Scenes From a Marriage —- COMPETITION!!!

Posted by Jules on October 20th, 2008

 

madonna-divorce

 

Setting:  Georgian Town House, London England.  Main Hall. Enter Stage right man in traditional hunting attire.  Enter stage left emaciated, pale, caucasian female wearing baseball cap and tiny leotard.  They appear surprised to see each other.

Ritchie:  “Oh it’s you.”  Visibly musters forces.  “What shall we do tonight Madge?  I thought we could read to the children – couple of chapters of Rob Roy should do the trick - have a kitchen supper of bangers and mash washed down with a bottle of Bolly then settle down to watch EastEnders or a Black Adder omnibus.  Up for it old girl?”

 

Madonna, with half-disguised pity:  “Are you out of your mind?  I exercise for four hours a day, eat nothing but mung beans and water, spend what precious hours remain in MY day studying Kaballah and you expect me to read children’s stories?  THAT’S WHAT NANNIES DO GUY!”

 

Ritchie (sighing):  “Yes I suppose so but that small dark one is especially cute.”

 

Madonna:  “Oh yes, I’d forgotten about him….Who’s looking after him?

 

Ritchie:  “Nanny no. 7 that tribal girl you brought back with us. She built an African hut this afternoon out of paper maché using her own spit, marvellous, bloody marvellous.  Damian is coming around tomorrow with some Savannah themed swatches for the interior and Clarissa wants you as a double spread in Vogue, African Mummy in Chelsea slant.”

 

Madonna barks into mobile:  “Get me Jean-Paul, I need a leopard print corset pronto”.  Slams phone shut.  “Anyway Guy get a grip, I have a world tour to organise and another two hours of cardio followed by an internal lavage.  AND if that scrounging brother of mine calls from America whilst you are chowing down on half a pig tell him…”

 

Ritchie:  “You know I don’t like to talk to your brother Madge, it…..does nothing for my manhood…and that accusation in The Times calling me a homophobe was way out of order i’m actually very tolerant of poofters…and whilst we are on the subject …I still don’t think it’s too late to change Rocco’s name to Robbie after that great Scottish manly hero Robert Burns….”

 

Madonna reverting to Italian-American Bronx speak: “Not that again!  How many times Guy?  How many times?  You go over and over like a stuck record.  It’s Rocco not Robbie.”

 

……….OVER TO YOU DEAR READER,  WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?  ANY SUGGESTIONS?

Prize for the best ending!!!

Most Popular Posts 11 Comments

Martin said,

October 21, 2008 @ 12:15 am

….And they all lived happily ever after

….Madge admitted she’d been moonlighting as Dame Edna’s sidekick

….Guy admitted that he’d not been thinking too clearly when he claimed his first name was Lionel

….Rocco claimed the sex change after working with Kenny Everett was absolutely necessary

….Madge admitted she was really called “Bob” and was in love with Percy

…..and why am I still awake at gone 2 in the morning, reading emails and adding comments to the best blog around – perhaps being 7 hours behind home helps…..I need a BEER. :-)

Nadia said,

October 21, 2008 @ 8:11 pm

No fair, Martin, giving FIVE answers!

Here’s mine single attempt:

Ritchie: “Right, Madge, either we call him Robbie or I want a divorce!”

Hmpf, that’s not even funny… oh well, guess I’m tired too, even if I can’t blame it on jet lag. Must be the beer I’ve just finished…

Nadia said,

October 21, 2008 @ 8:12 pm

Can’t spell, either. I did mean “Here’s MY single attempt” …

Oh dear.

Sally Philpot said,

October 22, 2008 @ 2:04 pm

Exit: Madge
Enter: Nanny No 7. Massa Ritchie, Whered your mudder?
Ritchie: Pardon
Nanny No 7: Whered your mudder?
Ritchie: How many times have I got to tell you she’s not my mother, She’s my wife.
Nanny No7: Massa Ritchie- you jokey with me. You know I cannot rattle your bones when your mudder here. When she go?
Ritchie: Heaving a sigh of relief – Im off down the pub.

From: The Dorset Girls.

Graham said,

October 23, 2008 @ 6:32 am

…At that very moment, a Boeing 747 cargo plane taking off from Stanstead loses power and crashes on central London killing the loathsome occupants of a 10-bedroom Georgian townhouse in Marylebone.

Angus said,

October 24, 2008 @ 8:40 am

Ritchie (reverting his mockney persona) : Listen you yank tart, I wouldn’t call my dog ‘Rocco’, never mind a nipper. It’s time you learned who’s boss in this house. I want you off the kabbalah, the weights, and the hormones. You’re getting hairs in places where a woman shouldn’t have them.
Madge : Where’s that ?
Ritchie : On your B*****ks !

Old Joke but still one of my favourites.

Jules said,

October 24, 2008 @ 1:13 pm

Good one Angus and welcome to the site! Hope to see you as a regular. The competition is hotting up everyone and you are allowed several attempts…er…Nadia?

Ghinch said,

October 24, 2008 @ 3:23 pm

An Immaterial Girl.

In a Marylebone townhouse, Madge, a faded pop singer, woke early – just before noon. She walked the hundred yards across her bedroom to the gilt and onyx bathroom, stopping half-a-dozen times to air kick box and punch. In front of the full-length mirror she stood naked caressing and admiring her body. It was exactly as she always hoped it would be at 50, Jack Palance with tits.

Somewhere in a Wiltshire manor, Guy, Madge’s ex and B movie director, had spent a restless night eating cold toad-in-the-hole and drinking a bottle of single malt. He wanted to put the past behind him, forget the weird wife and colourful kids and concentrate on a new blockbuster B movie about London gang life. How many possibilities were there for a screenplay in which Vinnie Jones slams a villain’s head in the car door or Ray Winstone kicks four men in the testicles?

In the pretty village of Founex, a handsome but portly writer and social observer struggled to comprehend why two jejune and obsequious people a thousand miles away should be taking up so much of his time and media space. He slowly lifted the loaded Smith and Wesson to his temple…..

Jules said,

October 24, 2008 @ 3:49 pm

Jejune…love it.

Nadia said,

October 24, 2008 @ 6:13 pm

Can I finish one?

He slowly lifted the loaded Smith and Wesson to his temple….., hesitated, lowered the gun and shot the telly instead, imploding the screen on which the she-Jack bounced from car to car into a supermarket with Justin, somehow saving the world.

Bits of screen scattered around the room. The handsome yet portly writer sighed, put down the S&W, shrugged into his coat, and went out to wander around and admire the pristine pastoral picturesqueness of his village in the evening. When one lives in Founex, the rest is really just noise…

Diana said,

October 26, 2008 @ 6:38 pm

Great end to the story Nadia. You’re not going to win this one too?? Just wondering if “Ghinch” is Graham in disguise having another attempt?

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