...of a play I've been working on. It is tentatively titled, The Croissant of Enderby and already has Dave Benson-Phillips attached. Not to play a part in it you understand, I went downstairs one morning to find him affixed to the first draft.
Two men sit on a sofa. One of the men, who bears more than a passing resemblance to my cousin, Quango, reads a newspaper. The other is heavily bearded and has the air of a man who showers every day but never towel-dries his hair. After a lengthy silence (10-15 mins) MAN 1 speaks.
MAN 1: I had a full English this morning.
MAN 2: Breakfast?
MAN 1: Yep. Full English. The full Monty.
MAN 2: Bet that was nice.
MAN 1: Was. Eggs. Fried. Sausage. Bacon. Beans. Toast. Fried Bread. Fried Tomatoes. Hash Browns. Cup of tea. Sausage. Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. Not the rind. I left that. Sausage... (While he continues naming breakfast ingredients, MAN 2 begins talking)
MAN 2: Betsy left today. And she took the children. I'm all alone now. Except for you. Just me and you...
MAN 1: Beans. Beans. Fried bread. Beans. Optional extra toast.
MAN 2: And that depresses me more than words can describe. I put my head in the oven today but the gas has been cut off, so all I got was a greasy nose. I'm going to drive my car off Beachy Head tonight. Of course, I'll have to find out where that is, but as soon as I do, I'm driving off it...
MAN 1: Black pudding. Did I mention bacon? Bacon. Sausage. There was a vegetarian option but I didn't have that. I'm not a gayer.
MAN 2: (Picks up phone and dials.) Yes, information. Could you tell me where Beachy Head is, please? Really? That's quite far, I don't think I can afford that much petrol. OK, thanks. (Puts phone down) Well, it looks like I can't go there, so I'll just do it here. Goodbye friend. Your companionship has kept me going these past ten minutes...
MAN 1: Two cups of tea I got. They only charged me for one, mind. Score. Eggs. Fried and scrambled. Two sausage. Bacon. Beans. Tomatoes. Toast. Toast. Beans. Toast.
MAN 2: Goodbye, cruel world. (Pulls out a gun and shoots himself in the head, leaving MAN 1 covered in a fine gumbo of blood, brains and skull fragments)
MAN 1: Black pudding. Bacon. Sausage. And a glass of orange juice, with or without bits. I asked for bits but didn't get any, so I didn't tip. Sausage...
(Music fades in gradually. It begins as a low hum but builds and builds until it establishes itself in the ears of the audience, who quickly realise that it is Achy Breaky Heart, and flee the theatre in droves.)