Making It Up As I Go Along (20 page)

And cupboards full of tinned food, for examples
sardines and
Spam and other foulery. Also powdered stuff, for examples
custard and blancmange! (Blancmange! Let’s start a campaign for its return.) There’s
a range, and airing above it are long johns knitted in really, really thick, very itchy-looking
wool. There’s a (perishing cold) sitting room, a radio room, a washroom and a bedroom with
very narrow bunks and – yes! – with pictures painted on the walls of ladies with
extremely large knockers!

In the post office, we post our post cards and
purchase souvenirs.

6.19 p.m.

Back at the ship. Himself has just looked over my
shoulder to see what I’m doing and said in a portentous voice, ‘Day 9, and the
penguins were getting restless …’

7.36 p.m.

At dinner, Himself is staring at another table for
ages. Then he says, ‘Has your man done something to his hair …?’

‘Who?’

‘The ordinary-looking Asian lad. The one
with the hipsters.’

I take a look. He is right. The ordinary-looking
lad’s hair has a definite ‘coiffed’ air to it.

Also … we say it together,
‘He’s wearing a lumberjack shirt!’

8.04 p.m.

Himself says he has a confession to make.
‘I’ve never done it before,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what came over
me and I’m certain it was just a one-off, but …’

‘Yes?’

‘… but …’

‘TELL ME, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!’

‘Today … I
… looked in a bird book …’

‘Christ alive!’

‘Yes, I saw a bird out of the window and I
was wondering what make it was and the next thing I know I was looking it up in a reference
book.’

‘Shite,’ I say. ‘This is worse
than we thought …’

10.45 p.m.

Just before we go to sleep, Himself says to me,
‘Do you pronounce it “glassy-er” or “glay-shur”?’

‘“Glassy-er”,’ of
course,’ says I. ‘Like Fox’s Glassy-er Mints. Or Fox’s Glassy-er
Fruits.’

After a pause he says, ‘Trust you to bring
everything back to sweets.’

He is a fine one to talk, him and his birds.

Listens, lads, there’s no need for you to
write the dystopian telly series set in the near future in Antarctica, because I think I can do
it myself! Yes!

Here’s my pitch … The year is 2036
and the planet has almost run out of fuel and the race is on between several nations to bag
Antarctica. The United Nations has managed to prevent an all-out war, but hostilities are
bubbling away.

Himself and I are brainstorming about names. I
want to call it
The Dead Land
and he says it needs ‘Ice’ in the title. But
now he has suggested
The South
, and I agree that it is memorable.

Okay!

Opening scene

Fabulous woman alone in a black Zodiac in a calm
sea full of icy-bergs and surrounded by icy-mountains. She is wearing a red waterproof parka and
big sunglasses and what looks like no make-up, because she is one of those derring-do women who
wouldn’t be bothered with that sort of thing, but all the same she has lovely skin and you
can tell she wears her sunblock.

Her hair is long and dark and thick and curly and
she has no trouble with frizz. She is steering her little boat and she sees a couple of penguins
‘dolphining’ around and a couple of lazy-arse seals stretched out on ice floes. She
is smiling, even though she is by herself, and you can tell she is ‘in her
element’.

Suddenly there is a REALLY LOUD boomy noise and
she looks concerned. She consults a couple of instruments and she looks even more concerned, but
she doesn’t start talking to herself like Sandra Bullock did in
Gravity
, which
was annoying and dis-believable. Then she gets on her walkie-talkie and says, ‘Camp South?
Camp South? Do you read me?’

But there is only crackling noise.

Then she looks behind her and a MAHOSSIVE wave is
coming from about a mile away across the mirrory sea, and she looks really shocked and says,
‘Oh shit!’

Scene ends

New scene

An aerial shot, moving fast, following a little
propeller plane as it swoops over huge ice shelves and snowy mountains and a rocky colony of
rowdy penguins and over silvery water with whales and seals breaking the surface. The plane
lands on an icy runway and an INCREDIBLY HANDSOME man gets off, swinging his bag over his
shoulder in a manly fashion. I am debating who should
play this incredibly
handsome man. I am thinking maybe Pasha or Benedict Cumberbatch or Tom Dunne.

But no, I might need Pasha for the Russian part
of the plot, which will come in a couple of episodes, because there is a Russian base down here,
also a Chinese one, also a Scandinavian one.

All right, so Tom Dunne, playing the part of
‘Tom Dunne’, swings down the aeroplane steps, in his outdoorsy gear and wrap-around
sunglasses, and swaggers into the base, where he is greeted by Sawyer from
Lost
, Sayid
from
Lost
and Freckles from
Lost
. (I never really got over
Lost
finishing.)

Tom Dunne: ‘Hey! Looks like the
gang’s all back together.’

Sawyer (s
urprised/alarmed
):
‘I thought you’d done your last winter out here!’

Tom Dunne: ‘Changed my mind.
Where’s my bunk?’

He walks down a short, curved-roof corridor with no windows.

Sayid: ‘You’re back? I thought
…
?’

Tom Dunne (
gives a short mirthless
laugh
): ‘They let me out.’

Tom Dunne finds a narrow bunk built into the wall. He starts emptying his bag into a metal
locker and puts a quare, futuristic, holographic photo on his bedside yoke. Out in the
corridor, Sawyer and Sayid are talking.

Sawyer: ‘Looks like you’re
rooming with Psycho. Good luck with that.’

Sayid: ‘Just so long as he stays away
from the spoons.’

Scene cuts to a control room, where a woman is
sitting, watching gauges and screens and that sort of thing. I’ve decided that this woman
is played by me. On the CCTV she sees Tom Dunne at his bunk, unpacking his
stuff.

Me: ‘Oh my God.
He came back …’

Scene cuts to a group shot, where maybe thirty
people of obviously different nationalities are gathered together for a welcome/motivational
speech from the base commander, who is played by Krister Henriksson, who is (as always)
charismatic, avuncular, kindly, wise and Swedish.

The camera scans over the faces, which look
earnest, keen, enthusiastic and a little apprehensive. Some of the faces are: Zayn from One
Direction,
^*
*
Mary Berry, Paul Hollywood, Claudia Winkleman, Leonard Cohen, Sarah Lund, José Mourinho,
Michael Bublé, Dermot O’Leary, Cher, Graham Norton, Beth, two very short red-haired
Irish brothers (the Redzers), Kerry Washington, George Michael, Gianfranco Zola, my mammy, Cathy
Kelly, Fran from
Love/Hate
, Tommy from
Love/Hate
, Judy McLoughlin, Fergal
McLoughlin, Sali Hughes, Margaret Mountford, Posh Kate, Nile Rodgers, Angélique Kidjo,
Louise Moore, JohnEamonChippyBill, India Knight, Mary Kennedy, Djocko Djokovic, Michelle Obama,
Jean Byrne the weather girl, Jonathan Lloyd, the entire cast of
1864
, Jojo Moyes,
Zoë Ball. And other people I like but can’t think of right now.

Krister Henriksson: ‘Welcome back for
another polar winter! People don’t know how or why we put ourselves through this, but this
year, more than ever, our presence is vital down here. Blahdeeblah …’

Back to the control room. I have made contact
with the Scandinavian base. Lars Mikkelsen’s face appears on my screen. We smile warmly at
each other. We are friends ‘of old’.

Me: ‘Here we are
back again for another winter, Lars.’

Lars: ‘Krister already said that.
There’s no need for you to say it too. Keep things moving.’

Me: ‘Very well. Have you made contact
with the Chinese base?’

Lars: ‘Negative.’

Me: ‘Me either. A bit worrying,
isn’t it, Lars?’

Lars: ‘It
is
worrying,
Emkay, but it’s early days. This is only the first episode.’

Me: ‘You’re right, Lars,
it’s early days indeed. Okay, over and out.’

Lars: ‘Over and out. And Phillip
Christensen says hello.’

Me: ‘… hello back to
Phillip.’

I take a look at some gauges and seem
startled. Ren
é
, the French bloke, is beside me. (He is played by Jérôme
out of
The Returned
.)

Me: ‘René, my readings are
compromised.’ (
Or some such technical guff
.)

René: ‘Let me check. Hey,
that’s funny. The numbers are falling. Hey, HK, take a look at this.’

The base’s second in command, HK – a tall, handsome, kindly man, played by
Himself Keyes – comes and looks over René’s shoulder.
HK watches the figures and seems terribly alarmed.

HK: ‘Take cover, take cover! This is
not a drill!’

There is a big bang and the walls and everything shakes and all the people in the
meet-and-greet topple over and fall on the floor and the lights flicker and go out and the
whole place is in darkness.

A voice: ‘Is that your hand, Mary
Berry? Well, you dirty article!’

Outdoor shot of the igloo-shaped base
blazing with light, then going completely dark
.

opening credits folley
!!!

So what do you think?!
Himself and I are going to pitch to Nick Marston on our return from the Frozen South. Hopefully
it will be on your telly-boxes for the autumn. It all depends on Tom Dunne’s availability.

10.30 a.m.

We set off, on a blindingly blue day, in a Zodiac,
for Palmer Island, a US research station. The sea is so full of chunks of ice, it’s like
driving through a white Slush Puppie (vanilla flavoured). However, we are very lucky because
until shortly ago the island was iced in and no one could get to it
at all
. And the
people living there had no way of getting out. Imagine!

Yes, so Palmer Station is a US research station,
with forty-four staff on it, doing research into krill and things, and hardly any ships are
allowed to visit, only ten a season, and we are among the lucky ones.

The buildings are metallic and basic and have
many signs
sellotaped to the wall, a bit like a hostel would. For examples:
‘Turn off the light’ or ‘Do not sleep upside down’ or ‘Do not
torment the krill.’ And that sort of thing.

I read a book called
Antarctica
before I
came here, and it suggested that from time to time people go a bit bananas here and suddenly try
to stick a spoon into their colleague’s ear. (You will note my reference to that in my
dystopian telly-box show.) But then the madness passes and they are all pals again. Until the
next time … They call it being ‘toasty’ or ‘going toast’.

I walk around and stick my head down corridors
and open
doors that maybe I shouldn’t and in general take many, many
mental notes for
The South
.

There is a gym and chocolate brownies and lots of
krill in a white bucket, which everyone takes photos of. (I cannot see the thrill myself.)
Apparently they used to have pet dogs out here but now they’re not allowed.

We asked the ‘man’ what he missed and
he said ‘Fresh vegetables.’ So there you are. I would miss the Twitters. Also the
telly.

2.45 p.m.

After lunch we set sail for an island which is an
Adélie penguin colony, and do you know Adélie penguins? They’re a bit different
from gentoo penguins (which are your ‘classic’ penguins) because they have a FABLISS
hairdo. Sort of like they’ve shaved their hairline and then backcombed the rest so it is
sticky-uppy. Hippest of all the penguins.

As we came in to land, I saw a couple of them
tap-dancing in the distance, but the minute I tried to show Himself, they stopped and put their
flippers in their pockets and started whistling instead.

There were lots of chicks, and most of them were
as big as their mothers but looked like a totally different species: they were round and goofy
and looked like they were trying to wear grey fake-fur coats. They were adorably ungainly,
trying to stand up and then falling flat on their faces. One of them had just discovered his
flippers and was waving them around, delighted with himself.

The parents and nippers were clustered in groups
of about thirty, but now and again two or three of the parents would break away from the group
and hurry off at top speed, looking from the back like they were old women in black headscarves
and long black topcoats, who were late for Mass.

Also, from time to time a
pair of them would take a notion and stretch their bodies really tall and long and wrap their
necks around each other’s and make trumpeting noises at the sky, like totally mad madzers.
Perhaps a mating ritual? Or maybe just letting off steam?

4.49 p.m.

I have changed the name of my dystopian telly
series to
The Frozen
. Or maybe
People of the Ice
(Himself came up with that
one).

5.42 p.m.

Sweet baba Jay, there’s been an announcement
over the bing-bong – an invitation to the Polar Plunge, where they take passengers out in
their togs in a Zodiac and then they jump off the little boat into the icy sea, and I am
not
going to do it! I don’t care. I do not need to experience everything once. I
find life challenging enough without jumping into an icy sea. Himself is doing it though. And I
cannot bear to even go and watch him. It feels cruel and dreadful and terrible and I just want
it all to be over.

5.50 p.m.

Himself says, ‘You don’t have to be
involved in any way.’

I say, ‘I’m not going to
be.’

He says, ‘You don’t have to be
involved in any way.’