FLOOD THEATRE is a dark, satirical comedy company. "Like a politicised League of Gentlemen" (ThreeWeeks). We perform unscheduled surgery as a spectator sport.
"Hard, funny and stupid."- The New Current
"Pitch perfect."- ThreeWeeks
"You'll either love this or totally hate it."- One4Review
We know your secrets.
Pay us hush money.
Also performed at the Old Red Lion, Islington, on 12/07/10.
Gervillian Felch Esq. is writing to express his disapproval of the RSBP.
From our upcoming Edinburgh show.
A Church. Gervillian Felch is looking for reassurance from the Vicar
Gervillian: So obviously I took the matter to the police.
Vicar: Yes indeed, for a neighbour to be so uncooperative with his Rhododendron is most grave.
G: And yet they were no help at all! I do not pay taxes in order to fund a bunch of clowns, but a bunch of clowns they most certainly were!
V: Oh yes, clowning should really be left to the private sector. Were the council of any assistance?
G: Well they just sent round the Political Correctness Gone Mad Brigade! I was treated most rudely and refused assistance in a distinctly Socialist manner.
V: Oh, that is most unfair…
G: I thought to contact the press, in order to publicly embarrass the EU Human Rights Council Stasi Brigade.
V: Yes, I saw the Mail… it rather seemed to involve more than just your azaleas though.
G: In their quest for a story, matters were made… somewhat worse.
V: How much worse?
G: My garden looks like Basra now.
V: Oh dear..
G: I suspect they may have salted the earth.
V: You poor fellow.
G: I must say, I simply don’t know what to do now. The matter is becoming most desperate, and still his rhododendron encroaches…
V: Let us pray for you and your garden, then.
G: Oh what a good idea, Reverend! The good Lord shall provide!
V: Oh Lord, King of all kings and mightiest of all, we pray to you in this, Mr. Felch’s darkest hour. Oh Lord, we pray for Mr. Felch’s garden, and for his other garden; the garden that is his soul garden.
Lord, hear our prayer.
Oh Lord, we pray that Mr Felch catches some debilitating disease, preferably something involving the loss of his voice so that I may never again hear his self-involved prattle.
We stand before you, oh Lord God our God Lord, in humble appeal, that something really unpleasant and embarrassing happen to Mr. Felch at an inopportune moment, such as his eyes turning orange in the queue at Marks & Spencer, or his nose falling off at a party.
But most of all, darling Sky-Yahweh, we pray to you that he just go away and never come back, as I have had quite as much as I can take.
Blessings be upon the meek and also upon the vodka I shall be gulping as soon as I get home in the futile hope of scrubbing the memory of this man, this human stain, from my mind.
Gervillian is staring, face agape. The Vicar smiles warmly at him and calmly walks out.
The Flood Theatre Digital Empire has expanded!
We have now included not one but TWO shops on our website. Click Shop to see our gradually-expanding array of merchandise, or “merch” as complete dickheads are known to call it. Or click Music to sample some of our new music, composed especially for our upcoming Edinburgh show. We also have a nice shiny “donate” button which allows people to donate as much money as their sanity will allow to the Flood Theatre effort.
Which brings us to the main issue. We’re approaching our final big drive to raise money for our Edinburgh show. We’ve been doing very well so far, but every little helps, and any and all assistance will be gratefully received. So if you’re interested in new, original satire with a fresh approach to comedy and a murky undercurrent, why not help us out? If you’re feeling madly generous, you can use our donate button to simply hand over as much of your moolah as you feel appropriate. But if you feel you deserve a little in return for your cash, then take a look at our music or merchandise stores and see if anything catches your eye (or ear).
In the meantime, we’re going to keep adding content to the site in a continued effort to show what a worthwhile enterprise this is.
Floodtheatre.co.uk is currently undergoing a thorough overhaul of its back-end (stop lauging at the back there!). It might behave a bit oddly for a day or two but hopefully you should be able to access all the content you came here to find.
Update: The majority of the disruptive changes have taken place, so it should be relatively smooth sailing from here on in.
First shown at the Old Red Lion, Islington, on 12/07/10.
Blank, empty room. Chair. Person on chair, an Interviewee. Interviewee looks vacant… as though they’d be agitated or upset about something if only they could remember what it was. Has a Londonish accent, with a tendency to drop the Rs slightly. Speaks very slowly.
INTERVIEWEE: …but then things really started to come to a head when the Thorax in my vegetable crisper began to require salt in industrial quantities. I had to do something, because when the cravings really get going it just stays up all night… laughing. I reckon it finds the spinach ironic.
Fortunately I heard that the local Salt Factory was currently hiring, so I thought I could get a job there and smuggle salt out for the Thorax. I managed to get myself a job interview but I was very nervous because I’m not very good at those. Eventually though I came up with an Interview Plan after reading in a pamphlet that job interview people are more likely to give you a job if they pity you. My plan went off without a hitch… after some light sobbing, a man dressed as Prince Philip ran in, shouted “Penge!” and shot me in the elbows. I think the job man had a… a pity overload or something because he just wouldn’t stop screaming as I lay there, wallowing in my own slippy red success.
I think I must have done a brief snooze at some point because the next thing I knew I was in hospital and it was a month later. I took this to mean that I hadn’t got the job, so I resolved to try another approach. I didn’t think any more that the Pity Plan was a very good one, and my faith in pamphlets had been irreversibly damaged. I thought I should get in more on my own merits and I had a great anecdote ready about some spores. I wore a false mustache because I didn’t want my last attempt to bias my interview panel. That was good because it was the same man as last time. He didn’t seem that interested in my story though. He was detached, like he was haunted by some kind of great trauma. He didn’t even notice when my mustache fell off. I think that worked in my favour, because I got the job.
I began smuggling salt out in my pockets immediately, but after a while that wasn’t enough any more. I had to get some bags out. There was quite a sturdy ventilation systems and I was able to get the bags right out to my car. I think I weakened them though because one day I fell out. Fortunately something soft broke my fall. Unfortunately the soft thing was the Foreman’s young grandson. Things suddenly got a lot worse for me… all screaming tears, blue sirens and white crystal recriminations. I grabbed my salty sacks and ran. I don’t remember the next bit very well but somehow I managed to get into a small room. It was only after I sat down and looked around me that I realised that the room didn’t have any windows… or doors.
I’m still here now actually…
Muffled laughter. Lights out.