Causo

 

1. Serious Version

Tone: Gritty drama, like a period military piece.

Mark Towshed, 25, stood uneasily in line, flanked by two other young recruits in the cold, clinical light of the medical chamber. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and tension.

Corporal Murray barked an order. “Strip to your underwear, lads. This is your medical inspection.”

They complied without question, eyes forward, shoulders tense. Moments later, the doctor entered—an austere man in a white coat with a clipboard in hand. Without ceremony, he instructed them to lower their undergarments to their ankles.

The men obeyed. Mark, decorated in more metal than most would expect—even in places unseen—stood out immediately.

The doctor’s brows furrowed. He paused, then gestured for Corporal Murray to approach. “Take a look at this, Corporal.”

Murray stepped forward, gaze narrowing. After a brief, silent inspection, he muttered under his breath, “This wouldn’t have passed in the 1950s, sir.”

“Unacceptable,” the doctor replied. “This will need to be addressed before he can proceed.”

The moment passed, but the judgment lingered in the air like smoke.

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2. Comedic Version

Tone: British comedy, slightly absurd, like The Inbetweeners meets Dad’s Army.

Mark Towshed—walking piercing collection and part-time rebel—stood shivering in his boxers next to two equally bewildered recruits.

“Right, strip to your undies!” barked Corporal Murray. “And then… drop those too. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Mark muttered. “Just what I dreamed of—group nudity with strangers and a judgmental bloke in a white coat.”

The lads dropped their underwear like they were handing in homework. The doctor stepped in, clipboard in hand and monocle-level scowl preloaded.

He stopped cold in front of Mark.

“Oh dear,” he winced. “Corporal, I think we have a situation here. Come and... inspect this.”

Murray, trying to maintain a stiff upper lip and failing, leaned in. “What in Her Majesty’s name is that? That’s not regulation!”

The two other recruits craned their necks, curious.

“Does it jingle when you walk?” one whispered.

“More than the Royal bloody Guard,” Mark shot back.

“Right,” said Murray, straightening up. “Remove it or tuck it in—this ain’t Glastonbury.”

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3. Satirical Version

Tone: Social commentary, mocking both reality TV and outdated military formality.

Mark Towshed had never exactly blended in. With enough piercings to trigger every metal detector in the UK and a healthy disregard for authority, he was either made for Bad Lads’ Army or its complete undoing.

As part of the show's mandatory “Back to the '50s” medical checks, the recruits stood in line in their underwear, like confused mannequins at a military Primark.

“Drop ’em,” the doctor ordered, without a hint of irony.

And drop them they did—revealing more than anyone signed up for.

The doctor’s professional detachment cracked for a moment as he stared at Towshed. “Corporal, please approach. We’ve encountered... post-modern anatomy.”

Murray grimaced. “Looks like the lad got tangled in a fishing tackle box.”

The doctor nodded. “Unacceptable under National Service protocol 1953-B: No body modifications that could frighten a horse or jam a Lee-Enfield rifle.”

“This is reality TV, sir,” Mark said flatly. “I thought you wanted a freak show.”

“Not that kind,” muttered Murray. “Get it removed. Or redacted. Or pixelated—whatever gets us past Ofcom.”

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Let me know if you'd like a different tone—such as horror, thriller, or something totally surreal!

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