FADE IN
BACKGROUND MUSIC: PINK FLOYD'S "BIKE."
EXTERIOR-DAY. A WORKING CLASS STREET IN A SUBURB OF
SYD BARRETT, 40, pedals his bike down the streets of the lower middle class suburb, dodging in and out, and around children and other pedestrians, calling out to the occasional passersby. He is wearing a faded denim jacket, a t-shirt, trousers and tennis shoes. He is balding and pudgy, with an expression that varies between degrees of naive friendliness and concern.
SYD: Hello, Mister Postman!
POSTMAN:
(Briefly looks up as he sorts his letters on the fly
as he shoves some letters into a mailbox.)
Hello, Syd!
Syd pedals some more.
SYD:
Hello, Mister Policeman!
BOBBIE:
(dryly)
Hello, Syd.
Syd continues to work his way down the street, sometimes receiving taunts, even hurled objects from children:
SYD'S COUSIN: (OFF SCREEN)
That's my cousin Roger, also known as Syd Barrett. He was a rock star once, founder of the great Pink Floyd - that is until he lost his marbles and a couple of wankers took over the band. Now he lives with his Mum down the street.
MUSIC ENDS.
EXTERIOR: DAY. A modest and somewhat older semi-detached home.
INTERIOR-DAY. Syd enters through the front door, takes off his jacket, and heads for the kitchen.
SYD:
Mum. It's me, Roger.
SYD'S vocalizations are a bit mushy-mouthed.
MRS. BARRETT:
Come on dear. I've made you your favorite sandwich.
MRS. BARRETT is typically English, but with better teeth. She is about 60, with kind eyes, and the resigned look of a someone who has lived through some years of quiet desperation.
SYD:
(Eating) That's the best, Mum. You're the best.
SYD:
You know what they say about cheese, don't you Mum?
MRS. BARRETT:
What's that, dear?
SYD:
Comes from cows. Greeks discovered it.
MRS. BARRETT:
That's wonderful, dear. Have some tea.
SYD:
Not for me, Mum. The nerves. I'm a bit shell-shocked today.
MRS. BARRETT:
Those gentlemen from Trouser Press, or whatever, came calling again today. I don't suppose they'll ever leave us alone.
SYD:
They can sod off. I'm not about that anymore.
MRS. BARRETT:
Some juice, Roger.
She pours him a glass.
SYD:
You know that Geldof fellow, in The Wall? They got him playing me, now. It's sad. I never was some kind of Nazi.
CUT TO:
EXTERIOR:
A couple of teenage boys go walking in, jangling the bells on the door as they do.
SYD'S COUSIN (off screen):
Even ten years on, kids try to emulate his style. It's a crazy world, innit? I mean, he had only a few productive years, and now they regard him as some kind of saint or something. If they knew what I know about him, they wouldn't think that way.
GUITAR SHOP SALESMAN is a square in his forties. With his clean cut hair, cardigan sweater, and glasses with black thick frames, he looks like he stepped out of a 1950's instructional video for guitar salesmen.
GUITAR SHOP SALESMAN:
May I help you boys?
Have you got any Esquires?
GUITAR SHOP SALESMAN:
We can order you a reproduction from a catalog.
But you're better off with the Telecaster.
He picks one from the rack.
GUITAR SHOP SALESMAN:
Right here. Springsteen uses one, and they're quite --
SCHOOLKID TWO:
(Interrupting): Springsteen's a tosser. We need an Esquire.
GUITAR SHOP SALESMAN: (Authoritatively):
The Telecaster is one of Fender's most popular guitars. Andy Summers of the Police and Jimmy Page have played them - with excellent results, I might add.
Those blokes are poofters. Syd Barrett, formerly of, but not restricted to Pink Floyd, used an Esquire. That's why we need one.
SCHOOLKID TWO:
(Smugly)
You do know who he is, don't you?
GUITAR SHOP SALESMAN:
Indeed I do. (Pulls out a heavy binder with catalogs in it.) And I remember seeing.... (flipping through pages)....right here....a picture of Syd Barrett from the 60's -- with his very own Fender Telecaster.
SCHOOLKID ONE:
(astonished)
Blimey!
SCHOOLKID TWO:
(equally amazed.)
Gorgeous! How much do they cost?
GUITAR SHOP SALESMAN:
(Triumphantly):
375 pounds.
To be continued.