Shaun and Quigley by Baden

Quigley there, a skull tentacle careening over his sweaty brow, which brow threatens to trap it in its sticky embrace. Would be a pity as this particular lock, longer and more adventurous than any other is his most lively appurtenance, physical or mental, his thin body being uninspiringly limp, hardly more than a prop for the large nose and angular ears, and his demeanour only as animated as required to produce the banalities of a primetime TV host. Let's not even bother exploring the inner mental wardrobe, no more (and probably less) attractively kitted out. So, the hair flits and his mouth pops an inquiry of familiar enterprise.

“Any new songs for us, Shaun?”

Shaun says nothing. Quigley sits still. The studio lights shine in his eyes. He feels more uncomfortable than usual. Shaun doesn’t look at him. Shaun seems to be looking into the lights. He isn't blinking. Quigley wonders if Shaun is conscious.

He knows Shaun is hardly a natural at the interview game, his fitful mouth farts crawl forth like exhausted crabs from holes in the mud. With effort, there's meaning to be had but relations to words seem incidental, the most captivating element usually not the sounds but the thing producing them—mesmerising that something that damaged can produce audio. And with no audio, you feel compelled to test the pulse. The eyes are open but vacant, the skin old paint, ancient whitewash flecked and mottled on a waxen mug crowned with tufts of hair that sprout too from pudgy ears and nose. Time is not Shaun's friend. Time has puked all over Shaun, digested him, and now leers over him about to suck up the remains. In his jumble of disgust, Quigley fears that any pause may be permanent. And a part of him hopes it is.

Now Shaun turns to Quigley, his face a muddled cheese of creamy pocks. The teeth, multicoloured forts, jut out obliquely, flecked with blackened windows of bacterial hoardes. Shaun stares and Quigley's stiff frame wobbles in the bright, wobbles a smile, breaks the air that way, softly wobbling silent groans of inadequacy through him. Fidgeting, Quigley almost scratches his balls (on live TV!) and the awareness squeezes a flush of embarrassment. He jerks his stray hand from his crotch.

Shaun sees and gives his hissy laugh. Quixotic Shaun, jester Shaun, helpless, seething, child-monster, Shaun. The laugh pisses out his toothless mouth, a vicious mirth sprinkling its stink–whiskey, cigarettes, beans. Now, under the lights, Quigley is afraid. The audience smell it, smell him, the child in the man, sweating in silence.

Shaun’s mouth jerks into life, “Were ye lookin’ for yer balls, Quigley?”

The audience roar raucously and Quigley fixes a strained grin.

Shaun, animated now, pushes himself towards Quigley “That reminds me of a story of when I had a wank onstage. It was to help me hit a high note”.

“Well now, Shaun…”

“But I’m not sayin’ you were tryin’ to have a wank, hsssss.”

Shaun collapses in fits of mirth.

Quigley hears himself asking desperately.

“So, what happened then, Shaun?”

“I hit the fookin' note didn't I, hssssss.”

“Very good, very good, Shaun.”

“Yeah, a wank is great when all you want is a wank as me old da used to say. The wanker….” Shaun trails off.

The audience's titters are subsiding. Quigley notices owl eyes of disapproval among some. He wonders whether cutting to ads would help but Shaun stands up and announces.

“I have a new song for ye.”

The audience applauds obligingly.

“Well Shaun, that, that’s…” Quigley begins, terrified.

“Yes, it fookin' is. Now listen!” Shaun takes a deep breath and looks as if he’s about to sing then breaks off suddenly.

“I forgot to tell ye. It’s about yer man here,” he says pointing to Quigley. “Hssss.”

Quigley. Reflexive grin. Bowels roping themselves into nooses.

Shaun sings in clearly improvised melody:

“A wanker like me da
called me for a chat
on his wanker’s show
how about dat?
I did it for the money
as everybody does
but swore I’d fuck it up
Just for the lolz
He helped me along
when he tried to scratch his balls….”

Half the audience are laughing along uproariously while a growing number are murmuring their distaste. Quigley, in a panic, signals to the producer to cut to ads.

Shaun sits down, arranges himself deftly, and stares at Quigley.

“Why’d ye cut me off.”

“Well, Shaun…”

“Your show is shit. I was trying to liven it up.”

Shaun’s newfound perspicacity takes Quigley off guard.

“There's guidelines on language and eh, well, I was thinking when we resume–we've got two and a half minutes–if we could just..”

“It’s not for them, ya fuckwitt. It’s for you. I came here to save you. I’m your Jesus. You’ve been dying all these years. I’ve come down from the cross to bring ya back to life.”

The disconnect between this mad clarity and Shaun’s ruined doughy features is so disconcerting, Quigley considers he may be suffering auditory hallucinations. With the mics off, the audience can'’t hear a thing but are watching quizzically.

“D’ya want to be a patsy all yer life, Quigley?”

A woman runs onstage and grabs Shaun’s leg.

“Get off me, ya feckin’ eejit.”

“Listen Quigley, time’s running out. This is how it’s going to be. You can have compos mentis me or compost mental me–I’ll go even madder than you thought I was and take a shit right here on the stage the minute the cameras come back.”

“Compos mentis!”

“But then I ask the questions. You just sit back and go with the flow, buddy.”

“It’s not… That’s not…”

Shaun stands up and starts to take his belt off.

“1 minute to live”, a voice shouts.

“Keep the pants on. Jesus. Fuck. OK!”

The woman clinging onto Shaun's leg looks up at Quigley reproachfully.

“Mind your language. Show some respect.”

“I told you to get off”, says Shaun, shaking his leg fom her grip, tying his belt, and sitting down.

“30 seconds!” someone calls.

The woman scrambles back to her seat.

“Just follow my lead, Quigley. I'll make you a star. Hssss.”

The show resumes with Shaun addressing the cameras.

“Things are going to be a little different tonight folks, ladies and gentleman, respected viewing audience, TV lovers, scum. I’m the guest but I’ll be asking the questions. Quigley here, your beloved host of many years, absolute gentleman, all round good egg, and disgusting capitalist tool has agreed to humour me in this endeavour and for that let’s all give him a big round of applause.”

A scatter of confused claps ensues.

“Diving straight in: Quigley, why did you invite me on this show?”

“Shaun, everyone loves you and…”

“Bollocks. You know what, don’t worry, Quigley, I’ll do the answers as well. You invited me on this show because despite the fact that I’ve been an apparent catatonic wreck for years, a human fungus on the verge of terminal disintegration, that’s what makes good TV, yes? The freak makes good TV, right? The carefully packaged commodified dirt bag celebrity fuck-up presented for the pleasurable dissection and consumption of the ignoramuses who spend their precious non-working hours watching el idiot boxo, correct?”

“Shaun…”

“Shut up, Quigley, you worm. If you were ever half a man, you’d have kicked me in the nuts before I even started this speech. The only people worse than you are your audience. I’ve a right mind to take a shit right here in contravention of our previous agreement as my comment on your collective intellect. I spent years acting the zoned-out drug-addled celebrity to get you fuckers out of my head and something better in it. And while you’ve been slobbering over my apparently rotten barely-living corpse, I found it. I’ve read history, I’ve read politics, I’ve read philosophy, I’ve read literature, and I’ve come to the conclusion that ye’re all a shower of pricks, the whole lot of ye! You’re a bunch of zombies incapable of believing anything other than the satisfaction of your animal needs can make you happy. You’re insects and parasites and the world would be a better place if none of ye ever existed! Death to consumerism! Death to TV! And death to ye all!”

“Go on Shaun, ya good thing!” the woman who grabbed our man’s leg shouts.

“Shut up, you muppet!” Shaun shouts back.

“Anyhow, what makes even better TV than me pretending to be a subhuman wreck and why your dick of a producer hasn’t cut me off yet is me standing here abusin’ you freaks. Tellin’ the truth. The truth is TV. We’re all fuckin’ TV. That's what you've reduced us too. But I’m not bitter. I’m a truth teller, yeah, but also, more importantly, a vessel of love. I can’t save ye all but I’ve come to save Quigley from himself and from ye vipers. Quigley, I’ve watched ya for years. You’re a spanner playing the role of a hammer, my friend, and it’s killin’ you. You remind me of meself, kid. It took me years to discover me as an artist. I was a spanner too but this fucked up capitalist shitshow we call modern society kept giving me nails to bang into holes. You’re a spanner trying to bang nails into holes, Quigley, and you have been all your life! It’s time now to find a nut to get a grip on. At last and for once in your life be yourself! Let’s find that nut! Come on folks, a bit of encouragement!”

The audience cheer.

“Go on, Quigley, ya spanner!” someone shouts.

Quigley remains frozen in his chair, inwardly and incessantly praying Shaun keeps his pants on.

Shaun moves towards him and kneels down.

“Take my hand, Quigley.”

“What… ?”

“It’s time.”

Shaun grabs Quigley’s limp hand in his and jerks himself and Quigley up. Quigley stands dazed and Shaun marches him to the nearest camera.

“This is a man!” Shaun shouts into the lens. “Fuck ye all and what ye’ve done to him but he’s free now! He’s free! Say it with me, Quigley! We’re free!”

“Eh… Eh…”

“Say it!” Shaun’s hands reach menacingly for his belt.

“We’re free!” Quigley croaks.

“That’s it, Quigley, we’re free and fuck ye! We’re free and fuck ye!”

“We’re free and… and… “

“Come on!”

“Go on, Quigley, ya good thing!” the leg grabber runs onstage and clings to his knees.

“We’re… we’re…”

“GO ON!”

“WE’RE FREE AND FUCK YE!” Quigley screams with sudden and violent release.

“YES!” shouts Shaun and raises their arms together, shaking them menacingly before spitting a huge glob of snot into the nearest camera.

Quigley collapses onto the leg grabber underneath him.

“Brilliant!” a voice shouts from offstage and a shirted man in glasses runs out to embrace Shaun. “Brilliant, fucking brilliant!”

Quigley jerks spasmodically.

The man looks down at him. “Sorry, bud, need to know an’ all that”

“You… you fucker, Simon. You… My… My lawyers...” Quigley splutters.

“We ran it by our lawyers first, Quigley. It’s legit. Check your contract. Which, by the way, isn’t being renewed next season.”

Quigley stares, an odd blankness overcoming him.

“We wanted you to go out on a high, my man. And you did. I mean, the show did, and you’re the show. Well, were. We’ve found your replacement.”

“Sorry, bud.” Shaun interjects. “Looks like I passed the audition, wha'? Hssss.” He turns distractedly to the leg grabber “You. My dressing room. Five minutes.''

Quigley remains frozen on the floor. The producer leans over, prods him curiously.