EXT. (LS) day, the same dune. CALVITA is sleeping, his head resting on a camel femur. He is wearing Y-fronts on his head.
A figure mounted on a camel enters the shot from the left. He wears an elaborate turban and carries a clipboard.
The rider pulls his camel up alongside CALVITA and consults his clipboard. He nudges the camel. The camel kicks CALVITA in the face.
CALVITA: MY FUFFING FAFE! THAT FUFFING HURF! WHO THE FUFF ARE YOU, YOU FUNT? WHAT FUFFING FIME IF IF?
The rider lights a long, ornate pipe and throws the match at CALVITA.
RIDER: I am the Surveyor. You may address me as such.
CALVITA (squinting upwards): Fuck’s sake! You’re after burning me now. What are you talking about? What kind of a surveyor?
SURVEYOR: From the village Planning Department. We have received a complaint in respect of your dwelling.
CALVITA: Planning Department? Are you having me on? For planning what? Piss-ups? Feck off out of it, you chancer.
The SURVEYOR nudges the camel again. The camel kicks CALVITA in the face with an air of glum detachment. CALVITA screams.
CALVITA: YOU FUFFING AFFHOLE! HE FIPPED MY FUFFING TOOF! WHAT THE FUFF IV WRONG WIF YOU?
SURVEYOR (calmly): I am a duly articled officer of the village administration. You will treat me with deference. Or pay for it in molars.
CALVITA (sitting up): Okay, okay. Sorry we got off on the wrong footing. What’s this all about? Come on down and we’ll have a rasher.
SURVEYOR: I do not eat pig flesh. In any case, you possess none. As I said, there have been complaints in respect of your dwelling.
CALVITA (looking around): My dwelling?
SURVEYOR: Your dwelling.
CALVITA: Listen, the view might not be A-1 from up there, so it’s like this. Does this looking like a fucking dwelling to you?
The SURVEYOR strokes the camels neck. The camel snorts wearily and kicks CALVITA in the face again.
CALVITA (jumping indignantly to his feet, his nose bleeding): WILL YOU FUFF’S FAKE FTOP KICKING ME WIF YOUR FAMEL? CHRIFT ALMIFY!
SURVEYOR: Resume your seat. Your dwelling has been constructed without planning permission and is subject to demolition.
CALVITA: Subject to…are you…can you not see? There’s no–
SURVEYOR: To facilitate the aforementioned demolition, I hereby serve you with notice of eviction.
CALVITA: Notice of…but there’s no…I have no… (He jumps to his feet.) MY FUCKING BIVOUAC WAS FUCKING ET BY LOCUSTS, YE CUNT YE!
The SURVEYOR bites his lip regretfully and scratches the camels ear. The camel, with an air of despondency, kicks CALVITA in the face.
Cut to LS. The SURVEYOR and his camel cast long shadows on the dune. CALVITA crawls, sobbing, in search of his teeth.
CALVITA: Ah, yeah. Sure, I’m only saying. A figure of speech. Yesterday is the Hebrides, today is a monastery. My Mammy said that.
SURVEYOR: Please. You are babbling. The order of eviction is effective immediately. You must vacate the premises forthwith.
CALVITA: Yebbut. Grand so. Only–you see, the problem I have is this. I want to be in complete and utter compliance. Not joking you now.
SURVEYOR: Go on.
CALVITA: Yeah, so–right. The problem–and this is just me talking, no disrespect–the problem is that there’s no premises to vacate.
SURVEYOR: I do not follow.
CALVITA (scratching himself nervously): Ah, yeah. I’m not explaining it right. I’m not the Mae West with concepts, kind of thing.
SURVEYOR: Are you a drug user, Mr–(consults clipboard)–Mr CALVITA?
CALVITA: Drug user! Feck it, chance would be a fine thing! Ah no. I don’t dabble in touching at all. Need to keep in tip-top shape, you see.
CALVITA: No, I’m as clean as a thistle, as the man says. But the thing is, with the eviction–how would a fella go about that now?
SURVEYOR: Mr Calvita. You try my patience.
CALVITA: Sorry now. Bear with me. So, to be in total compliance, which I is what I am striving for, I would have to leave the dwelling?
CALVITA: Grand so. We’re flying now, so we are. So, I would have to place myself beyond the perineum, so to speak?
SURVEYOR: The perimeter. Quite so.
CALVITA: Ah now, well–there’s the nub. In the absence of the structure, which–as I was saying–fell prey to the ould locusts…
CALVITA: …which, and this isn’t your problem, but there’s a fine line between colossal wrecks and the lone and level sands, kind of thing.
SURVEYOR: You have three days, Mr Calvita. Vacate the premises.
Cut to LS. The SURVEYOR, re-lighting his pipe, begins to ride out of shot. He pauses, throwing his match again at CALVITA.
SURVEYOR: One last thing, Mr Calvita. You have an undergarment on your head. It is not germane to the case, but–why is this?
CALVITA (in a hoarse whisper): I don’t…yesterday is a hegemony, tomorrow is a mini-series…I don’t know. I don’t know any more.