The Wombles of Wimbledon: Hostile Takeover

Screenplay draft

Title: New idea
Credit: Written by
Author: Working Screenwriter
Draft date: 2024-10-01
Contact: wombles@wimbledon.common

FADE IN.

INT. WIMBLEDON BURROW - DAWN

Rows of colour-coded bins line the earthen walls. Moss-green light filters through a ventilation grate in a single shaft, catching dust motes that drift over a central ping-pong table repurposed as a sorting bench. Bottle tops glint in neat stacks. GREAT UNCLE BULGARIA, grey-brown fur neat beneath a tartan scarf and bottle-cap brooch, leans over the bench. His carved umbrella cane rests against the table leg. He presses a tiny 'RE-USE' seal onto each cap with a soft clink, the rhythm steady and unhurried.

ORINOCO snores inside an upturned tyre nearby, striped nightcap pulled low over his shaggy brown fur. One ink-stained paw twitches in sleep.

TOBERMORY enters from the tunnel mouth, oil-blackened paws wiping on his leather apron. A clockwork umbrella whirs and folds itself in his grip, cogs ticking.

TOBERMORY
Morning’s haul is clean. Only three crisp packets and one half-eaten pasty.

Bulgaria does not look up. Another seal stamps down.

GREAT UNCLE BULGARIA
Good. We’ll turn the packets into roof tiles. The pasty goes to the hedgehogs.

Tobermory sets the umbrella on the bench. It continues folding and unfolding on its own, testing its mechanism.

TOBERMORY
The ribs are holding. Found a broken parking meter spring in the bin behind the café. Should give it more lift on a wet day.

Bulgaria nods once. The seal clinks again. Orinoco’s snore hitches, then resumes.

GREAT UNCLE BULGARIA
Keep the spring. We don’t throw anything away.

A low thump vibrates through the ceiling. Fine soil sifts down onto the sorted caps. Bulgaria’s paw pauses mid-stamp. The clockwork umbrella stops folding. Another thump, closer. Orinoco stirs inside the tyre but does not wake.

Tobermory tilts his head toward the grate.

TOBERMORY
Helicopter. Low.

The shaft of light flickers as rotor wash passes overhead. A survey stake drops through the grate and lands upright in the centre of the table, point buried in a stack of bottle tops. Red lettering on the stake reads: WASTECORP – ACQUISITION ZONE. The stake wobbles once, then stills.

Bulgaria sets the seal stamp down. He lifts the stake, reads it, and places it aside without comment. The golden light catches the rust-brown lettering. Clinking from the bins resumes as a single cap rolls off the table and settles on the packed earth.

Orinoco mutters in his sleep, voice thick with the London drawl.

ORINOCO
(sleep-mumble)
Five more minutes…

Bulgaria’s measured Scottish lilt fills the quiet that follows.

GREAT UNCLE BULGARIA
We don’t throw anything away. Least of all our home.

The clockwork umbrella gives one final mechanical click and folds shut. Dust motes settle. The helicopter thump fades into the distance above the common.

INT. WIMBLEDON BURROW - DAWN

Rows of colour-coded bins line the earthen walls. Moss-green light filters through the ventilation grate above the central ping-pong table. Bottle caps clink softly into metal trays. Crumpled crisp packets slide into a rust-brown crate marked "ROOF."

GREAT UNCLE BULGARIA stands at the head of the table, spectacles low on his snout, tartan scarf pinned by a bottle-cap brooch. He stamps each aluminium lid with a tiny "RE-USE" seal, paw moving in steady rhythm.

ORINOCO slumps inside an upturned tyre near the far wall, striped nightcap pulled over one eye, ink-stained paw dangling. A half-eaten pasty rests on his chest.

TOBERMORY works at his bench beneath the grate, leather apron streaked with oil. Umbrella ribs and clockwork gears click under his blackened paws as he threads a new folding mechanism.

BULGARIA
The morning haul sorted yet, Orinoco?

ORINOCO
(muffled, not moving)
Nearly. The tyre still counts as sorting, don't it?

BULGARIA
It counts as napping. Shift it.

Orinoco sighs, drags himself upright, and begins separating plastic forks into a narrow wooden trough. Dust motes drift through the single shaft of light.

TOBERMORY
These ribs from the red brolly'll make decent pit props once I shorten the springs. Three more and the new ventilation flap's done.

BULGARIA
Good. WasteCorp's machines won't find us if the air stays ours.

Orinoco drops a fork. It clatters. He stares at it a moment, then picks it up slower than necessary.

ORINOCO
Suppose we just... let the next lot of litter bury the entrance. Nice and quiet. No fuss.

BULGARIA
We don't bury our own exits, Orinoco. We fix them.

Tobermory tightens a cog with a bent paperclip. The mechanism whirs, umbrella ribs snapping open and shut like a metal flower.

TOBERMORY
The clockwork'll run off the old bicycle dynamo. Two turns and it cycles for an hour. Keeps the hedgehogs fed while we work.

Bulgaria stamps another lid. The seal lands clean. He slides the finished tray toward the "TILES" bin.

BULGARIA
Everything finds its use. Even the pasty.

Orinoco nudges the pasty off his chest and into a low basket by the grate. A faint rustle answers from outside the tunnel.

TOBERMORY
Three crisp packets, one pasty, and that tyre you claimed. Clean morning.

BULGARIA
Then we keep it that way.

INT. WIMBLEDON BURROW - DAY

Rows of colour-coded bins line the earthen walls. A single shaft of daylight cuts through the ventilation grate and lands on the central ping-pong table now serving as workbench. Dust motes drift through moss-green light. Clockwork parts lie scattered among bottle caps and shredded paper.

TOBERMORY stands at the bench in his leather apron, oil-blackened paws turning a set of umbrella ribs. The ribs click together into a folding frame that whirs once and locks open. He tests the tension with a bent paperclip.

ORINOCO remains curled inside an upturned tyre in the corner, striped nightcap pulled low over his eyes. Soft snores punctuate the rustle of paper.

TOBERMORY
These ribs came from the Tuesday haul. If I slot the spring here and run the string through the bottle-cap pulley, the whole thing opens on its own when the wind shifts. Saves carrying an extra tool on the surface.

He tightens a cog. The umbrella frame snaps shut with a neat metallic snap, then reopens at half speed.

TOBERMORY
(continuing)
The lads upstairs at WasteCorp won’t notice a thing until the ledgers start flapping in their faces. One good gust and the whole boardroom sees our numbers instead of theirs.

ORINOCO stirs, yawns, and sinks deeper into the tyre.

ORINOCO
Mmm. Sounds like more work than just moving the bins lower down.

TOBERMORY
Not moving. Reclaiming. The ribs hold the weight of three ledgers at once. We print the eco-audit on the back of their own coffee receipts. They read it before they realise it’s not theirs.

He threads a length of reclaimed string through another rib and knots it to a small wheel made from a crisp-packet lid. The mechanism spins smoothly.

TOBERMORY
See? Silent. No batteries. Just yesterday’s litter doing today’s job.

ORINOCO sits up halfway, ink-stained paw rubbing his eyes. He sighs.

ORINOCO
Tobermory, it’s barely past breakfast and you’re already planning to sneak into their tower. I was hoping for at least one quiet sort before the next helicopter.

TOBERMORY
Quiet comes after we own the shares. Until then every rib gets a purpose.

He holds the finished frame up to the light shaft. The metal catches a rust-brown glint. The frame folds flat again with a soft click.

ORINOCO
(sighing)
Right. Wake me when the pasty arrives.

INT. WIMBLEDON BURROW - DAY

Rows of colour-coded bins line the earthen walls. Morning light filters through the ventilation grate and catches dust motes above the ping-pong table turned workbench. GREAT UNCLE BULGARIA stands at the table, spectacles low on his snout, stamping bottle tops with a tiny 'RE-USE' seal. His tartan scarf is pinned by a bottle-cap brooch. The carved umbrella cane rests against his chair.

BUNGO enters from the side tunnel. His fur is slicked flat. A stolen WasteCorp tie hangs loose 

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