THE GREAT EASTERN
EPISODE # 6 - “THE FUNKS”
FIRST BROADCAST - OCTOBER 17, 1998

WRITTEN BY EDWARD L. RICHE, STEVEN P. PALMER,  
&  MACK FURLONG


PRODUCED BY THE CANADIAN BROADCASTING CORPORATIO
DOUG:	THE BCN INTRO

THEME

CLIPS

WACKA-WACKA

PAUL:	Ca va, Canada, how are you
        now!  Gothann die-inn, 
        Iceland!  Newfoundland, goo 
        goo ga joob !

        On today’s show:  old salts 
        and new;  a bird from Malta 
        joins the chase;  excitation 
        in numbing plenitude;  and the 
        ancient Bone Heads of the 
        Funks !

        All this for you, with me, on 
        The Great Eastern, Nfld.’s 
        Cultural Magazine !

PAUL:	Whew ... what a week.

        Last Saturday, BCN’s Rear 
        Admiral, director of radio Ish 
        Lundrigan, charged me with the 
        investigation of the condition 
        of our erstwhile weather 
        watchdog, Erling Biggs.  

        Erling is currently seven 
        months into a year-long 
        rotation manning our mighty 
        repeater station on the lonely 
        Funk Islands.  

        There are disturbing reports 
        concerning his emotional 
        “well-being”.  This is not a 
        sign of weakness in our Biggs.  
        The 12 month turn on the Funks 
        has not once been completed.  
        That’s not entirely true.  
        Morris Jesso in fact did 24 
        months, but that’s something 
        ... else.

        Treeless, barren, 49 degrees, 
        45 minutes north, 53 degrees, 
        11 minutes east, the Funk 
        Islands are comprised of 
        several reefs out in the 
        roaring North Atlantic.  
        Brennan Rocks, Little Funk, 
        Grand Funk, Blue Funk, and the 
        only shoal that regularly 
        stays above water, the islet 
        that supports the huge metal 
        tracery of the BCN Eiffel Reid 
        tower, Funk Island itself ... 
        the outpost to end all 
        outposts.

        Perhaps you’re familiar with 
        the name, but can’t quite 
        place it.  Funk Island, the 
        final and only home of Nfld’s 
        giant, flightless bird, the 
        now-extinct Great Auk, and 
        still sanctuary to countless 
        million turres, puffins, etc.]

        I set out on Monday morning 
        from the capital.  This, then, 
        is my audio diary of a Trip to 
        the Funks.


SFX:	DUFF MUSIC CROSS TO INTERIOR ROAD 

CRUISER.

PAUL:	Phht, phhht.  Day One, 1:47 p.m., 
        just out of Goobies. (clears 
        throat)  Aboard a chilly Shea’s 
        Roadcruiser, which is a three-
        syllable word for bus, we’ve just 
        left our lunch stop at Goobies.  
        The passengers hope that the 
        warmth of the food may help keep 
        us from freezing in the back of 
        this Newfie ‘collectivo.’  Pecera, 
        (g)wah (g)wah  buggy

        Though I fear that my seat next to 
        the quaintly named ‘bathroom’ will 
        see more action than the heaters 
        will.  Whoosh ...

        The crossroads at Goobies serves 
        as a marker for travellers in 
        Newfoundland, signaling the 
        departure from civilization and 
        the entry into the poorly charted 
        and unsuccessfully governed areas 
        of the so-called “Province”.

        Awwwgh, onion rings coming back on 
        me...

    	But I precede myself.  Just 
        getting to the Funks is a 
        journey in itself.  From 
        Goobies, this road-cruiser 
        will take me only as far as 
        Gambo.  Then it’s a wait of 
        anywhere from one to 12 to 48 
        hours for the pile-driving 
        coach trip to the wild 
        frontier town of Valleyfield, 
        gateway to the Funks.

        Brrrrr ... if I survive this 
        draught.

SFX:	COME UP ON ROARING HEARTH IN 
DINING AREA OF THE ROSA POND 
RANCH.

PAUL:	(Warming his hands at the 
        fire)  Ahhhh.  Warmth.  
        Fortunately, while waiting 
        here in Gambo, I’ve lucked 
        into a heaping helping of the 
        legendary hospitality of 
        George Cartwright.  Mr. 
        Cartwright is owner-operator 
        of the Rosa Pond salmon farm. 
        This sprawling ranch house he 
        calls home is a welcome way-
        station for weary travellers, 
        famous for the wonders that 
        emerge from its kitchen.  Mmm, 
        mmm, mmm, smells like mighty 
        good chow.

GEORGE:	Chow mein actually.  Dinner 
        should be almost ready.  Tsing 
        Tao?  

TSING:	Leddy, Mr. Cartlight.

SFX:	DINNER BELL RINGING.

GEORGE:	The boys should be along 
        presently -- rounding up a few 
        smolts that got out of the 
        pen.

PAUL:	(putting chaw in) It’s awfully 
        kind of you to welcome a 
        stranger to your table like 
        this, Mr. Cartwright.

GEORGE:	Call me George.  Have a seat.

PAUL:	Thank you kindly.

SFX:	THEY SIT AT THE TABLE.

GEORGE:	Reckon you’re a radio man ?

PAUL:	(Paul’s got the big jaw of  
        backy on the go)  Yup.

GEORGE:	Heading up Badger’s Quay way I 
        hear.

PAUL:	That’s right.  Trying to make 
        it to the Funks.

GEORGE:	The Funks?!  This time o’ 
        year?

PAUL:	You heard me right.  I got to 
        find a man up there.

GEORGE:	Not a yellow journalist, are 
        ya?

PAUL:	No, sir.

GEORGE:	Well, why don’t you just spit 
        on the floor there.

SFX:	THE BIG SPIT.

GEORGE:	I’m a man who believes in 
        mindin’ his own business, but 
        you could be headin’ for some 
        trouble.

PAUL:	I ain’t lookin for none.

GEORGE:	Don’t get me wrong, they’re 
        good folks in Valleyfield, but 
        that’s Pentecost territory -- 
        they don’t take kindly to 
        strangers with microphones --  
        leastways that’s what I hear.

PAUL:	I don’t scare easy, George.

GEORGE:	You got a hankering to head on 
        up there, I won’t stand in 
        your way.  Sherriff’s an 
        ornery cuss, though, Erb Wyatt 
        -- you wanta watch yer back, 
        ya hear me?

PAUL:	Yessir. When are we strapping 
        on the feed-bag, George ?  I’m 
        gut-founded.

GEORGE:	Ah, here’s my boys now.

BOYS:	Howdy pa.

GEORGE:	This here’s Mr. Paul Moth.  
        Media man out o’ William 
        Carson City.

PAUL:	Boys. (spits)

GEORGE:	This is my oldest, Moose.  
        Runs the farm.

MOOSE:	Howdy.

PAUL:	Howdy Moose.

GEORGE:	And my middle boy, Joey -- the 
        little fella from Gambo, they 
        call him.

JOEY:	I was a journalist myself -- 
        yes, worked for three papers -
        - not one paper, not two 
        papers but three--

GEORGE:	Yes, Joey.  And this is my 
        youngest boy, Adam, runs the 
        amateur theatre company in 
        these parts.

PAUL:	Howdy.

ADAM:	Well howdy yourself, pardner.  
        How do you find our little 
        outfit?

PAUL:	It’s wonderful.

ADAM:	Really?  I find it stifling, 
        I’m desperate to get out of 
        here...

TSING TAO:	Chow time!

ADAM:	What tasty treats do we have 
        tonight, Tsing Tao?

TSING TAO:	Cats meat, pig’s feet, 
        dumplings boiled up in a sheet 
        ... jowls and cavalancers--

ADAM:	Oh spare us the ridiculous 
        accent, Tsing Tao -- he’s from 
        Wesleyville.  

GEORGE:	Dig in, Mr. Moth.

PAUL:	Oh my!!!! 

SFX:	ARRIVAL OF COACH .PAUL DOESN’T 
EVEN GET TO EAT -- WHISTLES, 
“HYAH!  GIDDY-UP THERE!”

GEORGE:	Fraid that’s your coach now.  
        Best grab your kit and head 
        out -- never know when another 
        one might be along.

PAUL:	Oh, damn.

ADAM:	Y’all come back now, ya hear?

PROMO:	UNIVERSITY OF THE AIR


SFX:	PAUL WHARFSIDE IN VALLEYFIELD/ 

BADGER’S QUAY.  THE BELL 
TOLLS, THE GULLS SQUAWK, 
ETC...

PAUL:	(blowing into mic., exhausted) 
        Day two, 4:12 p.m.... No 
        boatman in Valleyfield willing 
        to risk the journey, so after 
        a miserable night on the old 
        attendant’s cot of an 
        abandoned gas station, I’ve 
        come on foot to Badger’s Quay, 
        my last hope, this squalid 
        alehouse of ancient mariners, 
        the Skull and Brine. (deep 
        determined breath)

SFX:	GOES TO OPEN DOOR TO ALEHOUSE.
	PAUL CRASHES THROUGH DOOR INTO 
ANCIENT PUB, THIRTY SALTY 
TYPES “ARRRH AND NARRRH”.  
PAUL BELLOWS

PAUL:	I need a man who’ll take me to 
        the Funks.

SFX:	LOW MUTTERING OF ARRRHS AND 
NARRRHS

PARROT:	To the Funks, to the Funks.

SFX:	PEG LEG ACROSS PLANK FLOOR TO 
PAUL

JERRY:	I’ll take you to the Funks, 
        but BE WARNED!

PAUL:	Yes?

JERRY:	It’s not cheap.

PAUL:	No?

JERRY:	Sixteen Guineas!

PAUL:	Return?

JERRY:	Think you’ll be coming back, 
        do ye ?

PAUL:	I do.  The name’s Moth, Paul 
        Moth.

JERRY:	Ah, the radio man!  I’m Gerald 
        Kean, but call me Jerry, with 
        a “J”.

PARROT:	All this for you with me!  
        Don’t Probe Me, Don’t Probe 
        Me.

JERRY:	Bird goes by the name of  
        Lucy.  She loves your show!

PARROT:	Oh my, Oh my.  520 on the 
        longwave!

PAUL:	That’s wonderful, when can we 
        leave?

JERRY:	The bird’ll know, has a feel 
        for the rip tide.

PAUL:	The bird ?  So what, tomorrow?

PARROT:	Tomorrow, tomorrow.

JERRY:	There it is then, tommorow.

PAUL:	Wait, you sure that she wasn’t 
        just … parroting ?

JERRY:	Maltese Parrot.  No.  
        Tomorrow, Lucy?

PARROT:	Tomorrow, Lucy.

JERRY:	There, see!  We’ll have to put 
        in some supplies.  That’s 
        extra.  On top of the sixteen 
        Guineas.

PARROT:	Extra, extra.

PAUL:	Okay, okay.

JERRY:	Come with me, the brother-in-
        law’s the chandler round here.


SFX:	CROSS TO SHIPS SUPPLIES.  

(BIRD THROUGHOUT)  PEG LEG

JERRY:	We’ll need thirty-eight metric 
        fathoms of hemp rope, extra 
        rough tops;  half a yaffle of 
        hard tack;  a puncheon of salt 
        meat;  a furkin of limes;  and 
        a rundel of port.

PAUL:	Wait a minute, Jerry, how long 
        is this trip?

JERRY:	Depends on the tides, but no 
        more than a couple of days.

PAUL:	Well, isn’t that a lot of 
        port?

JERRY:	A rundel, sure tis only 1 and 
        3 sixteenths of a pipe.

PAUL:	A pipe?  How much is …

JERRY:	Two hogsheads to the pipe 
        master.

PAUL:	Yeah but …

JERRY:	Two men, two days, three gills 
        after lunch, the both of us a 
        terce after dinner and the 
        bird likes a drop, which 
        reminds me we’ll want some 
        cheese.

PAUL:	Cheese?

JERRY:	Stilton, yes, and forty pecks 
        Bridge Mixture.  Oh, and a 
        couple of bags of those 
        roasted almonds.

PARROT:	Smoky flavour, smoky flavour.

PAUL:	That all?

JERRY:	No.  We’ll want to put on a 
        few dirty magazines.  For the 
        bird.

        We sail at the crack of dawn!

PAUL:	That is early.

JERRY:	Well, how about 11:30, after a 
        spot of brunch.

PAUL:	Sounds good …


SFX:	CROSS TO CREAKING SHIP AT SEA.  

PAUL STAGGERS ABOUT BELOW 
DECKS,  KNOCKING THINGS OVER, 
CHOKING BACK VOMIT.  BIRD 
FLUTTERS MADLY ABOUT HIS HEAD

PARROT:	Oh my!  Oh my!  Cultural 
        magazine!

PAUL:	Shut up !  Infernal bird !

PARROT:	What’s that noise from 
        Newfoundland, from 
        Newfoundland!

PAUL:	Where’s your damn owner?

PARROT:	What a beauty!  Get a load of 
        those! 

SFX:	PAUL KNOCKS ON DOOR

PAUL:	Jerry ?  You in there 
        …(choking it back) there ?

JERRY:	(very drunk, through door)  
        No, no, get the bird away from 
        me! 

PAUL:	The bird’s with me.

JERRY:	Don’t hurt the bird!  There’s 
        a curse!

SFX:	DOOR OPENS

JERRY:	You didn’t hurt the … ah there 
        you are, Lucy, my pet.

PARROT:	My pet, my pet.

PAUL:	It’s pretty rough out there, 
        shouldn’t you be at the wheel?

JERRY:	I’m too sick. (choking back 
        vomit)

PAUL:	(just choking back vomit, 
        can’t get words out)

JERRY:	(ditto)

PAUL:	(ditto)

JERRY:	(ditto)

SFX:	HUGE CRASH OF HEAVY SEAS, 
WATER FLOODS BELOW DECKS

PARROT:	Uh-oh, uh-oh!  Decks Awash!  
        Decks Awash!

JERRY:	Arrghhh this is it, Paul, 
        we’re lost.  It’s Davey Jones 
        Locker for us, laddy! 

PAUL:	What!  This trip was given 
        three stars in the Tourism 
        Guide!

PARROT:	Take the wheel, take the 
        wheel!

PAUL:	YES!  YES!  Okay, okay, I’ll 
        take the G.D. wheel.

SFX:	CROSS TO WAVE BATTERED DECK OF 
THE SHIP

PARROT:	Hard to starboard!  Hard to 
        starboard!

PAUL:	Starboard, yes.

PARROT:	Port!  Port!

PAUL:	MAKE UP YOUR MIND!

PARROT:	Rundel of port !  MIND! MIND! 
        520 on the loooong wave!

PAUL:	Where’s the island, you stupid 
        bird ?

PARROT:	Land Ho!  Land Ho!

PAUL:	Avast or avar or thar she 
        blows, what do you know.

PARROT:	Lucy wants a treat!  Lucy 
        wants a treat!

PAUL:	I’ll give you a treat !

SFX:	PAUL CLUBS BIRD

PARROT:	SQUAWWWWK !


SFX:	BOAT ENGINE CUTS BACK.  

SLOSHING WAVE ACTION NEAR DOCK

PAUL:	The human mind harbours a 
        miraculous capacity to block 
        out or erase the memory of 
        pain.  So it was that I had 
        forgotten this island, this 
        miserable dock, until this 
        moment.  It is now very 
        familiar.

ERLING:	(SHOUTING FROM DISTANCE)  
        Paul!  Paul!

PAUL:	(SHOUTING BACK)  Erling, come 
        and give me a hand with the 
        rope!

ERLING:	Did you bring the bird?

PAUL:	The bird?  She’ll be along 
        shortly.  There’s been a 
        little hitch.

ERLING:	(RUNNING AWAY, SCREAM OF 
DESPAIR)

PAUL:	Erling, come ba … argghh … 
        just lay the microphone down 
        here …

SFX:	BANGING OF MICROPHONE

PAUL:	(tossing rope off)  One … two 
        … three ….

SFX:	SPLASH OF PAUL GOING IN,
HARD CUT TO

PAUL:	Phhhtttt.  Phhttt.  Wednesday, 
        3:54 pm, on the island after a 
        brief mishap with boat, no 
        thanks to Biggs.  Phhttt.  
        Funk Island reprise.

        Reports of Erling’s mental 
        collapse do not seem to have 
        been exaggerated.  He’s 
        disappeared into the birds.  

        I’m making my way up the 
        ancient path to the Repeater 
        Keeper’s Quarters.
        I am in the shadow of the 
        mighty tower and … there it 
        is, that old familiar feeling, 
        40,000 watts of direct current 
        beneath your feet, the 
        consequent excitation of the 
        nerve bundles in the … 
        extremities … the tissue gates 
        flung open, the rush of blood 
        … such a torment when one is 
        alone.

SFX:	CROSS TO MORE WALKING

PAUL:	Ahhh, my old friends, the 
        mysterious stone figures of 
        the Funks.  Mistakenly named 
        ‘Bone Heads’ for their 
        bleached white appearance, 
        they are in fact composed 
        entirely of (Paul slaps giant 
        stone) White Onyx.  What 
        earlier race struggled to 
        erect them and why remains an 
        anthropological conundrum. 
        Their anguished expression and 
        poor teeth suggest a Celtic 
        tribe.

        Crimey the … tissue excitation 
        is much more profound than I 
        recall … no point in even 
        attempting to answer the call, 
        the power’s always on, the 
        light never goes out, like 
        being 16 years old.  Jeez … 
        still … oh man.

SFX:	TAPE SUDDENLY OFF

PAUL:	That worked for all of about 
        ten seconds.  No wonder poor 
        Erling’s going mental.

        Wow, the old shack.  I recall 
        it being smaller, then again 
        it was built for two men.  The 
        two man crew concept was first 
        thought to be more humane than 
        a solo posting, but finding a 
        team of compatible joes from 
        the station proved … after two 
        grisly homicides it was a one 
        man … I suppose I should 
        knock.

SFX:	KNOCKS ON DOOR, IT OPENS

PAUL:	Erling?  Erling?  Considering 
        this bloody legacy in 
        Newfoundland broadcasting I 
        have elected to keep my tape 
        recorder running throughout my 
        visit, a permanent witness in 
        case the cabin fever has … Hm, 
        everything looks in ship 
        shape...

SFX:	LOG BOOK PAGES

PAUL:	... the log’s been 
        fastidiously maintained... 
        back-up fuel gauge riding 
        nicely ... Feed from the BCN ? 
        Check. Bergstrom readings 
        normal...

SFX:	RUBS MOISTURE OFF WINDOW.

PAUL:	Look at that, the tower guy 
        wires polished.

SFX:	TURNS UP FEED LEVELS

PAUL:	(reacts badly) That’ll drive 
        anyone mental...

SFX:	MOVES TOWARDS OTHER AREA.

PAUL:	Look’s like Erlings’ been 
        doing quite a lot of writing.  
        In verse.  Villanelles.  Yep, 
        definitely over the edge.  
        “Ode to Gander” ... oh dear, 
        this is serious.  Evidence 
        here also of … seems he’s been 
        polishing bullets, and I NOTE 
        THE RIFLE IS NO LONGER UP ON 
        THE WALL.  Looks bad, what’s 
        this (reads) ‘Confidential.’ 

SFX:	PAGES TURNING

PAUL:	And here it says 
        “confidential” again, hmmm.

SFX:	MORE PAGES TURNING

PAUL:	“A Proposal to Mine Auk Guano 
        on Funk Island, BiggsCo 
        Excavation International Group 
        of Companies Supreme.”  Wooo.

ERLING:	How do you like it?

PAUL:	(startled)  Whoooah!  

ERLING:	How do you like it?

PAUL:	I … don’t know … I had just 
        started it and …

SFX:	RIFLE COCKED

PAUL:	Are you mad?  Put that rifle 
        down, Erling.

ERLING:	I’ll be a man of means.  I’ve 
        done some calculations and 
        figure I’ll be a 
        boobabazillionaire.  I won’t  
        let you stop me.

PAUL:	Stop you from what?

ERLING:	Mining the Auk guano.  I’ve 
        discovered that it’s an 
        extremely potent aphrodisiac.  
        There’s a fortune to be made.

PAUL:	No, no, no Erling, it’s not 
        the auk guano, it’s the 
        electromagnetic field 
        generated from the battery.

ERLING:	Battery?

PAUL:	There’s forty thousand watts 
        of direct current buried in 
        the ground.  It effects the 
        erectile tissue.

ERLING:	Oh.  I … dear God … (breaks 
        down weeping)

PAUL:	It’s okay, Erling, you’re just 
        having a nervous breakdown.  
        It happens.  Here, give me the 
        gun, I’ll make some Ovaltine …

SFX:	CROSS TO ERLING SIPPING 
OVALTINE

PAUL:	… after drinking half a rundel 
        of port, so it’ll be tomorrow 
        before he sobers up.  Even 
        then I don’t think he’ll sail 
        without the bird.

ERLING:	It knew the tides.

PAUL:	Apparently.

ERLING:	Why would he kill the bird?  

PAUL:	I don’t know.  In any event it 
        looks as though we’re here for 
        a while, might as well make 
        the best of it.

        Could listen to the radio, 
        Kyle West is on. 

SFX:	PAUL RUMMAGING

PAUL:	Look, a Scrabble game.

ERLING:	That’s a lot help when you’re 
        out here alone.  

PAUL:	Do you play?

ERLING:	In fact, I’m pretty good.

PAUL:	Of course, a man of letters, 
        so to speak.  Shall we?

ERLING:	By all means.

CROSS:	(MIDDLE OF SCRABBLE GAME)

ERLING:	“Cargo” and “rabbit,” got the 
        double letter here, that’s 33 
        points.

PAUL:	Right!  “Yarmulke”, “quiz” and 
        jeez, look at that, makes 
        “argyle” too, getting the 
        triple letter both ways on the 
        “y”, that’s lucky, triple word 
        of course, and 27 here, and 
        the 50 for seven letters, 212 
        points.  Not bad.

ERLING:	“Kite”, that’s 8 points.

PAUL:	Okay, okay, give me a second … 
        ah “juniper” and, this is a 
        coincidence, I swear, 
        “ignominious”.

ERLING:	Yeah, but what’s a “jabiru”?

PAUL:	Oh right, “jabiru”, that’s an 
        extra 39 points.  It’s a kind 
        of stork.  Jeez, this is a lot 
        of numbers to add up.

ERLING:	Challenge.

PAUL:	Don’t.

ERLING:	Challenge!

PAUL:	(sighs) Go ahead.

SFX:	ERLING FLIPS THROUGH 
DICTIONARY.  READS.  SLAMS IT 
SHUT

PAUL:	Wellllll?  Stork, central and 
        south America?

SFX:	SILENCE.  THEN ERLING KNOCKS 
BOARD SKY HIGH, TILES RAIN 
DOWN

PAUL:	Listen, Erling, there’s no 
        sense getting like that, we 
        have to fill up the time some 
        how.

ERLING:	Scrabble is out!

PAUL:	Well then … How about this … I 
        spy spy, with my little eye, 
        something beginning with ‘b’ …

ERLING:	OFF!  OFF!  OFF!  I’ve got to 
        get off this island, NOW!

PAUL:	Okay … okay, I’ll take the 
        boat.  I brought the damn 
        thing in, I can take it out.

	CROSS TO:	 


SFX:	BOAT ENGINE IDLING. ERLING 

RUNNING DOWN BEACH/WHARF.

PAUL:	All set, Erling?

ERLING:	Quick, let’s get going.  The 
        auto-monitor will engage any 
        second -- the initial feedback 
        could kill us!

PAUL:	Cast off! (singing) “with 
        Gilligan, the Skipper, too, 
        The Millionaire and his wife” 
        … Just think Erling, I’m not 
        even licensed to drive a car.

ERLING:	You know what you’re doing, 
        don’t you?

PAUL:	Yesssss … Just point her and 
        throttle up!

SFX:	BOAT ENGINE GUNS

ERLING:	Look at that sky.

PAUL:	“Red sky at night, sailor’s 
        delight, red sky at lunch” … 
        how does that go, bunch, 
        crunch, hunch, ?

ERLING:	Just get me back home.

PAUL:	Trust me, Erling.  The seas 
        were pretty bad when I came 
        over here, how bad can they 
        get … “the movie star ...”

	CROSS TO:


SFX:	HELLISH GALE AT SEA		


PAUL/ERLING:	ARGGGHHHHHHHH!

PAUL:	(phht, phht)  Day three, 8:47 
        p.m., --

ERLING:	Will you fuck off with the 
        audio diary, Moth !!

PAUL:	Give me that microphone, 
        Biggs--

SFX:	THEY STRUGGLE. BIRD SMASHES 
INTO WINDSHIELD OF WHEEL-
HOUSE. CROAKING.

BIRD:	Whew what a week, what a week.

PAUL:	It’s the bird!

ERLING:	I’ll get him.

PAUL:	Don’t.

ERLING:	It’s our only hope.

SFX:	DOOR TO WHEELHOUSE FLUNG OPEN

PAUL:	ERLLLLLLLLLLLLING!

SFX:	STATION IDENT

PAUL:	Oral tradition is strong in 
        this province.  There are many 
        ominous tales dealing with the 
        delicate balance between life 
        and death in Newfoundland. 
        Several in particular concern 
        the Funks.  Let me quote the 
        final few quatrains from one 
        of the most famous, “The 
        Doomed Prosper Violet.”
    
        The seas roll dark as stygian 
        pitch,
        The winds, uncommon high,
        Prayers raised in hope of 
        sighting land,
        This crew knows they will die.
        
        All about lies fear and dread,
        Blood runs thin with fright,
        The stench of panic fills the 
        air,
        On roars the final night.
        
        I speak the haunted, sole 
        survivor,
        And listener, mark my word,
        The Funks claim many blameless 
        prey,
        Who rest there now, submerged.
        
MUSIC:	OUT THEME

PAUL: 	A journey is over.  You have 
        been listening to The Great 
        Eastern, live from the Olde 
        Towne.  Our wizard of the 
        wireless is Hollis Duffett, 
        and the director of radio is 
        Ish Lundrigan.

        Don’t forget our annual 
        Listener’s Letters program, 
        coming up in early November.  
        If you have a question about 
        The Great Eastern or the BCN, 
        send it to us at 342 Duckworth 
        St., St. John’s, A1C  1H5, or 
        use our electronic address, 
        greateastern@stjohns.cbc.ca.

        Anybody whose letter we use on 
        that show will get a BCN tee-
        shirt in the mail.

        Check our website, 
        www.greateastern.cbc.ca
 
        My name is Paul Moth, join me 
        again next week for The Great 
        Eastern, Newfoundland’s 
        Cultural Magazine !

SFX:	THEME OUT.  DOOR OPENS, RUSTLE 
OF PAPER

ERLING:	(HAVING A HARD TIME WITH IT)  
        Hello, I’m your weather 
        watchdog, Erling Biggs with 
        Traffic Alert.  Traffic Alert 
        brought to you by Furlong 
        Confections.  Whether it’s 
        butterscotch, bullseyes or 
        molasses, enjoy a Furlong knob 
        today.

    	First, some announcements.

        Hogan House residence at UNSJ 
        is auctioning off belongings 
        left behind by this year’s 
        mid-term casualties.  The 
        spoils of academic sorrow hit 
        the auction block at 6:00 
        tonight in the dining hall.  
        All proceeds to the Hogan 
        House games room expansion 
        fund.


	
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