyone, could happen to you, even bollocks,
could it. I'll work for a living man. Yeah, except
when you don't like it, said Brian. Come on, let's
get a look at him. Jake led them over to
the bench. Kevin was right. It was a person bundled
up in a sleeping bag. Beneath the sleeper was a large,
flattened out cardboard box of the size that might have
once contained a washing machine or similarly sized object. The
cardboard extended up onto the back of the bench to
afford some shelter from the wind, and the sleeper, whose
head was cocooned within the sleeping bag, lay with their
face towards it. Jake turned to the others with a
grin and raised a finger to his lips in a
hush gesture. Then he pulled down the front of his
tracksuit bottoms and took out his penis. He nodded at
Brian and Kevin to do the same. Brian looked puzzled,
so Jake moved his hips in a side to side
motion to indicate his intention. Brian stifled a laugh and
took out his penis, but Kevin didn't. Jake frowned at him.
I've just been, Kevin whispered. Jake gave him a sour
look and whispered sharply.
Speaker 2: She said, you had some more, remember, so.
Speaker 1: He nodded at the sleeper.
Speaker 2: Now you can get weird.
Speaker 1: Kevin sighed without enthusiasm. He took out his penis. He
disliked peeing alongside other people at the best of times.
He stared straight ahead and tried to think of a
running tap. Then he heard the sound of water splashing
onto fabric. A second stream followed, adding to the spattering.
Then first Jake, then Brian burst into laughter. Kevin looked
down to see the sleeping bag stirring into life. It
was dark and glistening with urine. Jake and Brian had
sprayed liberally and wide, the liquid running and rivulets from
the now wet cardboard beneath the sleeper. Kevin hurriedly put
his penis back into his jeans and zipped up. Then
came the sound of muffled barking. There was a dog
in the bag with the sleeper, and now both were awake.
The sleeper was unzipping the bag, and through the sound
of barking came a woman's voice.
Speaker 2: Why the fuck whoa it's a fucking bow man.
Speaker 1: Laughed Brian as she rolled onto her back and the
bag started to open. Jake, laughing, pissed straight into the
opening and the face inside. The woman screamed and her
hands went to her face. Then a small dog, a
wire haired mongrel terrier, wriggled free from the bag, barking furiously,
even though the animal was far from intimidating. Both Jake
and Brian jumped back and instinctively covered their exposed genitals.
Jake cursed as his own urine splashed down onto his
tracksuit bottoms. The dog stood on the woman, guarding her
and barking relentlessly at the attackers. Let's go, all right,
said Kevin. He took a few steps away, hoping the
others would follow, but they didn't. You fucking wankers, shouted
the woman. She was in her early twenties and from
beneath her wooly hat. Blonde hair wet with urine framed
an attractive, albeit hostile face. She sat up and gathered
the dog to her as it continued to bark. Fuck
off easy now, girl, said Jake, you're pretty fit for homeless.
Speaker 2: You like this.
Speaker 1: He glanced down at his penis and began to stroke
himself back and forth. You sat me off, and I'll
give you a quid for a cup of tea. Now
fuck off, ma'am, said Brian, now also arousing himself.
Speaker 2: Do me. I'll give you two quid.
Speaker 1: Fuck off, the woman screamed, clinging to the furious little
dog as it struggled to break free.
Speaker 2: Just fuck off.
Speaker 1: Then from their right came another woman's voice, My, what
a fine display of manhood. Jake, Brian, and Kevin turned
to see Lydia step into the pool of light. She
was looking at Jake and Brian's penises appraisingly. If she won't,
I will. Jake, who was discovering the difficulty of maintaining
an erection when feeling strangely threatened, was unsure how to react.
What you heard me two fine plump willies for what
was it? Three pounds? Sounds? Like a bargain to me,
Brian laughed.
Speaker 2: You serious, girl, you want some of this?
Speaker 1: Oh no, I want all of it. Jake and Brian
turned to each other and grinned. That was when a
second voice, that of a Spanish man came from behind them.
Oh no, no, no, we share them between us, one each.
They turned and at first saw no one. Miguel stood
beyond the glow of the street light, his black clothes
blending with the night. Then as he walked closer, they
saw his eyes, strangely bright like an animal's. He stepped
into the light and stopped, a smile on his face.
Totally unafraid. He pointed to Kevin and this guy who
gets his dick, perhaps we can share.
Speaker 2: Him, said Lydia.
Speaker 1: Jake and Brian took a step back, both of them
trying to correct their clothing and get their penis his
back to safety, which in Jake's case was tricky since
he'd let his tracksuit bottoms fall to his ankles. He
reached to pull them up as he retreated from Miguel
staggered and fell backwards, landing on his back side. He
howled in pain, swearing and cursing as he struggled with
his tracksuit bottoms. Brian and Kevin went to him. Brian
reached out a hand to help, but Jake swatted it
angrily away. Then, on getting his clothing in order, he
got to his feet. You do a fucking freak's he shouted.
Speaker 2: Pair a fucking emo, pervs. How dare you?
Speaker 1: Said Lydia, feigning affront. I'm not an emo. Then to Miguel,
what is an emo anyway? Miguel shrugged. Come on, guys,
let's go, said Kevin, and without waiting for an answer,
he started walking down the hill. Jake puffed out his
chest to Miguel, nostrils flared and fists clenched at his sides.
Speaker 2: What you looking at, you emo? Bender?
Speaker 1: Miguel's eyes flicked to Lydia. She gave a single shake
of her head. Brian put a hand to Jake's back.
Leave it, brave, that ain't worth it.
Speaker 2: Yeah.
Speaker 1: Jake spat on the ground a short way ahead of
Miguel's feet, then nodded, glad to be given permission to
back off. Fucking rat, they ain't. He pulled up the
hood of his hoodie, then turned, walking away with Brian
in the pimp roll style he favored when trying to
make an impression. Oh no, Lydia pouted after them as
they strutted away. And I thought we were going to
have such fun together.
Speaker 2: Maybe next time, don't bring your boyfriend.
Speaker 1: Brian called back over his shoulder. Jake laughed, then, feeling
bolder now they were further away.
Speaker 2: Added, fucking eymore, bitch.
Speaker 1: Miguel joined Lydia to watch them go. Jake and Brian
caught up with Kevin, laughing, shoving one another, performing complicated handshakes,
and generally reasserting their indomitable manhood to one another. Too messy,
Lydia whispered. Miguel nodded. See. They turned to where the
young woman was now getting out of her sleeping bag.
Speaker 2: Shit, I can't sleep in that. Even my fucking cardboard soaked.
Speaker 1: Her voice was strained, and she was close to tears.
She pulled the wet cardboard from the bench, throwing it
aside in despair and revealing a rucksack beneath the bench.
Lydia saw that urine had pooled against it. God, I
am sorry, said Lydia, but at least it didn't hurt you.
Speaker 2: Yeah, thanks to you.
Speaker 1: Your clothes wet.
Speaker 2: Yeah.
Speaker 1: The woman felt around the neck of her grubby annorak
and the sweat as she wore beneath it.
Speaker 2: And they stink too, fucking bastards.
Speaker 1: She slumped down on to the bench, elbows on her knees,
and buried her face in her hands to hide her tears.
Speaker 2: What am I going to do? What am I going
to do?
Speaker 1: Her dog came to her. He put his front paws
on her legs and raised himself to lick a nuzzle
at her hands. She picked him up and hugged him
to her look, said Lydia, trying to sound as if
she had come to a considered and perhaps foolishly compassionate decision.
You can't stay out here like this. Why don't you
come home with us. You can have a hot shower,
and we've a spare room you can use. The woman
stopped crying and looked at them, her eyes weary. I
I don't want any of that. What you were saying
to them, you know, sex and stuff. Oh my god, no,
we only said those things to intimidate them.
Speaker 2: We're not like that.
Speaker 1: We were just out for a walk and we heard
your cries. After that, we couldn't just walk away.
Speaker 2: Could we A lot of people would have yes.
Speaker 1: Well, thankfully we're not them. Lydia smiled, and as the
woman looked up to meet her eyes, the thought of
fascinating her cross to mind, but instinctively she felt there
would be.
Speaker 2: No need, at least not yet. What about Charlie.
Speaker 1: The woman raised the dog's head to her face, and
he licked at her tears. I can't go nowhere without Charlie. Oh,
don't worry, Charlie can come too. Lydia said this with
a touch of anxiety. She had no idea how dogs
might react to vampires. In movies, they all always growled
and snarled, their hackles bristling, as if they instinctively understood
they were dealing with supernatural creatures. But so far, Charlie
had seemed entirely oblivious to them. Maybe that would change
if she came closer. If it did, it would be
better to find out now. With a sensible caution most
people would display on approaching an unfamiliar dog, Lydia came
over and reached out a hand to Charlie's head. It's
all right, said the woman. You don't buy Lydia patted
his head once and drew her hand back. Charlie barely noticed,
he was too busy lapping pea from his mistress's face.
Lydia smiled and gave his head a few more strokes,
then scratched him behind the ear. He's such a cutey.
We haven't got any dog food, but I'm sure we
can find something for him. She looked at Miguel, can't
we Miguel. Miguel, who was more of a cat person,
managed to conceal his displeasure at the thought of a
stinking dog in the house by turning his grimace into
a beaming smile.
Speaker 2: Sure, we have plenty to eat.
Speaker 1: Maybe you are hungry too, miss uh?
Speaker 2: Oh? What is your name?
Speaker 1: Alice? And yeah, I am to Lydia, she said, Are
you sure.
Speaker 2: I don't want to be a burden or nothing?
Speaker 1: Oh, don't be silly, Alice. We have a big house.
There's plenty of room for one more. Lydia turned to
Miguel and pointed at the rucksack under the bench. Miguel,
why don't you give Alice a hand with her rucksack
and sleeping bag. Miguel looked at the wet sleeping bag,
his face a picture of disgust.
Speaker 2: Oh, for God's.
Speaker 1: Sake, said Lydia, It's only piss, it doesn't burn. Seeing
Miguel's face, Alice said.
Speaker 2: It's all right, I can carry it.
Speaker 1: She put Charlie down and picked up a sleeping bag.
Lydia shot Miguel a scolding look, then said to Alice, Oh.
Speaker 2: Don't mind him.
Speaker 1: He's like that one ask him to do anything. He'd
loved to help, wouldn't you. Miguel, Yes, of course, said Miguel,
forcing a smile.
Speaker 2: I saw I've got it.
Speaker 1: Avoiding their eyes, Alice rolled up her sleeping bag. Miguel
came forward to assist. Please let me help you. No.
Alice held the sleeping bag away from him, as if
he were trying to steal it. She is proud, thought Miguel,
or maybe ashamed of it. Either way, bet if she
carry it than me. He pointed to the rucksack. Well,
at lease, let me carry your bag, please, Alice. It
would be my pleasure, your pleasure to carry a pissy
old rucksack. See, A pleasure and an honor to help you, Senorita.
Despite everything, Alice found herself charmed. She smiled, all right,
then thanks. She took a key from her pocket and kneeling,
unlocked the bicycle lock that was passed through the straps
of the rucksack and looped around the rear leg of
the bench. Why have you got it locked like that?
Asked Lydia, genuinely puzzled. Do other homeless people try to
steal it? More like than wankers you've just seen, off,
said Alice, People like that nicket just for a laugh.
Empty everything out into the street or the canal. Oh,
how awful. Well, at least you won't have to worry
about that anymore. Alice stopped in drawing out her rucksack
and looked at Lydia, frowning, What do you mean anymore?
Lydia realized her faux pas and added hastily, I mean
your bag. It'll be safe, or at least it will tonight.
Speaker 2: Obviously.
Speaker 1: After that, well, let's not worry about that.
Speaker 2: Now.
Speaker 1: Let's get you home and cleaned up, shall we. Alice hesitated.
She looked from Lydia to Miguel, evidently still unsure whether
or not she could trust them. But then the northeast
wind rose again, whipping across the open parkland and seeping
into her wet clothes. To bite her flesh with teeth
of ice. That decided her. She held out the rucksack
to Miguel. Thanks, I really appreciate it. What are your names?
I know you're Miguel, but who you? I'm Lydia, Lydia? Okay, well,
nice to meet you both. Jill far, oh no, not far.
We could be home in no time. Lydia held out
her hand, beckoning Alice to join her. Alice picked up
her sleeping bag, then called to Charlie to come on.
Speaker 2: Joining Lydia.
Speaker 1: They started down the hill, the little dog scampering ahead
of them, sniffing in the grass and clearly happy to
be going somewhere, while Miguel trailed about ten feet behind them,
holding the rucksack at arm's length away from his body
as if it were oozing something fatally contagious. I do
love a good Samaritan, don't you, Listeners? Such a shame
that there aren't any around to rescue poor Alice.
Speaker 2: Join me next.
Speaker 1: Time, my friends for season six, episode nine of Underwood
and Flinch. So there we are, chums. That was Underwood
and Flinch season six, episode eight, and I hope you
enjoyed it. So what news?
Speaker 2: What news? Do I have for you?
Speaker 1: Well, I do have a tiny bit, and it relates
to the now sadly deceased Village Road Show, Underwood and
Flinch TV series. No, there hasn't been an about face
by Village Road Show on the matter. The company still
appears to be going through changes, the outcome of which
no one can foretell. No, this is about what happens
to a writer me when he spent four years being
told his work was going to become a TV show,
only to ultimately find that it isn't all of us writers.
We all want our work to reach the largest audience possible,
and that's why I've spent the last eighteen years podcasting
my stories the majority of that time, the vast majority
of that time, for no financial reward whatsoever. I did
that and I still do do it because I want
people to hear what I've written. I want to share
this story with the world. And that's also the reason
that I podcast the works of classic authors like Bram
Stoker and HP Lovecraft to find new listeners and hopefully
entice them to listen to my work.
Speaker 2: Does that strategy work?
Speaker 1: I don't know. How did you find me? I'm guessing
it was either through My Dracula or HP Lovecraft podcasts,
because let's face it, no one is googling Underwooden Flinch
because they've never heard of it, And that is what
a TV series would have changed for me. It would
have done more for Underwooden Flinch's global visibility than me
reading every classic novel in the English or any other
language could ever do. And it wouldn't even have mattered
whether the TV show was a faithful or an unfaithful adaptation.
It would still have found an audience because, as we
all know, what is and what isn't total garbage TV.
It's a totally subjective matter. So even if it had
been canceled after season one and the major pority of
viewers gave it a big thumbs down on Rotten Tomatoes
or the IMDb, it would still have earned a cult
fan base, and that cult fan base would then have
found the podcast and hopefully have become fans of that too.
Did you ever see that show The Island on Netflix?
Everybody seemed to think that was shite, but I enjoyed it,
So there's that anyway. So for the past four years
then I've had that to look forward to, you know,
the idea of at least some kind of a cult
fan base as a result of the TV show.
Speaker 2: Whether it was good or.
Speaker 1: Bad, Underwood and Flinch would still have entered a global
popular culture and become a much more successful podcast and
novel series than it currently is.
Speaker 2: But now no, that's gone. So what are you gonna do, Mike?
What are you gonna do about it?
Speaker 1: Are you just gonna lie there, face down in the dirt,
sorry for yourself?
Speaker 2: Or are you going.
Speaker 1: To pick yourself up, dust yourself down and start all
over again? To quote a popular song, Well, I thought
I might lie face down in the earth actually and
just generally feel sorry for myself. I mean, last month,
I was happy to just carry on as I have
done these last eighteen years, writing and podcasting my stories
and hoping that Dracula and Lovecraft would keep a constant
trickle of audience flowing in. But a lot can happen
in a month in the brain of your humble narrator,
And one big thing did happen.
Speaker 2: I decided that.
Speaker 1: I was going to pick myself up, dust myself down,
and start all over again. Yes, I decided that I'm
going to adapt Underwood and Flinch for the small screen myself.
I mean, who better than me?
Speaker 2: Right?
Speaker 1: I know the story intimately, as no showrunner hired to
adapt it ever could, And you know as well as
I do that no showrunner would have done the job
without changing a lot of the story, because that's what
they always do, even to writers like Stephen King. I mean,
look at the TV series of The myst What a
disappointment that was, eh, But still I bet it did
wonders for sales of the book and audio book among
the millions of people who did like the show but
had never read the original. So yeah, I'm going to
do this job myself, and I'm starting work on it
this very month. My mission is to take the forty
five incident packed chapters of the first Underwooden Flinch novel
and compress them into ten one hour screenplays for a
television series. Can I do it?
Speaker 2: Of course?
Speaker 1: I caan't good? God, I wrote glittables, didn't I? Anyway?
So yeah, the funny thing is listeners. I was actually
offered the job of writing Underwooden Flinch for the screen
when the show was first option by Village Road Show.
Did I want to at it myself? I was asked,
you know what I said. I said no, and why
because I thought I wouldn't be good enough, that I
didn't have the experience that would be necessary. And I
also thought I wouldn't get it done in time, because
you know they're going to want that quickly, right, I
mean said, it's going to happen no time, isn't it.
One minute's going to get option, the next minute's going
to be on the screen.
Speaker 2: Huh, How wrong I was?
Speaker 1: How little did I know? As I learned over the
course of the whole process, writers don't write the whole
of the series as soon as they're commissioned. They don't
even write a pilot. Not until the show is pitched
and finds a buyer do they put pen to paper.
Because to write a TV series is a lot of work,
and if the show doesn't sell, then that's a lot
of work for no reward. Makes sense, doesn't it. So
bearing that in mind, then I am not going to
write all ten scripts out in full either. I'm just
going to structure the novel into a ten episode plan
and then write the only script.
Speaker 2: That matters, the pilot.
Speaker 1: My plan is to work roughly to a format of
four podcast chapters into one sixty minute TV episode script.
So the pilot will be Underwood and Flinch podcast episodes
one to four, Episode two will be podcast episodes five
to eight, and so on. Now, over the course of
the whole series, some scenes are going to have to
be cut, of course, but hopefully not too many. I'll
structure the whole thing into three stages, the first being
the pre resurrection stage, then the second, the Underwood has
risen stage, and then the final conflict stage. Now, this
would be a big enough challenge in itself, but there's
more to contend with. Yes, I'm talking about the historical
section devoted to Underwood's origin. That's a big story, a
novella within a novel. It's got its own beginning, its
own middle, and its own end.
Speaker 2: How am I going to fit that in here?
Speaker 1: It's going to complicate things, to say the least. But
there's no way I'm cutting that out, because in my opinion,
it's just too good to cut. So I don't know,
I'll have to incorporate it into my three act structure
some way. I don't know, maybe tell it in stages
rather than do it all in one episode. That, of course,
assumes that I would get it into one episode.
Speaker 2: I don't know.
Speaker 1: I've never undertaken anything like this before. It's going to
be a challenge, no doubt about it. But really, what
better man for.
Speaker 2: The job, I ask you none.
Speaker 1: So I take up the gauntlet that the end of
the Village Road Show series has thrown down at my feet.
I will plot and plan and adapt Underwood and Flinch
into a TV series that I personally would watch and love,
and that you, my friends, would also watch and love.
And so therefore I sincerely hope absolutely everyone out there
in TV land.
Speaker 2: Would also love.
Speaker 1: I will bring this work to the world, and the
world will jolly well like it.
Speaker 2: Huzzah.
Speaker 1: Well, let me know what you think, listeners. You can
comment on the episode at Spotify, or you can say
something on this episode's posts at Mike bennett author Facebook
page or on Blue Sky, where you can find me
at Mike Bennett dot Besky dot social I look forward
to hearing your thoughts. But that's about it for me
for now. My friends, thank you for listening. Please tell
a friend about Underwooden Flinch and force the show into
their ear holes, whether they like it or not, even
if you have to tie them to a chair in
the basement and not feed them until they co operate.
That may seem a tad excessive, but as we both know,
they'll thank you in the end. They always do. But anyway, yes, sir,
from me for now, then until the moon rises again
over Underwood and Flinch, take care and farewell. The music
you're listening to is Ahmad Armor by Farried Fajarad, capable
to download from iTunes or Amazon and to stream from Spotify.
It comes courtesy of Tarannay Records and our good friend
Fawaz al Malud.