[A New England meadow. A delicately beautiful Indian woman in a simple smock dress picks daisies with which to decorate her hair.]
INDIAN WOMAN [singing to herself as she gazes into the forest beyond]:
“à¤¬à¤¿à¤›à¤¡à¤¼à¥‡ à¤…à¤à¥€ à¤¤à¥‹ à¤¹à¤®, à¤¬à¤¸ à¤•à¤² à¤ªà¤°à¤¸à¥‹à¤‚,”
“à¤œà¤¿à¤¯à¥‚à¤à¤—à¥€ à¤®à¥ˆà¤‚ à¤•à¥ˆà¤¸à¥‡, à¤‡à¤¸ à¤¹à¤¾à¤² à¤®à¥‡à¤‚ à¤¬à¤°à¤¸à¥‹à¤‚?”
“à¤®à¥Œà¤¤ à¤¨ à¤†à¤ˆ, à¤¤à¥‡à¤°à¥€ à¤¯à¤¾à¤¦ à¤•à¤¯à¥‹à¤‚ à¤†à¤ˆ?”
“à¤¹à¤¾à¤¯, à¤²à¤‚à¤¬à¥€ à¤œà¥à¤¦à¤¾à¤ˆ!”
GEORDIE VOICEOVER: Aye, Shilpa’s missin’ her fella arright; but what’s going to happen when the other housemates catch her being dubbed into Urdu, like?
[WILLIAM HURT appears in front of her. He is wearing a waistcoat handwoven from wholemeal bran and an expression of infinite existential discomfort.]
HURT [really, really hurt; even more hurt than John Hurt]: I feel the weight of your sorrow, Shilpa, but you know you cannot walk outwith The Boundary, my little one. Those We Do Not Speak Of wait beyond, with their “Hello Mum!” placards and air horns.
[As he speaks, a huge, hooded figure emerges from the woods. SHILPA’s attention shifts from HURT to the approaching menace. Her face is full of terror. Her eyes brim with tears.]
SHILPA [pointing over HURT’s shoulder]: J- J- J-
[MEL GIBSON suddenly runs into frame, brandishing a pitchfork.]
[SAMUEL L JACKSON comes rolling down the hillside in a wheelchair, his cape flapping in the breeze. As he passes the figure he pulls its hood off to reveal the scowling visage of JADE GOODY.]
JACKSON: That ain’t no Jew! I want this muthafuckin’ Jade off this muthafuckin’ plain! Where’s mah cat?
[“Maverick legislator” GEORGE GALLOWAY emerges from the trees. He is wearing a cerise leotard and licking the backs of his hands.]
JADE [running from GALLOWAY]: Aaauuugh!
[For no reason at all, the air fills with confetti and two dozen south Asian women dressed as late-nineteenth century American milkmaids join Shilpa in a song-and-dance routine, lip-synching poorly.]
[Suddenly the musical soundtrack shrinks to a compressed babble. We are transported to a contemporary setting and the frame is filled with the kneeling form of a child. He is shrouded in darkness, but a phosphorescent glow reflects off his face. After a long moment we close in on his features.]
SMALL CHILD: I see dead people.
[His mother walks into the room and turns on the lights.]
MOTHER: They’re not dead, dear. They’re just not famous any more. Now stop watching that rubbish and go and do your homework.
[She opens the living room door and DAVID CAMERON takes the opportunity to enter.]
CAMERON: I’d just like to say how much I agree with whatever it is you, as an ordinary working mother, feel about whatever it is you’ve just told your son not to watch, for whatever reason it was that you told him not to watch it, especially if it was anything to do with racism, or saving electricity—and I’d like to agree with you in your sentiments in a way that’s consistent with traditional Conservative values.
[She rolls her eyes.]
CAMERON: And I was wondering: do you perhaps need any help with the washing up?