Season 3 Episode 2: Altar Ego

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Antigone Fun runs a funeral home in the village of Piffling Vale.

It used to be the only one.

It isn't anymore.

Antigone is a woman of private passions, and she'd prefer to keep them that way.

So why is she writing her very first book?

And could that book really be

raunchy?

Wooden Overcoats, created by David K.

Barnes.

Season 3, Episode 2: Alter Ego by James Hamilton and James Huntrods.

Thursday night meant another visit for Antigone to the Piffling Royale cinema to unwind with a willfully inaccessible French film.

But when she purchased her ticket from Herbert Koff, she learned a fact that knocked her for six and chilled her right to the bone.

You mean somebody else has bought a ticket?

I know, Miss Trunn.

I'm as disappointed as you are.

But it's Buel La Pissine de Chacquin.

I hardly wanted to see it myself, didn't you?

Try to put them off.

Of course I did.

I read them the blur.

I said, Sir, do you really want to sit through a three-hour French non-linear metaphor for the Maastricht Treaty?

It's Thursday, for heaven's sake.

And he still went in.

Yes.

Even when I told him, it had been described as perniciously bereft of dialogue, pacing and plot.

You showed him the five-star review, go Herbert!

I tried my best, Miss Funner.

I thought you'd be sat on your own in the cinema whilst I sat on my own in in the booth, just as usual.

But now you'll be on your own with someone else.

Well, I'll just be on my own.

Sounds like bliss.

Couldn't we swap places?

I'll run the film and you can go and watch it.

Oh no, my union wouldn't allow it.

They'd they'd pick up my popcorn maker if I let you do that.

I want to be alone.

I am sorry, believe me.

Do you still want your ticket?

I mean, I know I've let you down by accepting another customer.

No, no, no, alright.

But don't do it again.

This is outrageous.

I should give him a piece of my mind.

Who is this bloody fool anyway?

Antiguity Fun!

Why, hello there!

Reverend Wavering?

Yes, it's me!

I've bought a hot dog.

I don't care!

What in God's name are you doing here?

Oh, I'm not here in God's name, I can assure you.

I hear this film gets a little blue.

What?

No!

I had no idea, and you can't prove anything to the contrary.

Why, I'm sure I can't.

Shall we sit together?

Clearly, we're both connoisseurs of the arguably erotic art.

That's exactly why I don't want to sit next to you.

I also have popcorn.

Button.

Please don't say that again.

Oh, it's kicking off.

Come on, sit down.

Oh.

This is heating up faster than the swimming pool, I presume they're going to.

I called it.

Je sui le securiste.

Work for brass, tab natli.

Je sui le sécuriste.

He just calling stuff

exactly what I needed.

Are you writing things down?

I can't hear the subtitles.

This is piracy.

Inefficient piracy.

I'm simply writing them down for inspiration.

Though I can't see my papers anymore.

You might have scribbled that last one in my cassock.

Shouldn't you be using more spiritual sources for your sermons?

Oh, gosh, no, no, it's not for those.

You mustn't tell anyone about this.

Trust me, I won't be telling anyone about this.

But I've always fancied myself a bit of an author.

It's just I've never known what to write.

And then I realized what I, Nigel Wavering, could give to the world.

Parables and moral guidance?

No!

Sexy literature!

This is wretched.

I was thinking through a scrapbook of my favorite funerals, and I realized we haven't had a real belt of a lusty book since Island of Passion.

I suppose Captain Sorgrey knew how to penetrate steeny metaphor.

I knew you'd ready to shut up!

And so, I thought to myself, well, Migel, no point in moping about it.

You ought to step up and do it yourself.

And so I'm right in well going to.

Isn't there a clash with representing the purity of Christ?

Fingers crossed, it doesn't exist, for the time being.

Right.

So that's why I came here, to write down the most suggestive subtitles in this notebook for research.

It's like a mood board.

But all the moods are sexy.

Look, just because it's French doesn't make it sexy.

I find that hard to believe.

But you're the expert, I suppose.

I should have enough inspiration if I kept coming every year or so.

Wait, what?

You're going to come to the cinema every Thursday when I do for a year or so.

If you insist?

No, that was a...

Oh.

Well, maybe I don't need to write the book at all.

These films seem almost as good as...

How would you know if you keep talking through them?

You know something

I think you should write that book

But you shouldn't wait a year You should start tonight No time like the present, you mean before you pollute your artistic vision by watching all these films the world needs pure Reverend Wavering not any of this half-baked exquisite nonsense I say

oh

you're quite inspiring.

Oh,

you think this is how those chaps in the Gospels felt?

I

only hope it is.

Now go forth and create and never come back here again.

Damn it, you're right.

I'm going to write the raunchiest book this island has ever seen.

Mind you, I've paid for the ticket now.

I'm quite curious to see what happens in the remaining 170 minutes.

Are you?

I'm quite curious about what happened in the ten minutes you've talked through.

I gosh, oh my god, I completely lost track of what's going on.

Could you explain the plot as we go?

After that kind of evening, Antigone had even less patience for her brother's antics than usual.

The very next day had seen a funeral at the farmyard.

I don't think this morning could have gone any worse.

Carry the four, divide by the same.

Oh, Antigone, look at me!

I am covered in mud.

Who cares?

Muds!

Stop waving your hands about.

You've only got yourself to blame, sir.

That's not true, Georgie.

I've got you to blame.

How?

You let go of the pig!

Good, you take this outside.

I'm doing the accounts with Madeline.

This fight will only take a minute.

Oh.

Georgie, if Chapman can do a service in the safari park with any...

He's got a lion-taming license.

Of course, he can do that.

So he can tame a lion, but you can't hold a pig.

He was cunning.

Look!

Can I just have half a soldier now to get some proper work done without getting constantly interrupted?

Antigone!

Antigone!

You inspired me!

And I've done it!

I never dream at night because every day is a nightmare.

Reverend, what are you doing here, and where were you this morning?

I was working on this!

My magnum odyssey!

You were meant to be doing a funeral!

I'll say it again, Bill's heart is not in it, and I am covered in mud!

I'm awfully sorry about those things, but Antigone!

I took your advice!

I stayed up all night, and I've written it!

Ridden what?

Don't show them!

Why not?

That was cool.

What have you got there anyway?

It's a brand new sermon.

Oh!

And you can't read it yet.

What's a big mystery?

I want to say it.

Roger, I won't let you get mudded all over the Reverend's brand new sermon.

Georgie, put him in the sink.

Come on, then, Reverend.

Here you have.

Not him.

Rajard, go and get washed.

Not while you're keeping something secret from us.

Do you really want to read a sermon about the possible existence of God?

Oh, so you want us to read it for a verse psychology?

Well, I won't fall for that.

I'm going for my bath.

Georgie, bought some water.

Love it cold and like it.

Reverend, you can't just burst into places holding a pornographic book.

I don't see why not.

I'm proud of it.

It exists.

God may or may not have created me, but I've definitely created a salacious masterpiece.

Here, have a butcher's.

Oh, God.

There must be over 400 pages.

You wrote the whole thing overnight.

Go on, pick a section.

I've tried to make sure every page has a titillating encounter of some kind, so you can open it anywhere and find what you need.

Just like the Bible.

Okay.

Um

Joby looked at Harriet with naughtiness in his eyes and naughtiness on his mind.

Harriet looked at Joby with naughtiness in her eyes and naughtiness on her mind.

One thing was for sure, they both wanted to have naughtiness with each other.

And then they did

later that day.

Uh um

Reverend, I don't like to say this, but um

where's the um

the

you know

what?

The um

the

sex.

Oh, the sex!

So what?

Set back in the sink!

Yes, there's no description, sensual or otherwise.

I didn't want to get too personal, you understand?

It's just instead of using the word naughtiness five times, you could use a different word.

Instead of all the other words, you could use something like maybe, um,

Joby

gazed at Harriet's heaving chest, and flames of lust spread throughout his body.

As Harriet looked down at him upon the ground, no lesser fire began within her.

Both of them were prepared to burn for each other, and burn.

They did.

Oh,

my.

I'd like a glass of water.

That was hot stuff, Antigone.

And then you come in with later that day.

No, then you actually describe him.

A flaming naughtiness.

Yes.

Oh,

you know.

Everything's so clear to me now.

I can't write this book without you!

Without me?

I was thinking of asking Desmond, but he's so frightfully busy, and I'm not sure he'd really approve.

But you?

Why?

You're clearly au fait with all sorts of smack!

Howdy, what do you mean I need to down?

And together, we could be the D.H.

Lawrence of erotic fiction!

He did write erotic fiction.

But that's what I mean!

It's not sordid!

It's an expression of human and spiritual truth

with riding crops!

I suppose writing that sort of thing could be quite liberating.

But surely I couldn't.

Of course you could!

We'll write it for anyone who yearns for that little bit of harmless spice, though they're too ashamed to admit it.

So that's...

Practically everyone!

Give or take?

Yes!

Hmm.

All right, I'll do it.

Yes.

But on one condition, we write the book under a pseudonym.

Why is that?

One, because I want it, and two, because you're the Reverend.

Doesn't the Bible frown on this sort of thing?

I'll take your word for it.

Oh, hmm.

I suppose suppose no one wants to know that the erotica they're reading was written by the Reverend.

That's a right turn-off.

So, this needs to be our secret.

I say.

That sounds a lark.

So, what's going to be our pseudonym?

It should be elegant and sensual, like the story itself.

I'll choose the surname, and you choose the first.

Okay.

Octavia.

Blimp.

Really?

Oh, yes.

Then that's our name.

It's time to begin the literary career of Octavia Blimp.

Having made their pact, Antigone and Wavering now required a place where a couple of writers could work without detection.

Goodness me, this cafe's packed.

Hello, welcome to Chapman's.

Can I get you a table?

Yes, sir, we're quiet.

We're trying to work.

Ah, you're writing a novel.

What?

Why would you think that?

Well, that's what everyone else here is doing.

Rat.

Well, mine's about a time-travelling cat from the future who meets a dog from the past.

Is it a children's book?

No.

Maybe we should go.

Hand on.

Why not simply hide in plain sight?

They're all too busy with their own less erotic novels to notice us.

Good point.

Let's take that table over there.

Now,

I've been giving your comments a lot of thinking, especially about the sex.

Did somebody say

shoot

about the

flaming naughtiness.

And I've written down a few scenarios.

About 30 or so.

30?

Gosh, these are...

well.

Incredibly vivid.

Where did you even go?

Oh, think them up.

I've no idea.

They just came to me.

I must believe in divine inspiration.

But don't hold me to that.

Well, it seems we've got half that book right here before we even start.

We should flesh out the characters next.

How about the lead?

How do you see him?

Well, he's got to be incredibly handsome, charming, successful, and attractive to everyone, whatever their gender.

Why, hello there.

Oh, hello, Eric.

Good day to you.

How's it going?

Incredibly well.

Didn't expect to see you here, Antigone.

Can I get you some loose leaf tea or a currant bun?

We don't need those things, just privacy.

Oh, gosh.

Is this a secret thing?

Yes, it is.

A secret thing.

Tell me more.

No, everyone, just get back your puppies.

What a swizz.

Oh, I see.

Are you writing a novel?

Yes.

I mean, no.

Sorry.

Silly me.

I was a ghostwriter for John Grisham.

Did a couple of his over a weekend.

See if you can spot which ones they are.

I won't do that.

Oh, fair enough.

I ought to shoot downstairs and embalm Mrs.

Goodlife.

Enjoy yourself.

Oi, hurry, get us a latte, will ya?

Stat!

Oh, uh, it's your thing, Georgie.

No, don't come over, don't come over, don't come over.

Still working on the sermon?

Oh, I've been it.

Starting from scratch.

And to tell you the truth,

we're just sitting here minding our business.

Okay, that's cool.

I like doing that.

Let's have a look then.

No, no, no.

Behind the aquarium while wearing this seal costume.

Yes, I'm giving sermons in new places.

At the circus on the high wire.

A new and dangerous places.

This is the church.

Here's the steeple.

open my cassock, and here's the.

Oh, cheers.

Put it on my tab.

Now, where was I?

Leaving.

And where was I?

Enjoy yourselves.

That sounds right.

Oh, Georgie, you don't have a tab.

I do now.

See ya.

Things I do.

Finally.

Let's get writing.

Right.

I thought we'd begin behind the bike shed, but in front of the bikes themselves.

Oh, yes, that could

And so, through covert regular meetings in the public cafe, Antigone and Wavering thrashed out their novel.

Until, late one evening at the Vicarage...

They'd want each other always,

and all over the shop.

And so they lived sorcerily ever after.

The

ending.

Just the end.

Don't you think that's too abrupt?

No.

Oh, you're so good at this.

And we're...

done!

Scandaliances by Octavia Blimp.

Oh, it's finished!

I can hardly believe it!

I've...

I've written a novel.

I simply couldn't have done it without you.

You're the one with all the ideas.

Well, Lord knows where they came from.

Still, when you may or may not believe that the world was created in seven days by an omnipotent cosmic force, it's not hard to imagine some nookie on a golf course.

Now, I'll smuggle this into the place I get our Bibles printed.

Nigel!

I'm home!

Spike from the pub!

Quick, hide manuscript!

Have you two finished that sermon yet?

Yes,

and have I brought home some chips?

Yes, that's right!

Chips for everyone!

Yay!

In terms of literary merit, it was no memoirs of a funeral house mouse by the trilogy for Easter, but the authors justly celebrated the completion of their first novel.

Yet, having got it printed, how are they going to get it out to the public?

Well, hello again.

Welcome to Chapman's Book Nook.

How can this place have a bookshop in it as well?

Very easily.

It's for those who need material to stick into their eulogies.

It's about time they had some variety.

How about you two?

Need some inspiration for that, whatever it is you aren't working on?

Or if you need somewhere to store that enormous sack you're carrying, we have a cloakroom.

I'll fetch the valet.

No, no, we'll just have a browse.

Come on, Reverend.

Here we are.

Here what a literature section.

Oh,

he doesn't leave any Yuli uncovered.

Archipelago of Ardor, Coral Reef of Carnal Heat.

The rapture of felicity velvet.

Oh, it's just like my bookcase back home.

But nothing new for the connoisseur.

Right, get them off the shelf and swap them with ours.

Distract him!

Bloody hell!

Um, Christ!

Chapman!

Yes?

Have you, have you, have you, have you ever stopped to think about your own funeral?

Oh,

you know, I actually haven't.

But death could come at any moment.

That bookshelf could collapse and bury you in Bronte's.

And if you haven't got a plan, then we'd end up doing a funeral.

Well, Roger deserves a win, doesn't he?

Doesn't that bother you?

Why do you dead?

Why would it?

What's Nigel up up to?

In this place, who'd run it when you're dead?

I don't know.

I don't really want to think about it.

But you must.

But I can't do that.

Would you have any regrets?

Any wishes?

What's going to be the last thought you have when you finally die?

Okay, I see you, Chapman.

Bye.

But I.

Wait.

What?

Excuse me, Eric.

How much is this?

Oh, uh, Scandalliances by Octavia Blimp.

Uh, five pounds?

Take my money!

Antigone and the Reverend escaped from Chapman's with their secret identities intact.

Well done, Reverend!

It's on sale!

It's in the shop and everything!

But what if nobody buys it?

Oh, they will, don't you worry.

There's slap and tickle on every page.

Look at this metaphor, so fumbly and awkward, just like real sex.

Let's go read our books.

Reverend, they're reading it.

They're reading us!

We did it!

Our authors watched with glee as, over the next few days, more and more people could be seen around the village hiding their book behind newspapers within their jackets and inside their Bibles.

Soon, everybody on Piffling was reading it.

Which is, I suppose, what happens when you write something populist.

Hey guys, have you seen this?

What is it?

Filthier than you could possibly imagine.

Every character is brilliant.

Except the main guy.

He's a tool.

Oh, scandaliances.

I've never read it.

It's dirty ass.

You'd love it.

How dare you, that's a lie, a bareface lie.

Bear more than the faces in this, like, they're bums.

Georgie, the best thing you could do with that is tear it up and use the pages as coffin padding.

Like the last book I was given.

How to pad a coffin by G.

H.

Crimpton.

Yep.

I never read it.

Too many coffins to pad.

Well, of course you'd be dismissive of Octavia Blimp and her exquisitely crafted prose and sensual nuance.

I thought you hadn't read it.

And I thought you should shut up.

Yeah.

Antigone's first novel was quite a hit.

I did glance at a few pages, and they were, you know, fine.

So, whatever.

But across the village, in the church, her co-author was soon to realise that things were getting complicated.

Um,

hello, Reverend.

Herbert!

It's been a while since I've seen you here.

Um.

You still do confessions, don't you?

Are you still a Catholic?

Yes.

Then I'll pretend to be one, too.

Haha, jump into the booth.

So, what's on your mind, Herbert?

Well, um,

you see,

I was reading this book I bought at Chapman.

Uh, Scandaliances by Octavia Blimp.

Oh, you were?

Uh did you like it?

You've heard of the book.

Never.

But, well, if you're confessing that you enjoyed it, then God forgives you and commends you on your test.

Well, it's just, um,

do you remember last year when I came in here to confess to you about that

thing that I was having with Celia Sesame?

A bit behind her husband's back?

Oh, yes.

She went in for the popcorn and stayed for the.

Yes, yes, yes, exactly.

It was shameful.

Well, naturally, I remember that.

Every word of it.

Well, I know this is gonna sound a bit mad, but that there's this chapter in Scandalians' which is exactly the same as what happened to me, every word.

But with the names changed.

Now, how on earth could that have happened?

Oh my god.

It can't be a coincidence.

Oh my God.

Extremely specific things that we got up to with the Oh my Jesus God!

It's only a matter of time before someone puts two and two together and realizes that I'm the handsome Chiseled Adonis with the strength of a wild bull.

Right, right, okay, right.

Uh, listen to me, Herbert.

Um,

are you sure you didn't tell anyone else about your affair?

No, I felt too awful with the memory of my wife.

Take man!

Did anyone ever see the two of you together?

Uh did someone uh overhear you on the phone?

Um

oh, you could have mentioned it in your sleep.

Or even in somebody else's sleep.

Precisely!

Or

maybe it's a sign from God

to guide you towards penance.

He, in all his glory, inspired the hand of this supremely gifted author to create a situation so similar and so sexy that only you could recognize it.

So should I keep reading?

Oh, heavens, yes.

And if anyone should ask you anything about your conduct, then do the decent thing.

And deny it with every breath in your body.

Right.

What, cheers, Reverend?

Um, who should I send in next?

Next?

Yeah, it looks like quite a queue waiting to confess you.

Afternoon, Nigel.

Eric?

Look, I won't take up too much of your time as you've clearly got a rush on, but I've been receiving money for the sales of an erotic novel.

I didn't even stop.

So, why have you come see me?

I am innocent.

I tell you, I'm innocent.

Well, I'm sure, but I didn't stock the novel, so I don't feel I should keep the money, And there are no contact details, so I can't even tell the author.

Oh, well,

don't worry about it.

Thought about donating it all to the church.

What are you suggesting?

Nothing, but what should I do with the money?

Keep it!

Have a holiday!

Buy a copy of the book!

Well, I did read a few chapters, and there's this bit set on a hot air balloon I'm concerned about.

Do you remember last week when I told you again?

Reverend, I must speak to you.

Tanya?

Someone's putting my sexy life in a sexy book.

And mine, especially mine.

See husband.

He's here.

You gotta hide me.

Hide me.

And that's why writing books is hard work.

Meanwhile, Antigone was picking up the scandal herself while embalming in the mortuary.

This is Jennifer Delacroix, Pifflin FM, with a special announcement.

Can you turn that off?

I'm trying to raise.

Shhh!

Josh!

The village of Piffling Vale is gripped between the toned thighs of terror that constitute Octavia Blimp's pages of appropriated steamy shenanigans.

Appropriated?

That's right.

Appropriated.

It appears that some readers may already be intimately familiar with the contents of her novel, and the question on everybody's lips is, how did my Skundalians get found out?

Life is so cruel.

Here to shed some light is Piffling's resident Snoop, Agatha Doyle.

Welcome to the show.

Delighted to be here.

Blimp is good again.

No, no, no, no.

Miss Doyle, who is Octavia Blimp?

Well, I'll tell you who she isn't.

That sounds like it'd take quite a long time.

It won't.

For you see, there is nobody on Piffling who goes by either of those names.

So they could be on another island altogether.

Correct?

Yes!

But I doubt it.

No!

I think it is a person from this island writing under a pseudonym.

Well, now I'm confused.

You said you'd tell us who it isn't, but if it's someone using a fake name, then you can't even tell us that.

Well, I have managed to rule some people out already.

Myself, for example.

But I'd like to reassure everyone listening, if indeed anyone is, that the culprit will be found, or my name isn't Agatha Doyle.

Does that mean Agatha Doyle is a fake name, too?

No,

but it does mean that I'm about to head straight to the Piffling Royale.

Why?

I understand that every Thursday they show films of a decidedly French nature.

Exactly the sort of thing to influence our naughty author.

When I find out who's been going there refers to it, I expect the list of suspects will be considerably narrowed down.

Hey, don't you go to the cinema with girls now?

Shut up, I'm hyperventilating!

Best of luck, Miss Doyle.

And before you go, we're about to play a round of pin the tale to the raunchy.

I'll read a titillating tidbit from Scandalians, and you listeners at home, try to guess which of your friends it refers to.

Is that legally acceptable?

Let's find out.

Antigone,

did you write this book?

No.

Antigone!

Antigone!

That book we wrote together has gone wrong!

Of course that you wrote it!

Flippy Nora, this is brilliant.

It is not brilliant because my co-author stole all his exceedingly intimate stories from real-life actual people who aren't happy about it.

I was wondering where I got all the stories from, and it was only today that I realised from confessions.

From confessions?

Do you think the Pope will mind?

Who cares?

You not only wrote a book about other people's sex lives, but you broke all number of confidences to do it.

If this gets out, nobody will ever confide in me again.

I'll be defrocked, just like every character in the book.

And Agatha Joy is about to go to the cinema to find out the names of every regular Thursday night customer.

Oh, that's all right then.

I've only been once.

What about me?

Okay, you guys, relax.

When people find out I wrote this, they'll start to imagine all manner of things about me, and some of them might be right, but a lot of them will be wrong, and I don't want to think about anything at all ever again.

Look, it could still be all right, but we've got to act quickly, and we're going to need some help.

Nobody can help us now.

There's just one man who might.

No, but no, please.

No!

But why not?

Because I'm reading this book with my eyes as closed as they physically can be, and I'm appalled at you.

Madeline, have you seen this stuff?

No, you wouldn't want to.

Nah, it's great.

It's moving, but in a very specific way.

I'm not interested.

This Jack the Lad leads is like no one I've ever met, and I don't understand half the words anyway.

This is degenerate filth.

Yes, it is.

And we were jolly proud of it until half an hour ago.

We've changed the landscape of erotica forever.

The Reverend's right.

It might not be your cup of hot water, Rudyard, but to a lot of people, this kind of thing expresses an important and desperate need.

And what about fun funerals' needs?

This scandal could completely ruin us.

Antigone, you should be ashamed of yourself.

No, I will no longer be ashamed of doing two things that every person should have the right to do.

Think about sex, thank you, and express themselves creatively.

I don't do either of those things.

And nor should you have to, but don't turn your nose up just because we like to.

Well.

You both make a compelling case.

Yes, we do.

So you should tell Agatha Doyle you wrote the book.

No, we can't do that.

Then what do you expect me to do about it?

You're gonna help them Hindenburg the blimp.

These words, they mean nothing

if we could we'd have loved to write a follow-up and a follow-up to the follow-up and a spin-off to the follow-up

but

we can't

Antigone and I have talked about this and

our fling with Octavia Bimp has to end

so we need to kill her off and give her

a funeral.

You want me to bury a made-up person?

That's about the size of it, yes.

I mean, this will probably be the emptiest experience I've ever had, but I can't see another way forward.

Okay.

Hand me those books.

Why?

We're going to need something to pap the coffin.

And so the word got round that Octavia Blimp, notorious erotic author and one-hit wonder, had died of an overdose of royalties.

The village turned out in force to make sure that the story was true.

I can't believe our biggest funeral of the year is burying your stacks of shameless smut.

Now be quiet, Radjad.

We create art.

Toddlers can create art, Antiguini.

You don't see them asking you to bury a coffin full of books.

Still,

at least we look popular for once.

I'll say you do.

There you are.

I bet you wish you could be burying a great literary figure, eh?

I mean,

her book was entirely tasteless, but you can't deny it had impacted me.

Yeah, you're right.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little envious that somebody this high-profile slipped away under my nose.

How'd you get her?

She must have realized I'd do her justice.

You described her work as entirely tasteless.

I enjoy these charts.

I say, Antigone.

Time to get it over with, I think.

Do we.

do we have to?

Oh, they don't find out one way or the other.

Wish me luck.

Everybody,

in a moment, I shall ask you all to step outside with me to bid a fond and perhaps controversial farewell to Octavia Blimp.

But before we do, I should like to say that...

well,

Octavia Blimp seemed to come out of nowhere and plugged a hole in the bathtub of our lives that most of us never realized we needed filled.

And just as soon as the water in that bathtub began to rise, tingling us with her bubbly warmth, she was yanked sharply away.

And that warmth was drained before we ever had the chance to truly soak in it.

she made us feel giddy with excitement and potential.

As though, through her work, we could be who we needed to be.

I hope that feeling will linger beyond her passing.

And you know, folks,

I'm sure that it will.

For Octavia Blimp was truly a part of us.

She was everybody.

And yet, nobody.

And yet, perhaps, specifically, somebody.

Maybe two somebodies, tops.

But what I'm saying is,

we shall miss her.

And we shall look to the future.

Thank you.

As the crowd lingered to peer at the firmly closed coffin, the Reverend rejoined his co-conspirator.

For a moment, I thought you were about to make a confession of your own.

Yes, that would have been satisfying.

But as Moses may have said, you can't drink the sea and part it too.

You're right.

Better to let this one go.

Quietly.

Back to normal.

Back to the mortuary.

It was quite liberating, wasn't it?

For a while, that was near.

I'll say one thing.

If we do write another book together,

let's put our names on it.

Let's.

But,

aha, a new buzz was beginning.

So, Octavia Blimp was a real person, after all.

I'd love to have met her.

I read the book cover to cover six times.

Searching for clues as to her identity, you see.

And I have to say, it's a terrific read.

Yes, I don't usually read anything.

But the writing in this book was so eloquent, it created pictures in my head, almost like I wasn't reading at all.

She wrote some passionate prose, giving me my own idea for a novel.

And me about a woman who divides her life between doing things and having sex.

I want to write about a cinema projectionist who has an affair.

That was in Octavia's book.

Oh, damn, that was one on the idea.

Think of another.

You'll write one wonderful.

Yeah, we can.

I see it, Tiffany.

Do you hear me?

It sounds like we've kick-started a new wave of rebel writing.

We did make a difference, after all.

Yes, the whole village became inspired to write their own naughty books.

Even me.

Expect a vole in one to hit your kindles within the month.

And so Antigone was able to go on with an unfamiliar and deserved sense of personal satisfaction.

As she'd said, she'd made a difference.

And that was all that mattered.

Good evening, Herbert.

Herbert?

Herbert, where are you?

Are you in the auditorium, Herbert?

Hey, I'm Sydney.

Oh, there you are.

It's our very first sell-out.

I'm bound to get ideas from this.

Me too.

You know, they're showing them every Thursday.

Oh, my God.

Season tickets for everyone.

Come along, Miss Fun.

I'm sure we can squeeze you in stuff like that.

Oh, wow.

Oh,

God.

Alter Ego was written by James Hamilton and James Huntrods and was performed by Felix Trench as Ruddiard, Beth Eyre as Antigone, Tom Crowley as Eric, Kiera Baxendale as Georgie, Andy Seacombe as Reverend Wavering, Andy Hamilton as Herbert Koff, Alana Ross as Jennifer Delacroix, Alison Skielbeck as Agatha Doyle, Sean Baker as Mare Desmond Desmond, Holly Campbell as Tanya, Pip Gladwin as Bill, and Belinda Lang as Madeline, with additional voices by Holly Campbell and Pip Gladwin.

Original music composed by James Whittle.

The programme was recorded at the Art Space Studios and was produced and directed by Andy Goddard and John Wakefield.

The Fable and Folly Network, where fiction producers flourish.

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