Borne from my own insomnia and a few too many hours of watching WL tapes. Written mainly because of writer’s block. Still don’t own the guys, only the idyllic setting.
What
a truly odd place to find oneself. The
sky was blue with scattered lazy clouds, the grass brilliant green with a
smattering of clover. In the center of the rolling meadow was a smallish
section of fence, battered wood, five rungs and maybe four feet high, seven
feet wide.
A few
birds twittered in an unobtrusive, wholly cliché manner, but all was otherwise
silent for a few moments.
“There’s no bleeding way,” a voice muttered far to the left.
“Well
somebody has to.”
“The
things we do for this guy.”
“Not
me, not first.”
The
voices stopped expectantly. “Fine, get
out of my way, I’ll go.”
A
ball of white fluff appeared and quickly approached the fence, it was running
now. No, it couldn’t be. Could it?
It was. Wayne Brady. In a sheep suit. He leapt acrobatically over the fence and landed gracefully on
the worn patch of dirt on the other side and continued running until he was out
of sight.
This
was not normal, and promised to get worse.
Another sheep suit, this one jogging calmly and slowly revealing itself
to be Colin Mochrie. He approached the
fence, climbed up, over, and down the other side before joining Wayne. He was, of course, followed by Ryan, his
sheep suit too small. After loping up
to the structure, he paused to regard it, thought better of it, and quietly
stepped around it, shaking his head as he picked up speed to join the others.
Next
up, Brad Sherwood running manically towards the fence, which he cleared easily
and landed with the quiet thump of a well-practiced pratfall. Lips pursed, he dusted himself off and
sauntered off to the right.
Surprisingly, Paul Merton appeared next, marching defiantly up to the
fence. “Why one section here, in the
middle of the sodding pasture, huh? Never again mate, no more sheep costumes
for me. Get yourself a show
jumper.” He placed both hands on the
top bit of board and hoisted himself over, muttering about cigarettes and
helicopters and chocolate-eating goats as he stomped away.
Tony
was giggling before he even got to the fence, unzipping the front of his sheep
outfit the whole way. Pausing a moment
to pull his legs out to reveal a rather small pair of red shorts beneath, he
climbed to the top of the fence and managed to stand on it, white fluffy legs
trailing about behind him. His hands went
to his hips as he shot a camp little face before leaping to the ground and
stepping back into his costume, giggling once again.
Steve
Frost, his sheep suit a bit on the short side as well, skipped up to the fence
and straddled it. “I’m sitting on the
fence, mates, do I vote Tory or Liberal Democrat?” With a hearty guffaw, he stumbled off the fence towards the other
side.
Glasses on a sheep really don’t work.
Greg Proops ambled towards the fence.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he grumbled as he leaned against one of
the uprights, then managed to produce and cigarette and lighter from inside his
costume. “I think it would be best for
all parties concerned if you’d wake up, dude, ‘cos I don’t care who you are,
I’m not hopping over fences dressed as a sheep, and I’m kinda thinking you’re
some kind of freak for thinking this one up.”
With
a jolt, Dan Patterson sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. He may have been working on Whose Line for
10, 11, what, 14 years now? But he
certainly was not prepared to have dreams about the cast. “Insomnia or not,” he mumbled, pulling a
hand over his face, “no more sleeping pills!
I’ve never had such nightmares!”