Joannie Taylor (‘Nan’) from the Catherine Tate Show is visiting Australia to spend some time with her grandson, Jamie, who has got a student visa to study at Rooty Hill University. On campus, Jamie has joined the Young Labor Club, and has invited a few of his new chums over to meet Nan. Upon reflection, this was not a good idea.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with the character of “Nan”, here’s an excerpt. However, if you’re a wowser, don’t go any further, as it contains very strong language. Oh, and by the way, if you’re a wowser, you shouldn’t be on this blog anyway – so rack off, lol!
Jamie has taken Nan down to the Rooty Hill RSL (‘Revolting Seniors Lounge’) for her to have a go on the pokies. To give Nan a treat wasn’t Jamie’s motive, however. Shortly before this, Nan had, in her own unique way, been taking the mickey out of his Young Labor comrades, and they didn’t know how to take her. So, he walked her down to the RSL to give them a break. The pokies room is packed, so Nan and Jamie wait until two regulars, Alf and Bert, who both have dodgy prostates, get up to spend a penny, and they pinch their seats. Nan and Jamie have momentarily forgotten about the prior tension and are well-ensconced at the adjacent pokie machines.
Nan: You come up to see me, son, didn’t ya? I noticed that!
[Jamie’s disappointment at Nan’s previous behaviour in his flat, however, is still latent below the surface. If the truth be told, he continues to fume at the treatment Nan meted out to his new pals.]
Jamie: Nan, I didn’t come up to see you...You came out to Australia to see me – so behave yourself or it’ll be the shortest trip of your life...And, to be honest, Nan, I wasn’t very impressed by your attitude to my new friends...
Nan: Oh, take a facking chill pill, you! Anyway, the snotty-nosed little gits should go and get a facking job...hehhhhhhhhhhhhh...
[Jamie rolls his eyes to the heavens, but can’t help noticing some of the punters vacating the seats at the nearby pokie machines, obviously aghast at Nan’s bad language. He decides to go up to the bar to order some food. Nan wants bangers n’ mash, or steak n’ kidney pie, or some other English delicacy. Meanwhile, whilst Jamie is at the bar, Nan happily plays the pokies, making her chronic reflux “huuuuup” noises. After a while, Jamie returns, but is bereft of any typical English culinary fare.]
Nan: A pizza!! A facking pizza!! You wanna give me a facking bilious attack, or somefing?
Jamie: But Nan, it’s all they had...have a bite...go on...you’ll really like it...
Nan: Nah, son...I don’t touch that Italian muck – ever since that bint, Nana Mouskouri, pinched me name...What a facking liberty!!!
Jamie: Erm...Nan...I think she was Greek...
Nan: Same difference, son – they all look facking Greek to me...hehhhhhhhhhhhhh...
[At that moment, in walks Tony Abbott, who is meeting a scheduled appointment to address a gathering of the Revolting Peoples Army who normally frequent the Rooty Hill RSL. Wearing his customary budgie smugglers, Tones glances around, failing to hide his obvious disappointment at the paucity of the punters. However, he momentarily gathers his thoughts, mounts the podium, grabs the mic and begins his address.
In his spiel, Tones rabbits on about a few issues, mainly to do with boats and how we are getting duded big time by Malaysia. Nan and Jamie are only half-listening, as Jamie is enjoying his pizza, and Nan is eagerly awaiting the jackpot. However, at about the fiftieth mention of boats, Nan’s attention is finally grabbed. Typical of the Barmy Army, she can’t resist a sledge.]
Nan: Hallo sailor!...hehhhhhhhhhhhhh...
[Tones ignores this preposterous sleight on his masculinity and keeps on speaking to the ever-dwindling number of patrons.]
Jamie: Nan! Stop shouting out – you’ll get us barred and I haven’t finished my pizza yet...
Nan: Oh, he’s such a nice man, isn’t he son...you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s Prime Minister some day...
[Nan talks so loud, even Tones up on the podium can hear her. Chuffed at such high praise, he carries on with his talk and, for once, changes the subject onto something else – unemployment. He says we need to send all the lazy bastards to Woop Woop to pick cactuses and herd wild pigs. At the mention of unemployment, Nan’s ears prick up.]
Nan: Well said, old son!! And while you’re at it, keep me grandson here in mind, cos he ain’t got a job, y’see...
Jamie: Nan!! Why do you keep saying that – I’ve told you a thousand times I’m a student...
Tones: Bravo, madam...I’m glad you agree with me on how despicable these unemployed bludgers are...I’m glad we can rely on the vote of the elderly like your good self...
[If Tones, upon reflection, admitted that uttering phrases such as, “shit happens”, “that’s bullshit”, and “I’m really good at people skills”, wasn’t the smartest thing to do, upon further reflection he was to realise that referring to Nan as ‘elderly’ was as foolhardy as General Custer marching into the Little Big Horn saying, “Injuns? What Injuns?”
Nan is sitting there like a volcano ready to erupt. And Jamie can’t do or say a thing to calm the situation, as he has a gob-full of pizza. Initially, she vents her spleen on Jamie.]
Nan: What a load of old shit!! What a facking liberty!!! Who does this clown think he is, referring to me as old...a has-been...a facking wash-up!!
[Nan then turns her guns on Tones.]
Nan: Hey you!! My late ‘usband used to wear a pair of budgie smugglers like those...
Tones: Did he indeed, madam...Well, he must have been a man of exquisite taste...ho...ho...
Nan: Yeah, but at least my ‘usband’s fitted ‘im...hehhhhhhhhhhhhh...And while you’re at it, sunshine...you wouldn’t be a German by any chance?
Tones: No, not at all, madam...
Nan: Nah, I thought not – cos even the facking Germans had the decency to wear their ‘elmets on their ‘eads...hehhhhhhhhhhhhh...
[Tones is getting worried, as the old crone is scaring many of his audience away, and there is virtually no-one left to listen to his message. He tries to smooth Nan’s ruffled feathers.]
Tones: Erm...madam...I couldn’t help noticing that English accent...actually, I spent some time over there doing my studies...
Nan: Yeah, now that you mention it, me old china, I recognise your boat-race now – you’re Elsie Potter’s son from the flat below me...Yeah, I remember you now...you ‘studied’ at the Fulham Road Tech and even that dopey American exchange student, Bart Simpson, got more marks than you...hehhhhhhhhhhhhh...
[At this stage, the RSL has emptied, and Tones decides to cut his losses and shoot through. Nan, looking immensely pleased with herself, gets back to plying the pokie machine with coins. However, the News comes on the idiot box and the barman turns up the volume, to catch up on the day’s events. The headline story is about Julia Gillard’s state visit to the Old Dart. Nan, distracted by the noise, glances up at the telly and, as a Pom, and not knowing Julia Gillard from a bar of soap, lets out another one of her maniacal cackles.]
Nan: Oh, ‘ave a look!! The facking Concord’s landed...what a conk...why, son, it makes the snoz on that girl you brought to see me at the ‘ospital look like a facking pimple...A facking nose like that needs shooting, it does...hehhhhhhhhhhhhh...
Jamie: Nan! Stop! That’s the Australian Prime Minister – you’ve got to be more respectful in public, or you will get deported and it will be your own fault...
PM (on telly): And I would like to offer my support to all those unfortunate British people who continue to suffer under the jackboot of the Cameron Tory regime...
Nan: Oh, and she’s facking Welsh, n’all...It’s bad enough having a nose that big, but being Welsh – its even worse than having double facking pneumonia...hehhhhhhhhhhhhh...
[Jamie’s Young Labor sensitivities are outraged by Nan’s deplorable bogan conduct, but, suddenly, a cunning plan hatches in his head.]
Jamie: Nan, I know you’re only out here for a few weeks this time, sooooo...why don’t you come out again, say...in about two and a half years, and I can bring you around all the polling booths in Warringah on the day of the General Election...I reckon that if you can do half as good a job of scaring away the Liberal voters as you did here at the RSL today, then old hairy-chest will lose his deposit...You would be like one of those Trojan Horses...whaddya think?
[Although she would never admit it, Nan would love to have another opportunity to visit Australia. As is her wont, her mood changes quicker than Tones’ weathervane in an election campaign.]
Nan: Son, now didn’t I tell ya that Prime Minister of yours was a lovely girl...now didn’t I, son?...Oh, and that reminds me, son...and talking about facking foreign animals...while you’ve been stuffing your face with pizza, my gastric juices tell me that I could eat a facking horse...And after that, and as I’m feeling lucky, we’ll put a few shekels on the nags...I gotta get the money up for me fare somehow...hehhhhhhhhhhhhh...huuuuuup...
