INT: Hotel Room.
Jonti seated at his opened laptop, he tears open an envelope, reads the contents, crumples up the letter.
JONTI (V/O) : 10 rejection letters, 6 rejection emails, that’s a hell of a lot of rejection. 16 self-confidence dam busters, self-doubt pouring out over the picturesque German town of ME – a stubby little hamlet of inconsequence, bypass deemed unnecessary. All this rejection, all for me! Each rejection sprinkled with that patronising, passive, piss taking encouragement, that no but yeah but no but yeah but definitely no as unfortunately we have 10 documentaries already earmarked as one off, never to be repeated tax write-offs and so we kindly suggest you redirect your submission to one of our competitors and hope they take a risk and choke on the squalid, mawkish, cliché driven docu-soap that is your six month investment, kind regards, Faceless Bollocks.
Each rejection letter is embossed with Fair Trade coffee stains or advertisements for the imminent release of Skins on DVD. They are all idiots, I have a story, I have real characters with labyrinthine personality disorders that are still relatable, I have an MEP, I have…I had Mr. Whelks, I have life affirming lessons, I have it all…what more?
“But rejection is part and parcel of the industry you want to break into, frame the letters as an act of defiance”. This is the voice of Jack London, husky sledging around my head, a voice of ill repute, a peddler of animal stories, a man that framed rejection letters rather than portrait photos of his family. Well no sir, there is no way these apologetic daggers are being framed and, and the emails are being deleted too. Mr Jack London can go back to worrying about his wife’s amorous intentions and the invading yellow peril.
To compound my contempt for all life a nasty outbreak of spots reside on my chin, hard pea like spots, entrenched deep under the skin, squeezing is futile, if anything squeezing becomes an aphrodisiac for my pea spot bastards to reproduce and form a hideously complex double helix on my chin, one that Watson and Crick would fail to comprehend….I feel like one big truculent hormone.
And I keep having the same dream, well nightmare actually. I’m alone, standing alone on a gravel strewn rail yard, dressed in a three-piece suit, the sun is shining, the birds are singing. I then decide to look around and all I see are large wooden sheds, all deteriorating before my eyes and that’s when I notice the sign,….I am standing in a concentration camp, the sun quickly blackens, the birds cease to sing, all is black, no sound, nothing. I stand unable to move, I am now in on of these large sheds. A spotlight blinds me and I hear approaching footsteps, cold, hard, steel capped boots pounding against the wooden floor. And that’s when I see him – it’s Richard O’Brien, dressed head to toe in leather, covered in Nazi insignia. He hands me a small box, no bigger than my fist, I open it, a small crystal is inside, an engraving reads, “I cracked the Crystal Maze”. And that’s when I notice it, a large dome, clear Perspex maybe, Richard O’Brien roughly ushers me through the capsule door, closing it behind me and double locking it. I’m trapped, I’ve been ensnared. The leather clad O’Brien stands there smiling defiantly “Can you start the fans please” he yells in stentorian tones. Gas quickly fills the Perspex chamber, I cough, cry, cough more, scream and plead but to no avail and then, then I wake up. I don’t know what it means; I don’t know what anything means anymore.