This piece was posted to alt.fan.goons after some cheeky chap suggested a script be written about The Affair of the etc. etc. Where etc. etc is of course the Prime Minister’s Trousers.

One other fellow stepped up to bat, but what was produced was too repetitive, rather like I was when I was in primary school and repeating obscure comedy pieces or Warner Brothers cartoon scenes.

Oh - it was very well received.

Grytpype: Moriarty, quick! After them!

Moriarty: How? We’ll never catch them on foot.

Grytpype: Curse. Wait! There’s a saw in that timber yard over there. Now, on you get –

FX: RIP

Grytpype: Er, the other side, maybe. I’ll take the handle, now:—

FX:MAD SAWING OF WOOD, SPEED UP AND OUT. THEN FADE IN RUNNING BOOTS ANDSLOW TO A HALT.

Seagoon: Good heavens! The trouser-nappers fled before we arrived too late. If only we’d started earlier, then we’d have been late enough to be on time. Or maybe the criminules are running fast — (big joke) running fast, get it? Hahaha… ahem.

Willium: Ohh, look ‘ere, Inspector Seagoon mate. An unoccupied trouser seat loitering in the middle of the road there.

Seagoon: Well, fine it ten pounds for loitering and bring it in for questioning.

FX: TILL

Seagoon: Wait — this trouser seat may the one abducted by the thieves. I shall conduct an experiment.

ORCHESTRA: VERY AMATEURISH TUNE UP

Seagoon: Thank you. Mr Prime Minister? Try this trouser seat on.

FX: EXCRUCIATING PEELING OFF OF STICKING PLASTER MIXED WITH CREAKS, TWANGS.FINISH WITH A LOUD POP.

PM (Spike): Doesn’t fit me at all.

Seagoon: Gad! Gid! Then this trouser seat must belong to one or more of the dreaded trouser abductors. They’ve got cheek, I must say.

Willium: ‘Ere Inspector. I ‘ave been examining the marks on the trouser seat, and they fit the saw marks in this ‘ere timber yard perfectly mate.

Seagoon: True, but what made them?

Willium: This ‘ere saw mate.

Seagoon: Which saw?

Willium: The one what’s not ‘ere mate.

Seagoon: Where’s it usually?

Willium: ‘Anging up in that space, right there.

Seagoon: Right. Sergeant?

Throat: Yes?

Seagoon: Take that space away for evidence.

Throat: Right.

Seagoon: What a minute! We can’t have the Prime Minister walking the streets in a trouser-free condition!

Minnie: (off) Why not eh? Why not?

Crun: (off) Minnie, come away from that Prime Minister, you don’t know where they’ve been…(both fade off arguing)

Seagoon: Thank heaven they’ve gone, but they might come back. Right then, into the crate sir.

PM: What crate?

FX: HAMMERING DOWN CRATE LID

PM: (muffled) Never mind.

Willium: The ‘orse is ready sir. All aboard, next stop, the naughty trouser nappers… hold tight.

FX: VERY, VERY SLOW COCONUT SHELLS… ABOUT ONE CLOP A SECOND OR LESS.STRETCH PAUSES AS LONG AS POSSIBLE, CARRY UNDER.

Seagoon: Shouldn’t we hurry it along a bit?

Willium: Oh yern, yern.

FX: CRASHING OF GEARBOX. COCONUT SHELLS DO NOT SPEED UP.

Seagoon: Ahh, that’s better. They’ll never escape us now.

ORCHESTRA: GALLOPING CHASE TYPE LINK

Bill: Onward the avengers sped through the night, gradually closing on their quarry. By sunrise the following century, they had their prey in plain sight.

FX: SAME SLOW COCONUT SHELLS. FADE IN SAWING.

Seagoon: Aha — there they are, two men on a saw, and one with the seat of his trousers removed! Willium, hail them.

Willium: (shout) ‘Alt! ‘Alt in the name of the law, mate! (aside) I oughtn’t ter be doin’ this y’know, man of my age…

Bill: Meanwhile, on the speeding saw.

FX: SAWING

Moriarty: Grytpype — we’re trapped. We must give ourselves up!

Grytpype: You defeatist Continental cold collation — whatever for?

Moriarty: We’re out of wood. (aside) And you can’t get it you know.

Grytpype: Alright. Then again, we don’t have the PM’s trousers on us, do we? We should be safe…

Bill: Meanwhile, on the police horse.

FX: SLOW, SLOW CLOPS, FAINT SAWING

Grytpype: (off) All right officers, we’ll stop.

Seagoon: Aha ha ha, they’ve given up. Don’t worry sir, your trousers are as good as found.

FX: SAWING STOPS, CLOPS CONTINUE

Seagoon: I say, shouldn’t we stop too?

Willium: There is somethin’ in wot you say. Woah back there mate…

FX: CLOPS

Willium: Woah back there.

FX: PING, CLOPS SPEED UP SLIGHTLY

Willium: (worried) Woah mate.

FX: CRASH GEARBOX, METAL BITS DROPPED ON GROUND

PM: (muffled) What’s happening?

Seagoon: Don’t worry sir, it’s just that —

FX: ENGINE FALLS TO PIECES — HOOVES SPEED UP GREATLY — CRASH — FALLINGBRICKS.

Willium: I think we lost the brakes mate.