Secombe
Dr Ned Seagoon
Old Regius Professor

Milligan
Moriarty - patient
Spriggs - Registrar
The Famous Mr Eccles - brain surgeon
Minnie Bannister- professor
Dr Pinkerton - young doctor with stutter
Throat - hospital lift attendent

Sellers
Grytpipe-Thyne - Drug Rep
Bluebottle - East Finchley Medical Student
Dr Bloodnock - Gastroenterologist
Henry Crun - Professor
Willium Mate - Porter
Red Hairy McLegs - patient
Anaesthetist (standard announcing voice)

Ellington
Mr Ellington - Orthopaedic surgeon

Grams = pre-recorded sound effect

 

This is the BBC Light Programme.
 

(heart monitor played at various speeds before slowing down ending with a duck quack)
 

Quick! No time to waste, folks. The BBC is having a cardiac arrest! Get it to hospital at once!
 

(ambulance noise, followed by horns and crash)
 

Oh no! It's crashed! (sobs) Is there nothing more that can be done for the BBC, Dr Seagoon?
 

I'm afraid not, Wal. Please place an obituary in the Radio Times and a copy of the Lancet on expenses.
 

Gone! The Great BBC gone! And never called me Mother...
 

(raspberry)
 

Never mind. Instead, pull your stethoscope out of Eccles' socks, button up your concrete white coat and kindly diagnose this week's disease of Spike Milligan's brain.
 

Ladies, Gentlemen and those on the waiting list, we present The Case of the Missing Drug Chart, a sizzling medical drama.
 

(under) Oh ho!
 

(Dramatic chords)
 

It was the year twenteen hundred and quid and young Ned Seagoon has taken up his first consultant's post at the renowned St Spon's Hospital, West Plin.
 

Yes, I, Dr Ned Seagoon, MB ChB, OBE, FRCP and Order of the Zinc tendon hammer had risen yet another step upwards in my glittering medical career, making my voice heard in academic circles...
 

(aside) Usually by sleep-talking during Grand Round.
 

Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat (tailing off into chicken noises)
 

Looks like another case of chickenpox.
 

Lies, all lies. I had just started my first ward round on the acute medical wards of this glittering NHS hospital.
 

(huge hacking coughs and wheezes, occasional screams)
 

Ah, good morning team. House Officer Pinkerton, how was the night take?
 

Ahhhhh, the, ahhhh, night take, ahhhh, it was, wellllll, ahhhh, sir, it was, aaaaaaa, well, it was....
 

Out with it man!
 

Eeeeeaaaaahh, it was, aaaaaaaaaaaa.....
 

(Collapses on the floor)
 

Curse these new Housemen; no stamina. In my day we had to work one in needle nardle noo shifts and never slept at night. By then it was too dark to sleep.
 

Too dark to sleep, Jim. Too dark to sle-eeeep!
 

Registrar Spriggs, kindly stop repeating what I say and present the patients.
 

All right Jim, all right Ji-iiiim. This here is Mr Cyril Splunge, a 53 year old elephant charmer from East Acton.
 

And what has he got?
 

We think he's got the Nadgers with a trace of the Spon Plague, Jim.
 

Have you done the necessary investigations?
 

Yes, Jim. They show he's got feet at the end of both legs, and knees half way up. Half way u--uuuup!
 

Gad! Do you think it could be genetic? Is there a family history?
 

Yes, Jim. His great uncle's knees fought at the Battle of Waterloo and his father's feet were at the Somme.
 

He must have been a foot soldier. Hahahha! Foot soldier. Hahahha! Get it? Hahahaha! Must have been, hahhaha! (notices no-one else laughing) huuummm.
 

I don't wish to know that, Jim.
 

Neither did the audience. Now, Mr Splunge, can you hear me?
 

(Fred the Oyster sound effect)
 

Don't you take that tone of voice with me! You're in here to get better. Spriggs?
 

Yes, Jim?
 

Kindly discharge this man out of the nearest Level 7 window.
 

Right-o, Jim.
 

(scream and plummeting sound)
 

Well, that seems to have sent his fever down a bit. (orchestra: TADA chord) Who's next?
 

An interesting case, Jim. Interesting Ca-aaaase! This is Mr Red Hairy McLegs, a 128 year old Scottish knotted string consultant and part time salmon masher.
 

(Grams: bagpipes playing in background) There's nout wrong, with me, Laddie. It's all been a terrrr-ible mistack.
 

My, what an interesting presentation. Sounds like a case of bagpipe dysphasia with added scrimsham and scramsham.
 

(Grams: bagpipes in background) What a loood of rubbish. (random Scottish-type mumbling) I've noot hearrrd anything more barrrrmy since I listened to your show last week, I tell ye.
 

Do you always speak with bagpipe-type music playing in the background?
 

(Grams: bagpipes in background) Aye, Laddie. I wear them for sentimental reasons, ye know, ach, ach.
 

(Grams: bagpipes in background) You poor, Scottish fool. Aarrrrgh! It's contagious! Quick! Do something, Spriggs!!
 

Yes, Jim! Yes Ji-iiimm! Nurse, get this man a haggis injection at once!
 

(Grams: bagpipes in background) Hurry! For the sake of Auld Lang Syne! (breaks into song)
 

(over Ned singing and bagpipes) Quickly, quickly now. Steady, steady, lads. Right, now, press the plunger...
 

(bagpipes slow down to a stop)
 

Ah, thank you. Just in time. Any later and I might have needed a sporranectomy. So, who's next on this fun-type ward round?
 

Aoooooowww!
 

The man in the slowly disintegrating bed was a stringy squarp of a man. He was the closest patient I'd seen to being dead while still having a pulse. He wore a knitted garlic beret and his steaming body left a trail of croissants as he tangoed around the nursing station. I'd met his type before, and so I delivered a British Empire-style blow to his jaw with my petrol-powered tendon hammer.
 

(thump, followed by shattering sound and tinkling)
 

Aooooowww! You swine! My teeth!
 

Let me do the talking, Moriarty.
 

You said that last week!
 

(slapstick)
 

Aayayayyaya! Sacré Fred! Sa Christi Nabolas!
 

Shut up, you Lurgi-ridden fool! Ah, Dr Seagoon, glad to see you.
 

The gentleman speaking was a tall, gaunt figure standing on a large mountain of copies of the BNF. He deftly laid out a tray of sandwiches and post-it notes, gave a smile that reached down to his immaculately polished verruca and took a long puff on his smoking handkerchief.
 

Do have a biro.
 

(chews and swallow) Ah, lovely. How much do I owe you?
 

No, no, you misunderstand, Neddie. These are all free pens. And there's more where that came from! Another?
 

Why not! (chews and swallows) Oh, happy days!
 

We've never had it so good! Another?
 

Oh, thank you (chews and swallows). Yes, we owe it all to the NHS. (Grams: Patriotic music starts playing in background) Yes, the great British Welfare State, Crown Jewel of the Empire. Free treatment for all, envy of the world, and my Alma Mater. How I love her, this magnificently funded Titan of enterprise and symbol of hope to all our brave citizens…
 

You silly, twisted boy, you!
 

Whatwhatwhatwhatwhat?
 

Another pen?
 

No thanks, I'm trying to give them up.
 

We'll see whether you have the willpower. I've tried and failed. And now to certain things. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hercules Grytpipe-Thyne, Drugs Rep to this scrotty hospital and illicit senna pod dealer. Do have a free pen.
 

No, I never have more than three before lunch.
 

Brave man. Now please turn your attention to this French-type patient. The man currently trying to dig his way out of his NHS dressing gown with a blunt toothpick is (and I quote from this copy of the BNF) the Compte de Jim Proctoscopy Moriarty, Legendary lab specimen producer by appointment to the GMC and only person in the world to have been cannulated in 100 places simultaneously.
 

Aooooowwww! The venflons, sapristi nadger. Mon pleasure, mon pleasure!
 

Do have a free pen.
 

No, thanks. I'll smoke my own.
 

Very well, you economical devil, you.
 

Thank you. Registrar, kindly give patient Moriarty his therapeutic OBE and oil painting of a bill of clean health.
 

Merki, merki, mon aim-eye.
 

Now, time and tide wait for no man. I must go and earn my salary by dispensing my healing skills and fine bedside manner on some other ward that is forever England.
 

You'll starve.
 

Aoooowww…
 

You fool, Moriarty! You know those "Aoooowws" cost the NHS money! Kindly desist before I defibrillate you with this church organ.
 

I'm sorry, Grytpipe. It's this NHS-type food. It's not fit for dogs.
 

Yes, that's why they give it to you, you steaming nit. Now, have you got that drug chart?
 

Yes. I hid it under my wig when the nurse was taking my temperature.
 

It must have been hell in there! Still, now we have the genuine article - an original drug chart signed by Alexander "Bugs" Fleming himself, written up for the world's only antibiotic treatment proof against the East Acton strain of the dreaded Spon Plague.
 

Excuse mon ignorance, Grytpipe, but how does this help our intensive care-type bank balance?
 

Because, you fool, while you were wallpapering your "Nil By Mouth" sign I broke into the microbiology labs and stole a Petri dish containing the East Acton Spon bacteria. Now we can infect whomever we want and no-body will ever know. And with this drug chart we will be the only people in the world who can supply the medication. Think of the money, Moriarty!
 

Money? Money!!! MONEY!!! Aoaoaoaoaoowww!!! MONEY!!! (random manic Moriarty-type noises)
 

He's having one of his fits again. Take that, you tachycardic steamer!
 

(bonk!)
 

Ahhhh. Thank you.
 

Quick, let's get out of here!
 

(Whoosh!)
 

Obviously time for rhinoplasty patient extraordinary, Mr Max "Conks" Geldray to play his Dutch National Health Ploogie.
 

MUSICAL INTERLUDE: MAX GELDRAY.
 

The Missing Drug Chart, 2nd inoculation. When the drug chart is discovered to be missing, Dr Seagoon is fast bleeped up to the ward.
 

(immensely fast bleeping noise)
 

(out of breath) Curse these National Health legs - not built to last for a whole Medicine ward round. Now, what requires my immediate attention here? Ah, it's Wal Greenslade, the ward pharmacist.
 

Dr Seagoon, sorry to have disturbed you from your busy brandy drinking…
 

(interrupting) Lies, all lies, I tell you…
 

Well, be that as it may, but I was just doing my own ward round, paying careful attention to my BNF, free with this week's Radio Times (and a jolly good read it is too, listeners) when I saw that Mr Splunge's drug chart was missing.
 

What nonsense! How could you see that it was missing. I mean, if it wasn't here, you couldn't see it to be missing, hahah, Wal. If it's not here, it can't be seen. Get it? (braying laugh) If it's missing it can't be seen to be missing, hahahah (notices no one else laughing) Huuumm!
 

I don't wish to know that.
 

Ying tong iddle i po!
 

GOOD!!!
 

Dr Seagoon, you misunderstand the seriousness of the situation. That drug chart was the very chart containing the world's only gold-plated prescription for the antibiotic to cure the East Acton Spon Plague. Without it, the whole of London could become infected.
 

Great leaping gollops of gringe!
 

And so you might rightly say. I also noticed that Mr Moriarty was missing from the red hot smoking remnants of his acute bed and that Mr Grytpipe-Thyne wasn't at the multidisciplinary meeting giving out free pens. The poor pathologists were starving without those pens to eat.
 

Those two villains must have stolen the Fleming drug chart. It's a possibility that Mr Splunge may have the Spon Plague, in which case he'll need that drug chart. We must after them at once! (orchestra: dramatic chords) But wait! Who will take Mr Splunge down for his MRI-type scan? Forward all Medical Students!
 

I heard you call me, my Capitaine. I heard you call ace medical student Bluebottle. (Aside) Pulls BNF out of pocket, readjusts cardboard and string stethoscope cut out of back of Cornflake packet and trips over extra large white coat reaching down to ankles. Yehe! Waits for audience applause. Not a sausage as usual. Thinks: It's a tough life in dis NHS-type game. Tries to hide behind Registrar in case gets asked a difficult question.
 

Little East Finchley over-caffeinated nervous wreck.
 

(Bluebottle-type squeak)
 

Take this Nadger-ridden patient down to MRI and report back later on whether he has the East Acton Spon Plague as well.
 

Yehe?!? What? Little me? Little, poor, ignorant Bluebottle-kins? Trusted with important patient-type worky? Little me? Expose-ed to de nasty Nadgers? Dere is no Nadgers in East Finchley! (Aside) Puts hands in pockets, transfers boiled sweet from pocket to gob and tries to hide behind orange badge on white coat. Does not notice dat is not boiled sweet but alcohol swab. Yehe!!! I don't like this game.
 

If you take this patient to MRI, I will give you this lead statue of a First Class Life Savers Certificate and a year's subscription to the BMJ.
 

Cor! Thinks: With dat type certificate dat student nurse Molly Knashers will think twice about me at de student ball. I shall give her de kiss of life! Tehee!!!! Aloud: I will do it, my Capitaine, I will! (Aside) Salutes smartly, clipping ear-hole with BNF, and follows patient on trolley, nearly stranj-gling self with tourniquet. Yehe!!!
 

Now quick! After Moriarty on this NHS trolley! Onwards!!!
 

(piano starts playing rapidly and fades into distance)
 

For the benefit of confused listeners I have been asked by the BBC to inform you that an NHS trolley does not make a sound like a piano. The truth is that we were unable to find an empty NHS trolley and were forced to use a private one instead. And now, to an important meeting of medical minds at the weekly Grand Round.
 

(quirky mad inventor-type scene changing music)
 

Random background mumbles with Secombe occasionally saying "Rhubarb", "Medical-type rhubarb", "rhubarb and medical custard" etc.
 

Mmm, mmm, mmm, (wheeze) Now then, medical members of the Rhubarb Society. We are gathered here today to discuss the interesting case of the Quoine that….(gasps in breathless dying-type manner)
 

(collapses on floor)
 

Ooooo, he's dead, Henry!
 

Ladies and gentlemen, the Regius Professor has just died.
 

(scattered applause and occasional hurrah)
 

We will donate his body to medical science and send a copy of the BNF to the widow as soon as the Trust budget allows. And now we must discuss this case of…
 

(tiger growling)
 

Henry! Heeen-ryyyyyyy!!! The tiger wants to go out!
 

Professor Min, control yourself. Whatever makes you think our tiger wants to leave the hospital?
 

He's just discharged himself.
 

(tiger growling)
 

What? In the lecture theatre? Get somebody in to clear up the mess.
 

Right-o, Henry buddy! I don't know why we keep a tiger in the hospital, buddy. It's not hygienic! We'll all be murdered in our beds!
 

It's to catch rats, Min. The tiger's here to catch naughty Spon Plague-spreading rats.
 

I don't know what you're talking about, buddy. There are no rats in this hospital!
 

That's because we've got the tiger, Min.
 

(tiger growling)
 

Ohaahahahhh!!! Down, you devil! Stop trying to jump on my lap!
 

Now then, we must discuss this interesting case of the Quoine that…
 

(sings modern melody-type rhythm) Yickapokapoka, yickaokakooo!!!!
 

Min, Min, Min! Stop that modern melody-type singing! You know it hasn't been licensed yet!
 

We've got to get modern, Henry! We're practising in the Dark Ages in this naughty hospital, buddy!
 

We can't get any more modern than we are already, Min Bannister! We have more leeches than any other hospital in England and, mmmmmmmhhh, by order of the Prime Minister himself, we serve nourishing brown Windsor soup for every hospital meal.
 

Ohhhhh! That's all very well, buddy, but what about the modern, rock-around-the-clock-type Evidence Base?
 

Ah, Min! It just so happens that the Famous Mr Eccles carried out a double blind modern trial just the other day.
 

(applause and bravos)
 

Wait, wait, wait! Pittlepoo! What were the results, Henry?
 

I don't know, Min. Mr Eccles said he couldn't see.
 

Was the patient blind as well?
 

Well, he had a telescope strapped to each ear. In the end we ran out of subjects, Min.
 

Why not use modern-type medical students, buddy?
 

Well, you just can't get them, you know. Can't get the medical students. You can't get them, you know. Anyway, and now to certain things. We must continue with the all-leather Grand Round. We had an interesting case of the Quoine…
 

(piano arriving from the distance and slows down to stop)
 

Whatever now?
 

It's me, folks. Where's my medical speaking trumpet? Calling all folks! Yes, folks, it's me, Dr Ned Seagoon!
 

(mad applause)
 

STOP!!!
 

(applause stops immediately)
 

Professor Crun, I have to announce that our gold plated, nickel inscribed Alexander Fleming drug chart has been stolen.
 

(loud mourning and sobbing)
 

Never mind, folks. I intend to catch the two villains who stole it: the steam Count Moriarty and the hospital drugs rep Mr Grytpipe-Thyne!
 

Mr Grytpipe-Thyne stole the drug chart? But what about the free pens, buddy?
 

Yes, what about the modern pens, buddy?
 

We'll starve without them, buddy.
 

I know, buddy, but we have to reclaim that drug chart. I believe the crinimals are hiding somewhere deep in the hospital. I need to find a man who knows the very bowels of St Spon's.
 

In that case you must see Dr Bloodnock.
 

Right! Away!
 

(piano starting and fading away)
 

And now we must discuss this interesting case of the Quoine…
 

random mumbling, leading into Orchestra: change of scene chords 

Meanwhile, in the Outpatients Department of St Spon's Hospital, Dr Dennis Bloodnock, the famous gastroenterologist and Army-trained coward, is hard at work in his clinic.
 

(Bloodnock introduction music)
 

(Bloodnock-type explosions)
 

Owowowoowowo!!! Arwoohohohh!!! Quick, Nurse, the screens! Ohhhhh! I've never known so bad a case! Those naughy Barium meals go straight through you, you know. I knew I should never have added the curry powder. Ohohohh! Abdul! Hand me me old gastroscopy saxophone!
 

(saxophone note)
 

Oh, that's better. And now to certain things. (Grams: scratchy pen writing noise) To Dr Bones, Consultant Radiologist, re: Mr Fred Nurke, 55 Cringe Street, London WC. Dear Dr Bones, I saw this patient today in my clinic and on examination found an anomalous mass in his waistcoat pocket. I should therefore be grateful if you would perform an urgent CT of his wallet, with a view to removal. The normal fee is enclosed in the plain wrappers. Dr Dennis Bloodnock, Consultant Gastroenterologist and retired Major in the 4th Army Medical Corp deserters…
 

(door knock)
 

Ohohohooh!!! Don't come in, don't come in! (aside) Now, where did I put that white coat? Just put me legs through the holes and… (aloud) Okay! Enter!
 

(door opening)
 

Ah, Dr Bloodnock…
 

How dare you…?
 

I heard you were in clinic today.
 

I felt no pain.
 

Listen, Bloodnock. I've heard you have connections with a lot of the staff in St Spon's…
 

Lies!!! All lies!!! I don't care what you've heard about that nurse on 7B, it's all lies! I've never been in that treatment room at night! I didn't even know they stocked alcohol jelly! Besides, we're just good friends.
 

Dr Bloodnock, I don't wish to know that!
 

Neither do I. Now, pray, pull up an endoscope and continue.
 

Thank you. Our Alexander Fleming-signed drug chart with the only prescription in the world for the antibiotic against East Acton Spon Plague has been stolen. I have a patient who may have the Spon plague and therefore we must find this chart at once before the disease spreads. I believe the villains are hiding somewhere in the hospital. Do you, with your network of contacts, know where these crinimals may be?
 

Well, if I were you, lad, I'd head down to Level 0.
 

You mean they always head to the bottom?
 

Well, I always do, ahem.
 

Wait a minute, Bloodnock. Wasn't it you, with your skilful, mysterious social networking, who persuaded Fleming to sign the drug chart for us in the first place?
 

Well, well, well…
 

I've had an idea. If I head after the criminals, could you ask Fleming to sign another drug chart for us?
 

I could… for a consideration.
 

I can give you the Hospital Trust's remaining annual budget of 37 simulation photographs of a porcelain model of a ten pound note, and the chairmanship of the GMC.
 

Never mind all that, just hand over the cash. (Grams: cash register) Oh, the American National Anthem, oh-ho!
 

Right! I must head for Level 0! Onwards, fine trolley!
 

(piano starting and fading away)
 

Ah, now he's gone, gather close dear listeners while I reveal the rest of the plot. The Fleming story is all a hoax and it was I, Dr Dennis Bloodnock, who signed the drug chart. Any fool knows there is no real cure for the East Acton Spon Plague so I just made up any old rubbish, hoping the drug chart would be auctioned. In fact, the drug chart is written up for Footo, the Wonder Boot Exploder. Now, then, I'll just write up a gold plated replica. Where's me old military BNF?
 

Meanwhile, Ned is waiting for a number 15 lift to take him down to level 0.
 

(door lift opening with ting)
 

Where to mate?
 

Level 0, please.
 

Right, mate.
 

(door lift opening with ting)
 

As I got out of the lift a terrible sight confronted me. A string of NHS elastic bands had been scattered across the corridor and there, lying in a puddle of steaming cough linctus and rubbing his bonce, was a man in a boiler suit and matching bow tie.
 

Ohooooooooooooh, mate…
 

Gad! Whatever happened here?
 

I woz nutted, mate. Oooohhhhhohoh.
 

Who are you?
 

I'm Willium, the Porter, mate.
 

Tell me, mate. Have you seen two felonious crinimals head this way on NHS feet?
 

I reckon I 'ave, mate. I woz 'ere cleanin' the old NHS dentures, mate, when two blokes comes dashin' out the lift towixt me on a two-seater wheelchair. The first bloke sings the Marseillese, clouts me over the nut with a bottle of claret and steams his way off. The second bloke, 'e stuffs me mouth full of pens and puts a copy of the BNF in me back pocket.
 

You lucky man - so many free pens.
 

But I'm on a diet, mate!
 

Yeees. Well, never mind. Which way did they go?
 

Towards the morgue, mate.
 

Thanks mate. I set off down the corridor, listeners, on foot as my trolley had run out of oxygen. I had barely rounded the nearest corner when…
 

Yim bam bala boo! Itchy kichy coo! Look where you going, cor blimey, or I amputate your knees.
 

Ah, Mr Ellington, the orthopaedic surgeon.
 

Me strong, me killum man with one hand, cor blimey.
 

While I sneak up on the crinimals, why don't you play your orthopaedic banjo and hip prosthesis.
 

Right mate!
 

MUSICAL INTERLUDE: THE RAY ELLINGTON QUARTET
 

Ray Ellington is now staying at the Merry Coffins Home for the terminally dead. We all wish him a speedy recovery. The Missing Drug Chart, 3rd Dose. Ned Seagoon is rushing towards St Spon's Hospital morgue, where strange sounds can be heard.
 

(random clattering noises)
 

Be careful, Moriarty, or you'll have us both out of this body bag.
 

Aoooww!
 

And put away your "Aoooooww" - you don't want a pathologist to get hold of it.
 

Ah, Grytpipe, why do you want me to hide in this dead-type body bag? I'm too young!
 

We'll soon cure that!
 

(slapstick)
 

Awauauauauaw!
 

Shut up, you garlic-encrusted nit! Didn't you hear from Greenslade that Neddie is on to us and is racing towards the morgue! All you have to do is pretend to be dead and he'll never notice.
 

But what about you, Grytpipe?
 

Never mind, Moriarty, I have a first class specimen jar ready to carry me out of the country. But first, we must preserve the drug chart. Quick! Engage your reeking Gallic brain to memorise the chart before I dissolve it in formaldehyde.
 

Okay! Hmmmmmmmm… Got it!
 

Right, see you in the cemetery after the post mortem.
 

(Whoosh! Followed by zip closing)
 

(muffled) Aooooowww…
 

Meanwhile, Ned, in the corridor, is just passing the MRI suite on the way to the morgue.
 

Hallo, folks. Yes, folks, I'm nearly at the morgue, folks. I was just about to call hospital security when…
 

(loud crumbling sound of a wall falling down)
 

You rotten swine, you deaded me! Oh, de pain! Oh, de indignity! Look - my cardboard stethoscope is ruined!
 

Dear little mortar-coated, battered medical student - whatever happened?
 

I was accompananinj Mr Splunge to his MRI-type scan like a happy-go-lucky patient-empathy student when ZIP! WHOOSH! PING! SPLOOOGIE!!! I was ripped off de floor by de dirty great magnet and hurled through dis brick-type wall! I was wearing a metal belt to hold up my well-presented, handsome young doctor type trousers (aside) really Dad's old pantaloons cut off at the knees. (out loud) Oh de shame! I shall never be able to look my friends in de face again at lunchtime.
 

Why not?
 

The magnet stretched me out. I'm now three feet taller!
 

Fear not, my brave fellow. We can always put you through the scanner backwards. Now, does Mr Splunge have the Spon Plague?
 

He does, my Capitaine. He has de nasty, evil, death-type Spon! Thinks: And poor little me has just been in de same room as him. I don't like dis game!
 

Quick! Get Dr Spriggs on the talking-type telephone!
 

(phone being picked up)
 

(on phone) Hello, Jim. Hello, Ji-iiiiim!
 

Spriggs, has Bloodnock delivered the new Fleming drug chart?
 

(on phone) He has.
 

Mr Splunge had got the Spon, so give him the medication on the chart immediately. You've only got seconds to act.
 

(on phone) Right-o, Jim. I'll do it straight away after I've had my lunch, Jim.
 

(phone being put down)
 

Sound fellow that Spriggs. He knows how to deal with an emergency. Right, now, Bluebottle, follow me as we hunt down those villains with the original chart. Into the morgue…
 

(door creaking open)
 

Right, you close all the open body bags while I open all the closed ones.
 

Right-o, den.
 

(zip being opened)
 

There you are, Moriarty! Put your hands up, your legs down and your body in between!
 

I can't - I'm deceased.
 

Stop playing deadpan with me, Moriarty, and hand over the drug chart.
 

Yes, Morinarty, hand over de drugs chart, or feel de overwhelming force of my ward round-type student textbook as I clout you over de nut.
 

You fool, Seagoon! Grytpipe has destroyed the chart and only I have the complete copy, memorised in my brain.
 

Curse. How can we possibly retrieve the chart from Moriarty's brain?
 

Might I suggest you ask the famous brain surgeon Dr Eccles to get it out for you.
 

I woz wundering when I wuz going to get a part in dis show!
 

Shut up, Eccles!
 

Shut up, Eccles!
 

Shut up Eccles!
 

Eccles, go and prepare the theatre. Bluebottle, anaesthetise Moriarty with this BNF.
 

(clunk)
 

Aoooww…
 

(scene change music)
 

In the neurosurgery theatre of St Spon's Hospital:
 

Dumdedum, dedumdedum. (sings) I talk to de trees, dat's why they put me away. (talks) Scalpel, please, my good man. Fine, fine, fine. (Grams: cutting sound) Now den, humdedum. Bone saw, please, my good man, Tank you. (Grams: sawing noise) Humdehumdeho. Lumptidumdedum. Ooooooohhhh! Hold here, please, my good man, quickly now (Grams: squirting noise). Dere, now, steady. Lumptidumpty dum. Tweezers, please, my good man. Look you, now! You be quicker next time! (Grams: Ping!) Now, den, pass me dat big mallet. No,no,no, my good man, dat big one dere. Dat's it. (Grams: THUNK!) And I thought I was de only idiot around here. Now, my good man, pass me a number 3 corkscrew. Tank you. (Grams: screwing followed by a pop) Now pass me dat bottle of vinegar (Grams: Steaming sound) Fine, fine fine. Now pass me…
 

(interrupting) Look, can you stop messing about and start the blasted operation!
 

What about my lunch?!?
 

Please, Mr Eccles. This is a very important procedure that needs to be done quickly. Surely you can make your lunch afterwards.
 

Very well, my good man. I accept your apology. Put it in dat kidney bowel for me.
 

What shall I do with the kidney.
 

I'm having dat for dinner. Hahaha!!!
 

Shut up, Eccles!
 

Shut up, Eccles!
 

Now, start the operation, Mr Eccles.
 

Very well, I shall make my first cut in dis…
 

(door opening)
 

Mr Eccles, stop the operation straight away!
 

Make up your mind, my good man. If you don't tell me what to do soon my legs will fall off and smoke will come out my ears.
 

Dr Bloodnock and Dr Spriggs! What are you doing here?
 

Well, it's a long, long story...
 

Silence! Silence when you speak! I was on ward, Jim, when I found out that the signature on the drug chart that Dr Bloodnock gave me was a forgery. A forger-yyyyy! This man, this devil, had been faking the Alexander Fleming drug charts!
 

Ohohohohoh, he's right, Seagoon. Something to do with a shortage of cash, ohohoh. So I turned myself in.
 

A true Englishman!
 

Yes, I can do impressions, you know.
 

So this means the Spon cure is a fake!
 

That's right, Ned. There really isn't a cure for the East Acton strain at all. I just wrote the drug charts up for me old military favourite, Footo the Wonder Boot Exploder.
 

But, Dr Spriggs, you've already treated Mr Splunge with that drug chart, haven't you?
 

Yes, Jim.
 

So this means...
 

At that moment, poor Cyril Splunge, having nearly died from a severe case the Nadgers, a bout of East Acton Spon Plague, and having barely survived being pushed out of a seventh storey window, is about to have his first session of physiotherapy on his long return to convalescence.
 

NO! NO! PLEASE STO...
 

(HUUUUGE EXPLOSION)
 

Theme tune
 

(over orchestra) That was the Goon Show, a never-recorded programme featuring Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Spike Milligan, with the Ray Ellington Quartet and Max Geldray. The orchestra was conducted by Wally Stott. Script by Martin Birch. Announcer Wallace Greenslade. The programme produced by nobody.
 

End theme tune.