An Oldie, But A Goodie

Heres an old sketch what i did write. it were in my desk with some rubbish papers but i still like

it lots yes. i hope you can enjoy it thank you

"JULY 1869"

A HUGE VICTORIAN SPACE SHIP LANDS ON THE MOON. IT IS MADE OF GLASS AND WROUGHT IRON, WITH GOTHIC STYLE WINDOWS AND A WEATHER-VANE ON THE NOSE CONE. A CLOUD OF DUST BILLOWS OUT FROM BENEATH IT

CUT TO: INT. SPACE SHIP

INSIDE ARE A TYPICAL VICTORIAN OUTING PARTY, WEARING DISCREET JULES VERNE-STYLE BREATHING APPARATUS OVER THEIR NOSES.

ADMIRAL SEAGROVE:

Ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention please. Firstly, as I'm sure most of you will've noticed, we have reached the lunar surface.

GENERAL GASPS. SOME LADIES PRESS THEIR FACES TO THE WINDOW.

Ladies, please. I beg you not to fog the brass. (CLEARS THROAT) Gentles all, allow me to welcome you... to the moon!

EXCITED AND POLITE APPLAUSE.

Now before we set forth, I will remind the ladies that they have all been issued with a dust-retardant girdle (THE LADIES BLUSH) and the men a copy of Baedeker and Wisden. Are there any questions before we embark? (A LADY RAISES HER HAND) Yes, Miss. Emily?

MISS EMILY:

Permit me Admiral Seagrove, but you said we were all to wear flat shoes. Only I've forgetten my mother's galoshes and I notice some of the men are wearing gaitors...

ADMIRAL SEAGROVE:

Come, come my good woman. Let us not concern ourselves with trifling details. We are about to make history, yes? Now. If you'll allow me...

HE OPENS THE HATCH WHICH CREAKS LIKE AN OLD STEAM ENGINE.

Ladies first.

THE WOMEN EXCITEDLY MAKE THEIR WAY ON TO THE MOON SURFACE AT WHICH POINT ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE AS THEIR CRINOLINE SKIRTS FLOAT UP OVER THEIR HEADS. SOME OF THEM, ABASHED, FAINT.

AS THE MEN FOLLOW BEHIND, THEIR TOP HATS AND BEARDS ALL FLOAT UPWARDS AS SOME OF THEM ATTEMPT TO REVIVE THE LADIES WITH SMELLING SALTS AND SLAPS TO THE WRIST.

EVENTUTALLY, THE WOMEN ARE REVIVED AND THE MEN SEE THE FUNNY SIDE - PLAYFULLY CHASING THEIR HATS AND LAUGHING.

A GROUP OF PEOPLE HAVE LAID A PICNIC BLANKET OUT. A WOMAN WITH HER SKIRT OVER HER HEAD LIFTS A TEACUP TO HER FACE WHICH CATAPULTS OUT OF HER HAND AND OFF INTO SPACE. BEHIND HER, A MAN WITH AN EASEL AND PAINTS FLOATS PAST IN THE BACKGROUND.

ANOTHER LADY SITS EATING A SANDWICH. SHE REACHES INTO HER PETTICOAT AND TAKES OUT A BOOK. AS SHE OPENS IT, DOZENS OF PRESSED FLOWERS COME FLYING OUT OF THE PAGES.

A STREET URCHIN BARGES PAST A GENTLEMEN WHO, HAVING TAKEN OFFENCE, CLIPS HIM ROUND THE EAR, SENDING HIM TUMBLING OFF INTO SPACE.

SOME MEN HAVE DECIDED TO PLAY CRICKET. WITH A NOD, ONE OF THEM BOWLS. THE BALL TAKES ABOUT 45 SECONDS TO REACH THE BATSMAN WHO SUBSEQUENTLY MISSES.

A UNION-JACK HAS BEEN PLANTED IN THE GROUND. THE PARTY GATHER ROUND FOR A PHOTOGRAPH. WITH A PUFF OF SMOKE, THE PARTY ARE IMMORTALISED IN A SEPIA TONE PHOTO OF THEM ALL WITH THEIR BEARDS AT STUPID ANGLES AND THE WOMEN'S SKIRTS PULLED ROUND THEIR HEADS.