UPSIDE DOWN

SCENE BRIEFING

SETTING: A modest suburban bedroom with rebellious gravity, then onto the telephone.

CHARACTERS:

• TED FLETCHER: Befuddled, dry, just trying to start his morning without falling into the plasterwork.

• PROFESSOR P: Ministry official. Utterly reasonable, completely lunatic, speaking via a crackly telephone line.

• ERIC THE PIGEON: Aeronautical non-conformist.

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FX: ALARM CLOCK RINGS LOUDLY, FOLLOWED BY TED GROANING. BEDSPRINGS CREAK IN REVERSE—A STRANGE UPWARD 'BOING'.

TED:
(GROGGY, DISORIENTED)
Bloody hell... Did I sleep on the ceiling again? Or did the floor crawl up the wallpaper?

FX: RATTLY WOODEN WARDROBE DOOR CLATTERS OPEN, FOLLOWED BY AN AVALANCHE OF HANGERS AND HEAVY TWEED CRASHING UPWARDS INTO THE CEILING: CLATTER-CRUMP!

TED:
Bugger. Downside up. Shirts in the plasterwork. Right, that’s it, I’m calling the authorities.

FX: HEAVY ROTARY PHONE DIALLING: CHK-WHEE-CHK-WHEE. LONG CALL TONE, THEN A SHARP TELEPHONE CLICK.

PROFESSOR P:
(DOWN A TINNY LINE, BREEZY AND PROFESSORIAL)
Ministry for Altered Dimensions—M.A.D. Professor P speaking, wearing a stout pair of trousers. State your geometry.

TED:
Hello, Professor. I wonder if you can help me? I woke up this morning to find everything utterly upside down.

PROFESSOR P:
Are you upside down now, or are you merely inverted in relation to your toast?

TED:
I don't think so... I'm upright, but the floor feels distinctly theoretical.

PROFESSOR P:
Look out of the window, man. What does the flora and fauna report?

FX: TED'S SLIPPERS PADDING HEAVILY ACROSS FLOORBOARDS: THUD... THUD... THUD.

TED:
(OFF-MIC, AT WINDOW)
Seems normal enough. Oak tree, Morris Minor, lamp post... Hang on. There’s a pigeon flying with its belly to the sun.

PROFESSOR P:
Is it Eric? We’ve warned him three times this week about stunt-flying near the parish council.

TED:
He didn’t introduce himself, Professor, he was doing backstroke at five hundred feet!

PROFESSOR P:
Right. Standard diagnostic test: perform an immediate hand-stand.

TED:
I’m a retired accounts manager, not a Romanian gymnast!

PROFESSOR P:
Thursdays.

TED:
(BEAT)
Pardon?

PROFESSOR P:
You must ring back on a Thursday. We only process downside-up personnel on Thursdays. Wednesdays are reserved for people who've turned slightly mauve.

TED:
Why on earth can't you log it today?

PROFESSOR P:
Because my hat told me not to.

TED:
Your hat?

PROFESSOR P:
A felt trilby, third class with honours. Highly decorated. Has an instinctive grasp of administrative procedure.

TED:
(LONG, DESPAIRING SIGH)
I knew I shouldn't have eaten that double Gloucester before bed. Look, what is the official ministry guidance?

PROFESSOR P:
Best practice under statutory code: spin around three times, clockwise.

TED:
And if that doesn’t rectify the axis?

PROFESSOR P:
Spin anti-clockwise until you taste copper. Passed by an act of Parliament in 1984.

TED:
Ha! Reminds me of George Orwell.

PROFESSOR P:
Certainly not, sir! No farm animals were consulted in the drafting of this statutory instrument!

TED:
I meant the book 1984, not Animal Farm!

PROFESSOR P:
Ah! You’re thinking of the past! We are currently operating in 2026! You don't need M.A.D., you need the Department for After Yesterday.

TED:
D.A.Y.? Who the devil are they?

PROFESSOR P:
The agency for individuals tragically baffled by the calendar.

TED:
I’m not baffled by the calendar! I’m baffled because gravity has lost its sense of direction!

PROFESSOR P:
Splendid! Then you don't need us at all. Good day!

FX: SHARP TELEPHONE RECEIVER SLAM: CLACK! LINE GOES DEAD WITH A HIGH-PITCHED DIAL TONE.

TED:
Hello? Hello? Absolute waste of public money. Right, I’ll just stand up and—

FX: TED STEPS FORWARD, FOLLOWED BY A LOUD, HOLLOW HEAD-ON-TIMBER IMPACT: "DONK!"

TED:
(YELPING IN AGONY)
OW! My skull! I’ve cracked the parquet flooring with my parting!

FX: OUTSIDE THE WINDOW: DISTANT, INVERTED BIRD COO WITH A SLIGHT DOPPLER EFFECT.

ERIC THE PIGEON:
(MUFFLED, PASSING OVERHEAD)
¿ooƆ?

FX: TRUMPET WOBBLE / FAST ORCHESTRAL WOODBLOCK ACCENT TO CLOSE.