The uncommon habits
of the knob-twiddlin’ yobbos
In a voiceover booth, somewhere deep in the bowels of BBC Earth, a regal-looking man folds his arms on a lectern and stares into a microphone. Faithful friend or familiar foe? he wonders.
He scans some papers. He looks up at a flat-screen monitor with footage of squirrels in a park.
He clears his throat and starts reading.
“Here we see …”
The white-haired man pauses, clears his throat again, and then reads once more, this time lowering his pitch.
“Here we see the common grey squirrel, sciurus carolinensis, out for an evening stroll in his — ”
He looks up towards the control room window.
“How’s that sound in there, lads? Everything coming through, ok? Did I get the Latin pronunciation right? It has been a while since my grammar school days. What say you, Rod?”
A muffled voice comes through an intercom speaker.
“Sounds great, Mr, um, Sir Attenborough, sir. Rod’s not here, sir. David. Sir.”
Sir David looks down at the script again. “David. Just call me David.”
He thumbs through the pages and effortlessly runs through a catalogue of cadences: impish, imperial, wispy, vibrant, lilting, monotone. After a time, he looks up at the control room where the engineer and producer look on in silent reverence.
He signals to them with a raised thumb. “Ok, I think I’ve got it now. Let’s take one, shall we?”
The man wearing the headset behind the window says, “Sounds good, sir. Rolling. We’ve got speed.”
Sir David clears his throat and in a warm, avuncular tone speaks into the microphone.
“Here we see the common grey squirrel, sciurus carolinensis, out for an evening stroll in his natural habitat, the city park. Some say it was the COVID-19 pandemic that enabled these furry rodents to breed ever more freely. While we humans stayed inside getting busy–”
Sir David pauses and looks up at the window.
“How was that? Levels still good?”
The guy with the headset says, “Sounds great, sir. Perfeto!”
“Great,” Sir David says sedately. “Just one thing, though. ‘Getting busy’? It’s a bit cheeky for BBC Earth, isn’t it?”
“Well,” says the producer through the intercom. “I think this one calls for a bit of cheek, ya know? I mean, why not have fun with it, right?”
“Oh, well, sure, I’m all about fun,” answers Attenborough. “But how about if we change ‘getting busy’ to ‘getting up to some hanky panky’? Is that ok with you, Rod?” The veteran broadcaster cranes his neck towards the window, as if looking for someone familiar in the small group of people arrayed behind the double-paned glass.
There is a long pause and no response from the control room.
Sir David continues.
“I mean, I get that this one is about squirrels and, therefore, likely won’t have the grace and gravitas of, say, the snowy owl one, eh, Rod? A thing of beauty, that script was. And I understand that if ever there were a creature whose very being cries out for casual street lingo, it would be the very subject of this doc — none other than sciurus carolinensis. But ‘get busy’ or ‘gettin’ busy’? It’s just a bit too, well, common, I think.”
The producer answers: “Sure, sir. I mean, Sir David. Whatever you say. And, um, Rod’s not here.”
“Pardon?” says Attenborough.
“Never mind. Not important. Feel free to go when you’re ready. Speeding.”
Sir David clears his throat and speaks into the mic again, his voice transformed into that of a revered, elder professor speaking to a gaggle of his favorite students.
“Whatever the case may be, this one here is certainly not camera shy. Observe his quick and vigorous mastications as he bites into what looks like — what the devil is he eating anyway? Trump’s penis?”
Sir David stops speaking and puts on reading glasses. His brow knits into a pattern of concern. He looks towards the glass, and then around the room, as if searching for a hidden camera. He holds the script closer to his face. Finally, he peers out over his wide-rimmed specs towards the control room.
“Excuse me, gentleman. Did I read that right? Does that say what I think it says: ‘Trump’s penis’? Is that some sort of misprint? Surely it’s a typo of some sort. An errant cut and paste, perhaps? Oh, I know. Maybe it’s meant to be Latin for something? What’s the Latin for ‘conical’? Or ‘cone shaped’?”
After a pause, a tinny voice comes through the intercom.
“No, sir. I believe you read it just as it was written. And It sounded just fine in here. I think if you read the next few lines it will all make sense. So, uh, what do you say? You wanna just give it a go and read right through this time without stopping?”
Attenborough looks at the script and shakes his head like he’s reading his child’s failing marks on an end-of-term report card. He sighs.
“Ok. You’re sure about this? I mean, first ‘gettin’ busy,’ which I can sort of justify as a bit of cheek. But ‘Trump’s penis’? Is that some sort of new slang I’m not aware of? Is that how kids are talking these days on Tic Tac Toe or whatever? Like ‘trump’s penis’ is now stand-in for an undercooked hot dog or a rancid chunk of cheddar or something?
“Help me understand this, Rod. Keep me honest. I’m 96 years old, for godssake! Admittedly, I may be a bit out of touch with the current lingo.”
“Trust me, sir,” not Rod says. “You’re doing just fine. It’s going to sound great. Just go with the flow and keep reading, if you don’t mind. Sounding great in here.”
“Ok, then,” Sir David says. “In three, two — “
“Whatever the case may be, this one here is certainly not camera shy. Observe his vigorous mastications as he bites into what looks like — Actually, What the devil is he eating? Trump’s penis? Never mind how a squirrel got a hold of Trump’s penis, but it is the right color.”
Sir David Attenborough stops reading and looks at the freeze frame of a squirrel biting into an orange, missile-shaped object that it clutches with both paws.
“Well, they got the color right, anyway, if not the shape,” Sir David says as if personally offended. “I mean what that squirrel is holding is much too long to be Trump’s tadger. How would I know that, you may ask? Well, who could avoid those interviews with, what’s her name, Stormcloud Daniels? Absolutely riveting young lady, by the way. Speaks well for herself. But Miss Daniels lurid revelations aside, I’m not sure I feel comfortable reading this — current popular idiom or no. I mean, it may be an accurate description, but — Can we just get a rewrite? Is Rod here? Give it to Rod. He’ll make it better. He knows my voice, my tone, for heaven’s sake.”
Some crosstalk ensues. Sir David and the three-person crew — producer, sound engineer, and intern — all decide to take a 20-minute break. Sir David shakes his head, as he chats with his 30-something female assistant. Their conversation drifts into the distance as they walk down the hall, Attenborough gesticulating with his cane.
In the control room, the ruddy-faced producer loosens his tie and unbuttons his collared shirt. He grabs the intern’s clipboard and begins fanning himself, resuming his frantic internal monologue.
“What the hell am I gonna do? He keeps asking for Rod. ‘Is Rod here? Where’s Rod? Find Rod. He’ll fix it.’ Rod got fired a week ago. Restructuring. That’s what they told me. Mergers and acquisitions. Probably too afraid to tell Sir Attaboy. I’m the new Rod! I’m it. I don’t know how to tell Mr. Shakespeare in there either, but I’m his guy in the booth now. ‘I got news for you, old man. It’s all me! Those are my words on that page.’
“What do I know from nature? I grew up in Canarsie, for chrissake. I thought I’d be working with Rogan or Stern. Now I’m on freakin’ BBC Earth with the guy from Masterpiece Theater!
“They ask me to describe what a squirrel’s eating. What the hell do I know? It looks like Trump’s penis, ok? Sue me. I thought that would be relatable. Show don’t tell. Paint a memorable picture in the mind’s eye and all that — Oh god, listen to me. I’m so screwed. They say write what you know. What do I know? I know Talk Radio, Fantasy Football. Jacking off to PornHub. That’s it. That is the full extent of my cultural experience. And it don’t include animals or nature, ok. That is one PornHub category I have yet to explore, ok. Even I have limits.”
He looks at the intern, who smiles awkwardly.
“What?” the producer says, going back to his internal monologue before the intern can answer. “I mean, sure, I produced a couple of car dealership commercials in Schenectady just outta college. But that was all Red Bull bro talk. Sales pitch 101. None of this hoity toity, English gentleman bullshit. This is Sir David motherfucking Attenborough, for chrissake!
“Gah! Step up your game, Canarsie. He’s got Emmys. Or whatever the British version of Emmys are. Brittys. He’s probably got a Pulitzer, too. Or a goddamn Nobel Peace Prize. Oh my god. Is he knighted? He probably knew the Queen! Is he a goddamn friggin knight of the round table?! And me from LaGuardia Community College. Oy vey. I am so fuckin’ screwed!”
“He’s a sir, sir?” the intern says matter of factly.
“What?!” the producer says, hyperventilating.
“You asked if he was a knight. He’s a sir, sir. A sir.”
Oh my god! Did I say that part out loud?” the producer wonders to himself. Hold your shit together, Canarsie!
“I know he’s not a goddamn knight, you shitweasel,” says the producer. “Whaddya think I’m an idiot!? Go get me coffee. No. Actually. You wanna be a big time TV writer? Big time, hot-shit writer? Smokin’ meth in some motel room with Stormcloud Daniels, cranking out pages on an old Smith-Corona, like Aaron Stork or Larry Storch or somebody like that?
“Aaron Stork? Larry — ? Wait, do you mean Aaron Sorkin?
“Yeah, Sorkin. Whatever.”
“He smoked crack not meth, sir.”
“Crack, meth? What does it matter!? Do you wanna write for TV or not!?” he says, grabbing the intern.
“I’m actually studying the business side of television but, uh, sure? Why not or whatever.”
“Exactly! Why the hell not or whatever.” says the producer, taking a long slow deep breath. “Ok, then. What are you waiting for? You got about 10 minutes before Sir David gets back in there. Grab a pencil and show me whatcha got.”
A few minutes pass. Then Sir David returns with his assistant. He takes off his dinner jacket and hands it to her. He enters the voiceover booth and adjusts the microphone.
“Ok, are there new pages for me?” he asks. “Who’s got the new pages?”
The intern runs in and drops the pages on the floor trying to hand them off to Attenborough.
Sir David picks them up and dusts them off.
“Ok, then. The Uncommon Habits of the Urban and Country Squirrel. Take 3. Or is it 33? Third time’s a charm, right?” Attenborough smiles and winks at the intern.
He leans into the mic and begins.
“Looks like we’ve interrupted this squirrel’s dinner. What’s for dinner, you ask? Well, it looks like the severed phallus of a diseased or distempered orangutan. Why distempered, you ask? You would be too if someone cut off your — ”
Attenborough pushes the mic away and swivels his chair so he’s facing the control room window.
“Stop the tape! What in god’s — ? This is even darker and more disturbing than the two before, the ones with the Trump references. What’s going on here? Roderick? Is Rod in there? Is is a joke? I mean, this doesn’t sound like Rod and it most certainly doesn’t sound like me! Seriously, lads. Stop taking the piss already. Where the fuck is Rod?”
Attenborough looks to his young assistant and with a paternal and patronizing tone says, “Sorry you had to hear that, dear.”
He swivels around to the glass again and bellows, “Right, lads. All kidding aside. Let’s get it together, shall we?
“Rod, can we do a full reset back to Take 1?”
After a beat, the producer says, “Rod’s, um, not here today or this week or ever sir. He’s out sick. Indefinitely.”
“Out sick?” says Attenborough. “How preposterous. Rod doesn’t get sick. Not when he’s working with me, anyway. Ok, well, whoever you are, can you — can someone — take a stab at rewriting …
“Oh, the hell with it! Just give me the bloody pencil and I’ll rewrite the damn thing myself. Bunch of filthy-mouthed gutter snipes, the lot of you.”
Minutes pass. Attenborough prowls the small, sound-proofed booth like a nattily-dressed lion in distress. He takes out a small flask and empties into his teacup. He puts an unlit pipe in his mouth and takes an exaggerated puff.
In his internal monologue, Attenborough sounds like Johnny Rotten. “Right. Uncommon ‘abits of the cunty urban squirrel, take thirty fuckin’ nine!”
He draws a slow, deep breath. In a soothing, almost playful voice, he intones, “Looks like we’ve interrupted this little guy’s dinner. Indeed, the wily and resourceful urban squirrel has found himself a corn on the cob for the perfect, early-evening snack.”
Then, back to infernal Johnny Rotten, he sneers internally —
Right. That’s me knackered. You fuckers get that? I sincerely hope so, ya knob-goblin yobbos. Ya twats. ’Cause I’m done, ain’t I? Fuckin ‘ate squirrels. ‘Airy fuckin’ rats, ya ask me. Fookin’ tossers.
Thanks to Luke DeLalio!
