He put his arm round my shoulder and told me he is bored.

I say I know how he feels

He says that’s the problem with omnipotence. Being everywhere, knowing everything that ever will be, it’s just boring.

I ask him if he ever thought about letting go.

He looks at me with confusion, the kind where the middle of your forehead creases as your eyebrows try to meet.

I say that maybe if he let go of something he’d be less bored. Maybe it could be a project for him.

He asks me what he should do.

I tell him maybe he should create something.

And God made a ball of clay. He crushes it and moulds it around, rolling it inbetween his hands like he was trying to warm up on a cold day.

I tell him it’s a good start.

And God lights a fire and illuminates the clay.

Let there be light.

God asks me what he should do next.

I tell him he needs some chaos in there. Something unpredictable. Just to let go.

Let go.

And God shaps Man out of clay in his own image. A cheap caricature in mud. And he breathes life into Man.

God puts him on the surface of the ball and asks me what now.

I say now just sit back and see what happens.

Let go.

And Man runs across the surface of the clay.

God sculpts hills and valleys for Man to climb over. But Man grows restless being a plaything.

What do I do now, asks God.

Let go.

God looks at me and says I think Man needs company. Like how I needed company. Like how I needed you.

So I tell him okay, give him company.

God pulls up another chunk of clay and creates Woman.

God watches them run across the surface of the clay for a while. What now, he asks.

Let go.

God says that this is all pointless, that he knows exactly what’s going to happen. He’s seen it already.

You need to let go.

God tells me he’s not sure he knows how.

I tell God to turn his back and look away.

God says I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to make a new hill that I didn’t make and think that just because I didn’t make it that means I can’t control it.

I tell him to turn around.

And God turns around.

And God openly weeps.

He asks me how I did that without him knowing I would.

Let go.

And he reaches out and touches the branches, and lets the leaves fall through his fingers like he’s playing with his lover’s hair, and touches the ripe red fruit hanging like dewdrops.

He asks me what it is.

It’s a tree, I tell him.

And God stares in wonder at the tree.

And soon Man and Woman are staring at the tree too.

And Man and woman, in their curiosity, reach out and pull the fruit off the tree.

God panics. He thinks they’re destroying the tree, destroying the one thing he has no control over.

I tell him to relax, just let nature take its course. What happens, happens.

Let go.

But God pushes Man and Woman away from the tree in anger. He pushes them away and builds up a wall around the tree. But Man and Woman start to break down the wall, trying to get at the tree.

I ask God if he saw this happening.

And God looks at me with tears in his eyes. I don’t want to let go, he tells me.

It’s too late, I tell him. It’s already out of your control. That one act, that one tree, one thing you never saw coming, it’s already thrown ripples into the pond. It’s a chain reaction and it will only get worse. More and more, things will grow out of your control, growing like a spiderweb fracture across a plane of glass. I tell him this is the way of things.

God turns his back on the world and walks away.

And I guess that means I’m now in control.

The old man's wrinkled brow creases as his eyes drop down to the floor. I top up his glass with a slug of Smirnoff ("Western junk" he sneered when I first offered him the bottle. It didn't stop him drinking it) and ask him to continue.

"He...he was a real Soviet. Not like these you see in American movies nowadays, you know, all square, all solid, all right angles. Like they made out of bricks. He may not have been strong, but to him, the hammer and sickle was all that mattered. He was in the navy, you know."

I nod. You never saw him out of uniform, in all the photos, all the videos, always neat in his naval dress.

"Da, stationed on K278 you know. Before it sank. He worked in reactor room, monitoring coolant. Ach, some say it were not a job for such a man, but he served. He served. Without question, he never question his duty to the motherland. That is before...those lies, those..."

He pauses, searching for the word in English.

"Bah, it matters not. They accused him of being traitor. Can you believe it? Him, traitor to our country. And you know why? That Uncle of his. Hah!"

His eyes became alive with anger, like the hatred was the only thing keeping him alive.

"Yes, that Uncle! Rich, he was. And powerful! A capitalist!"

He spits on the floor.

"Always hoarding money! Always! American dollar, Soviet ruble, it matter not to him, he took it all. Some say he had so much he could swim in it! Hah! Imagine such a thing."

He takes a long breath, mellowing almost instantly.

"In Russia, you see, blood...it matter. Blood, thicker than water, thicker than vodka, eh?"

And with that, he takes a slug of the liquid.

"Hmm. Western junk. Da, his Uncle. He was loyal to his Uncle as much as he could be, but his loyalty to the party always came first. Sadly, his nephews, he lose all three nephews to his Uncle. He try, he try to teach them good values. He try to get them to love the motherland as much as he did, but they went off to live with the Uncle. Money. How can us true loyalists, how can we fight such an evil? It poison the mind you see."

He leans forward. I smell his breath, a mixture of the alcohol and cheap cigarettes.

"Da, it infect you, like virus! It got so bad, that's when...the mood swings came. He always so quiet, so reserved before then, but the loss of his nephews, and his country...turning on him like that, accusing him of...what they say...'sleeping with enemy'. Hah! It not take much to push a man over the edge. His temper was like dynamite. The slightest thing set him off, fists whirling like tornado, shouting angrily! Any man who get in his way, pow!"

He throws his fist up violently, knocking over his glass. He continues, as if he doesn't even notice the vodka pooling at his feet.

"Bash! He get into all sorts of trouble. The powers that be, they do not like their sailors, even the most loyal ones, with such a temper. They send him to gulag. They claim he actually go into a...what is word...rest home? He go to recover, to reduce anger, that's what the party line was. But I know. He go to gulag. For three years. He came out a changed man."

A teardrop runs down his face and splashes on the floor, mixing with the spilled vodka.

"His voice, that was the worst. You could no longer understand him! You say to him, 'Good morning, Comrade', and he make such horrid noise back! Barely recognisable as words! My friend, this man I had known...all my life, I can no longer talk to my friend."

He pauses for a long time.

"That, that is when the other...lies. That is when they come out. His friendship with that American rat! Hah! All lies! I know he hated this American! But this rat from USA, he suddenly everywhere! His face in newspapers, on TV, he appear in children's comics! Even here! Most recognisable face in the world, they say! It made him mad! So angry! This...rat...this..."

He searches for the words. I notice for the first time he only struggles with English when he gets angry.

"...bastard! And suddenly everywhere with him! Right next to this bastard, they put my friend! They wrote stories about them together, the Soviet hero and the American! And the USA, he always come out on top! He always win in these stories! My friend is laughing stock! He...he never recover from that. He take his pistol, and he says to me 'I'm going out for a walk'. He never come back. He never come back."

I can see that this is all the old man will say. I top up his glass, pour the rest of the bottle into mine, and hold it up in a toast.

"To Donald?" I say.

He smiles briefly through his sadness, and lifts his glass.

"Da, to Donald."

The theme music starts up. It sounds like a cross between music you’d do the Charleston to and being blasted in the face by pure saccharin.

Jeremy: “What ho, mother! Jeremy Winthorpe Kyle-Chefford here and in person. Today we’ll be speaking to some fine people, some rogues and some ruffians, all!”

He grins at the camera, a shit-eating grin aimed squarely at the lower classes.

Jeremy: “First out to bat we have Custer and Celinia. Raised voices came to the front after Celinia embarrassed Custer at a dinner party by using the forks in completely the wrong order. Please, air your approval in the form of applause!”

A cacophony of clapping. Out on stage comes an elderly gentleman, his hair greying and thinning, his face wrinkled. He is followed by an anxious looking woman, much younger than him. They both sit on leather chairs. A waiter comes out and hands a water to Celinia and a glass of brandy to Custer. He swirls it dramatically.

Jeremy: “Now now! Custer, tell us all, our ears await!”

Custer leans forward, swirling his brandy glass even more. The swishing liquid clips the rim and dribbles down over his hand. He stares at it for a moment and stops.

Custer: (in a thick Yorkshire accent) “She’s a whore, Jeremy, a big ol’ silly whore.”

The audience gasps. Jeremy’s monocle pops clean off his face. A butler dashes in and reattaches it.

Jeremy: “Now, sir! Why do you say such things about a ladies honour? Our researches, did you or did you not, sir, tell them this were a matter of forks?'”

Custer: “Aye, s’her goin’ off forkin’ everyone. Tha’s what I say to your researchers.”

Jeremy: (flustered) “Ah, yes. I. Well, sir…I. You know, this isn’t that kind of a show. We mostly discuss matters pertaining to etiquette and the like. Affairs of the bedroom is not an appropriate topic!”

Custer: “An you can fork off as well, great jessie, simperin’ on about teaspoons and the like. Get ye head out o’ yer arsehole. Now, if you’re done, sir, I’ll be tellin’ you about my Celinia.”

Jeremy: “Well, it is unusual...”

Custer: “Aye, now, lemme tell you. My Celinia here, she ‘as a sex drive ‘igher than my blood alcohol level. Now, evidently I cannot satisfy ‘er desires, so she, bein’ a common whore like she is, goes off forkin’ about with all local folk.”

Jeremy: “I see. Is this true Celinia?”

Celinia nods, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

Custer: “Aye, it’s true, yer filthy whore. Lemme tell you, Jeremy, she banged our local butcher, she banged our gamekeeper, she banged the stable boy. I think you may be t’only man ‘ere she ‘asn’t flashed her knickers at.”

Celinia stares at Jeremy, a voracious look in her eyes, like a crack addict looking at a man made of nothing but delicious crack.

Custer: “An you know what else, Jeremy? You know what else? I ‘ave suspicions, Jeremy, I ‘ave suspicions that our kids, our tykes, are not even ours! They’re ‘ers and some other fella! Who knows?”

Jeremy: “Crivens! Well, tell us about the children, man!”

Custer: “Our oldest, Partario, ‘e be 16 next month. T’middle child, Nintendo, ‘er be 13. An the young one, Owi’oole Mboto Mboto, ‘e be just 3. I ‘ave pictures ‘ere.”

A screen behind Custer displays a photograph of the children. Partario is half Indian, Nintendo is half Japanese, Owi’oole is half African.

Custer: “Now, you know why I think they might not be mine, Jeremy?”

Jeremy glances at the screen then glances back at Custer.

Jeremy: “Why, clearly because they’re not of your ethnicity, clearly!”

Custer: “Ethnicity? I ain’t no racist sir an I’ll not ‘ave you sayin’ I am. No, sir, what make me think they might not be mine is that a doctor told me 20 year ago that I were impotent, low motility y’see!”

Jeremy: “I…see. And did that not strike you as odd when the first child came to be?”

Custer: “No, I jus’ thought the doctor didn’t know ‘is arse from ‘is elbow.”

Jeremy: “And the second and the third?”

Custer: “The third was a surprise, I will say, as we ‘ad not ‘ad a tumble for seven years.”

Jeremy: “Seven years?”

Custer: “Aye. Doctor said me seed were slow, so I figure it took ‘em seven years to get in there. I don’t give up easily, Jeremy, an neither does me seed.”

Celinia suddenly stands and shouts angrily.

Celinia: “Oh, Custer, you thick moron, of course they’re not your fucking children. I’ve been wild, I’ve been crazy, I’ve screwed around with every man that will so much as look at me! I married you for your money, you crazy rich bastard, but then you didn’t die like I thought you would! You didn’t die! For twenty years, you didn’t die and I had to satisfy myself night after night with anything that could get it up! Just die, you fucking bastard!”

A long and lengthy pause. Celinia is breathing heavily, angrily, her fists clenched. Jeremy’s monocle pops off again. This time, no butler comes in to collect it.

Jeremy: (to camera) “Well..er…yes. Coming up after the break, a man from Ireland will tell us about cricket.”

Theme music starts up again. As the screen fades out to black we see Celinia smash her glass and lunge at Custer.

An advert for Foxy Bingo plays.

The first was Pooh Bear. A sickly retard, you can pick him out of the crowd just by looking for the yellow skin. My mother used to say it was like seeing a solitary buttercup in an open field. She tried to stay positive, even when we took him to the clinic. We saw the doctor, and he looked my mother in the eye and said
Pooh Bear displays classic signs of autism
And my mother asked him what that meant
Pooh Bear will never function in society he tells her, never looking up from his computer, the light from the screen whiting out his glasses, two giant dead eyes. Two clinical eyes.
He will never be normal. He will never hold down a job. He will never meet someone special and settle down and have kids. He will be like he is now for the rest of his life.
And my mother asks him about those autistic kids you see in movies, that maybe he's actually a genius
Those are savants, he tells my mother, and Pooh Bear is not a savant. He is neither logical nor creative. He is incapable of processing the input from the real world.
Pooh Bear is stumbling round the clinic in his red shirt. As usual he is not wearing any pants. He crashes into a table and says oh bother.
Great, so we can't even take him to Vegas.
Pooh Bear's best friend is Piglet.
I ask Piglet what he thought of this.
He's a fuckin' idiot, what you gonna do, he says in a Brooklyn accent that makes my head hurt.
Deep down, he's alright is Pooh, he says.

I get to fix dinner for Pooh tonight. I ask him what he wants.
Yummy hunny in my tummy.
I tell him he can't just eat honey. He has to eat properly or he'll get sick.
He just says Oh bother.
I go out to the kitchen to make him some eggs.
I come back and he's gone.
Piglet doesn't know where he is either. We both start looking around the house. The front door is wide open.
Pooh is out in the real world, and is incapable of processing the input from the real world.
I don't tell my mother. This would only upset her, and we can find him.
Piglet puts on a coat and starts out.
He'll be lookin' f'r fuckin' honey, you know, he says to me.
I tell him I don't know where he'd go for that.
He'd probably go to that old guy's house, you know, that fuckin' fruitbasket out near the middle.
He means Rabbit.
This is a problem.
I hope Rabbit has taken his medication today.

We see the problem as Rabbit's house comes into view. Pooh Bear has broken the window and is now trapped inbetween panes, his front half hanging out like a stuffed animal. Rabbit is outside, pulling hard on his arms.
He's got to move he's got to move, says Rabbit, in a way that makes it seem like he'll break into song any moment.
He's got to move, I have to clean up, I have to clean.
Rabbit is an obsessive compulsive.
I don't think he has been taking his medication.
This is a problem.
Rabbit pulls on Pooh's arms some more. Pooh does not move.
Oh bother, says Pooh.
Piglet pushes Rabbit aside and says don't fuckin' touch him ya crazy bastard. You'll pull his fuckin' arms off.
Pooh continues to squirm. Rabbit goes back inside and starts pushing on Pooh from the other side.
I look at him through the window.
His eyes are frantic, like Pooh is some sort of fungus, growing and poisoning his house.
Oh bother, says Pooh.
I say to Rabbit that if he pushes and we pull it might free him from the gap.
Me and Piglet both grab Pooh under the armpit and brace ourselves.
We feel a push from the other side and try to pull Pooh through.
A crack comes from the windowframe as it splinters and breaks.
Pooh falls down on top of us, his mouth smeared with the honey he stole from Rabbit's house, his sides dripping blood from the broken window.
It lengthens his red shirt down his naked legs.
I sit up and ask Pooh why he did that.
Yummy hunny in my tummy.
Piglet slaps Pooh hard, a stinging slap that echoes through the forest like a gunshot.
You fuckin' idiot, you fuckin' idiot, he repeats.
Look at you, you're cut an bleedin', you fuckin' idiot.
We help Pooh to his feet and take him back home.
I bandage his sides and he eats the eggs I left for him on the side and I put him to bed.
Oh bother, he says as I turn off the light and close the door.
Piglet looks at me.
We can't go on like this, he says.
He's a fuckin' liability. I love the little prick, but he needs to be put away. We can't look after him.
We'll discuss it with mother later, I tell him.
My name is Christopher Robin and I am six years old.
My name is Christopher Robin and I will be six years old forever.

It was weird, getting down to actually crossing the box. Weeks of it endlessly being thrust into your face like an uncomfortable moment at a stag do, endlessly regurgitating policies and statistics and pictures of Brown with his head in his hands, and it all boils down to a pencil mark on a bit of paper. It felt less like deciding the future of the country through democratic process and more like filling in a 'did you like our service?' questionnaire.

Did Your Meal Arrive On Time? Yes [ ] No [ ]

Was It To Your Satisfaction? Yes [ ] No [ ]

Would You Prefer Cuts To The NHS In Preference To An Increase In National Insurance? Yes [ ] No [ ]

Also, I never realised the people who sit outside the polling station and look at your card do so for statistics for a specific party. I thought they were official polling peoples, but it turns out they have affiliation and motive, but no actual authority. They'll be second against the wall.

Anyway, I crossed the box (no, I won't say who I voted for), shoved it into the box, got another scowl from the anti-revolutionary woman, and left. And that was it. Feels a bit anti-climactic really. I feel there should have been some sort of event happening, like as soon as I put the bit of paper in, fireworks go off whilst Ode To Joy plays in the background. But nope, just a scowl and a strange feeling that my vote really counts for nothing in this modern day world and that I'd have been better off turning my polling card into a paper plane and thrown it into a ravine.

But then I wouldn't have the right to complain about the results afterwards. So that's something.

Yes, what a wonderful world.

...

No, really. It isn't.

I see trees of green

You're looking at an evergreen. It's actually mid December and it's cold and miserable.

red roses too

A clear metaphor for blood.

I see them bloom

and I'm bleeding quite badly. I think I've hit an artery.

for me and you

See, I've got blood on you.

And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

Listen to the timing. The pause inbetween 'myself' and 'what'. That's not a pause for music. That's a pause for sarcasm.

I see skies of blue

I see this because of the scattering of light in the atmosphere and the wavelengths of light from the sun being separated. This delicate balance will one day collapse and kill us all with solar radiation.

and clouds of white

Which do nothing to stop our death by solar radiation

The bright blessed day

Oh, I guess the solar radiation has now kicked in

the dark sacred night

and someone didn't pay the electricity bill

And I think to myself what a wonderful world.

Sarcasm.

The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky

Rainbows follow storms. The prettier the rainbow, the more torrential the storm - fact.

Are also on the faces of people going by

These people were outside in the storm. Clearly they want to drown.

I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do

They're Freemasons.

They're really saying I love you.

Masons in extra-marital affairs.

I hear babies crying

It's been scientifically proven that a baby's cry is the most annoying and least ignorable sound on the planet.

I watch them grow

Another step towards the grave

They'll learn much more than I'll never know

I have reached the limitations of my knowledge and I know less than a baby.

And I think to myself what a wonderful world

Now I'm crying inside.

Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world.

I wish I had a gas oven.

[a few agreeable murmurs run through the crowd]

David - “Okay, good. Well, same concept here, but turned on its head. The idea is that the very first thing you say is something negative. Say for instance, if someone sat in front of me I might go 'Oh, you've got awful hair' or something. You see, it's psychologically proven that as soon as we confront the natural flaws we see in people, we open up a new level of communication. We look past the flaws and see the person within. Now, some of you may instinctively go into what's known as the Fight or Flight reflex when you're first confronted with this negativity from a stranger. You may retaliate, or you may back away. We don't want either of those, we want you to see, honestly and truthfully, that is what your partner thinks and for you to accept that and move on.”

David - “Can we have two volunteers just to do a bit of a demonstration? Yes? You sir, and you. Both of you come up here. Give them a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen. This sort of thing isn't easy in front of others.”

David - “Now sir, what's your name?”

Graham - “Graham.”

David - “And you?”

Louise - “Louise.”

David - “Okay Louise, now you look at Graham and you tell me the first thing that you don't like about him.”

Louise - “Well...his teeth aren't particularly great, are they?”

Graham - [mumbling] “I'm having some work done on them at some point.”

David - “Ah, ah, ah, Graham, that's the flight response there. She does not like your teeth. Don't fight it, don't excuse it, just accept that's what she does not like. Now, you do the same for her.”

Graham - “Um, she's kind of fat, and I don't like that. Some men do, but I don't.”

David - “Okay, Graham. Thanks for that, but try not to dampen your own opinions, let them be strong on their own. No need to worry about whether anyone else shares it. So. Do we all get the general idea? Okay then! If the gentlemen all go and sit in their designated seats. Each of you get two minutes, then I'll blow the whistle and the ladies move on to the right. So, off we go!”

Glenn - “Hi, my name's Glenn.”

Susan - “You're a shit.”

Glenn - “E...excuse me?”

Susan - “A shit. You look like a human shit.”

Glenn - “Really? Um..why do you think that?”

Susan - “You're wearing a brown suit. You have brown hair. You have brown eyes. Brown, brown, brown. You are literally a shit.”

Glenn - “Ah, see I think you meant figuratively there. Literally means...”

Susan - “I don't care, you are a shit.”

Glenn - “A shit?”

Susan - “Yes, a shit.”

Glenn - “Um, look, I think you may have misinterpreted the...”

Susan - “Don't tell me what I've done you shit. I'm not going to sit here with a shit telling me what to do. You are a shit, you are a shit, you are a shit.”

[the whistle blows]

Susan - “Thanks! It's been fun.”

Olivia - “Alright. Your hair's a bit of a mess isn't it?”

Glenn - “Uh, yes. I suppose it is. Never can keep it in check. Always seems to list to the side a bit.”

Olivia - “Yeah, yeah. You're boring. I'm just going to check my phone for the next two minutes.”

Glenn - “Oh, well...that's a bit rude, we're supposed to be talk...”

Olivia - “Shh, can't text with you moaning away.”

Glenn - “Um, okay then.”

[a few moments pass]

[Glenn sighs]

Olivia - “For fucks sake, can't you just stay the fuck silent for a few minutes?”

Glenn - “I just sighed...”

Olivia - “Yeah, well, don't.”

[the whistle blows]

Olivia - “Thank fuck for that.”

Harriet - “Hi. I'm Harriet.”

Glenn - “Okay. I'm Glenn.”

Harriet - “Bet you've got a small cock.”

Glenn - “I'm...sorry?”

Harriet - “You look like a small cocked man.”

Glenn - “Wait, how would you know that? Surely this is supposed to be about things you actually notice, not assumptions you make based on...”

Harriet - “Small cock and crap in bed. They all are here. Why do you think they've gone this low?”

[pause]

Glenn - “I don't know, it's something different I suppose, can't hurt to give it a try?”

Harriet - “Anyway, your turn, say something you don't like.”

Glenn - “Well, you're a bit forward and in your face I suppose.”

Harriet - “That's not a bad thing. You're crap at this.”

Glenn - “It's a quality I do not admire.”

Harriet - “Who cares? I'm in your face and proud about it.”

Glenn - “Well, good for you then.”

Harriet - “Okay.”

Glenn - “Okay?”

Harriet - “Now you've got to be comfortable about having a small cock. That's how this works, don't it?”

Glenn - “But I don't think I do have a...”

Harriet - “'Course you do. Face it, love, you're just not man enough.'

[the whistle blows]

Mandy - “Um..hello.”

Glenn - “Hi.”

Mandy - “How are you getting on?”

Glenn - “Not brilliantly.”

Mandy - “Me neither. I don't think I like this that much.”

Glenn - “No, it's...it's not the greatest.”

Mandy - “I mean, you see that one guy over there? Third table?”

Glenn - “Yes?”

Mandy - “Well, he said I was too short. He didn't like short women.”

Glenn - “Oh. What did you say to him?”

Mandy - “I told him I didn't like blacks.”

Glenn - “I...what?”

Mandy - “Blacks, you know. Black people. I don't like them.”

[pause]

Glenn - “Isn't that a little bit, um...you know...racist?”

Mandy - “I don't know. I don't think so. Why?”

Glenn - “You're dismissing him based on his colour. That's racist.”

Mandy - “Really? Are you sure?”

Glenn - “Yes!”

Mandy - “...so they're a race, are they?”

Glenn - “Are what?”

Mandy - “Blacks. They're a race?”

Glenn - “Well, yes!”

Mandy - “I see. Is that the same with all coloureds?”

Glenn - “What?”

Mandy - “Like yellow skins and the browns in India, they're all races as well?”

Glenn - “Yes!”

Mandy - “Ohhh. See, I didn't know that. Guess I am a racist, aren't I?” [she giggles flirtatiously]

[the whistle blows]

Mandy - “Gosh, I'm going to give you high marks. Thanks!”

Zebedee - “Hi, my name's Zebedee, YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT?”

Glenn - “Zebedee?”

Zebedee - “Yeah, Zebedee. Like the Magic Roundabout. PROBLEM?”

Glenn - “Err, I guess not, no.”

Zebedee - “I think you do, you hate my name. You want to call me Zee, don't you? If we got together, and you introduced me to your parents, you'd be all 'hey mum and dad, here's Zee', wouldn't you?”

Glenn - “I honestly hadn't thought that far ahead.”

Zebedee - “Well fuck you, you judgemental prick! I love my name. Fuck this shit, I'm outta here!”

[Zebedee storms out the room. David walks over to the table.]

David - “Glenn, I don't think you've quite got the hang of this, have you?”

Glenn - “This really isn't my thing. I thought this was just conventional speed dating...”

David - “I think you're being far too direct with some of the girls here. Too aggressive.”

Glenn - “But I haven't even said anything to any of them yet! I haven't had a chance to!”

David - “Ah, ah. Keep that temper in check, Glenn. We don't want to have to blacklist you. We encourage honesty, not hostility.”

Glenn - “This is ridic..”

David - “Okay! Good! Time for the next rotation!”

[David blows the whistle hard next to Glenn's ear]

Sarah - “Hi, I'm Sarah.”

Glenn - “Excuse me?”

Sarah - “Sarah. Hi. And you are?”

Glenn - “What? I'm sorry, I've got a horrible ringing in my ears. That guy just..”

Sarah - “Oh, I see. Pretend like you can't hear me properly to avoid the small talk.”

Glenn - “No, that's not it at all, That guy, him, over there, he blew the whistle right in my ear.”

Sarah - “Oh. So you're too sensitive then?”

Glenn - “What?”

Sarah - “YOU'RE TOO SENSITIVE THEN?”

Glenn - “No, I think anyone wouldn't hear properly for a few minutes after that.”

Sarah - “Oh, I don't know. I can't think of anything bad to say about you.”

Glenn - “Really? Does that mean you like me?”

Sarah - “No, not really. I think I'm just a bit indifferent to you. You're neutral.”

Glenn - “I'm...neutral?”

Sarah - “Yeah. Neutral.”

Glenn - “Like Switzerland?”

Sarah - “What?”

Glenn - “Switzerland, you know? Neutrality, and...oh forget it, was just a stupid joke. Tell you what, let's just sit here until the whistle blows. I'm fed up of this.”

Sarah - “Well that's flattering. I don't have anything bad to say, and that's how you respond?”

Glenn - “You said I was neutral!”

Sarah - “Neutral's not bad, is it?”

Glenn - “It's not good either.”

Sarah - “Yeah, well, you should be thankful. Guy like you, that's the best you're gonna get today.”

Glenn - “Excuse me?”

Sarah - “Well, you're not much to look at are you?”

[pause]

Glenn - “I've had enough of this. You know what I think of you? I...”

[the whistle blows]

Glenn - “Dammit.”

Jill - “Hello, my name's Jill.”

Glenn - “Yes, hello. I'm Glenn, I'm a small cocked neutral shit, apparently.”

Jill - “Oh...um, isn't it me who's supposed to be...”

Glenn - “A small cocked neutral shit with messy hair as well. Who has only so far been vaguely successful with an entirely stupid racist.”

Jill - “I don't think you...”

Glenn - “And look at her over there! She said I was boring and sat there texting for the whole three minutes! But what's she doing with him? Laughing! She's laughing and smiling! He's not a better looker than me. Alright, I won't be doing any commercials for Gillette any time soon but come on!”

Jill - “Look, I...”

Glenn - “And the big fat feminist who insists all men have small cocks! Over there! What's she doing? She's blushing! She's holding his hand and blushing!” [yelling across the room] “How big is his cock you fat whore?”

[David walks over]

David - “Is there a problem here?”

Glenn - “Problem? Yes! This whole concept is a problem! It's a laughable joke at my expense. I want my £12 back, and I want to leave.”

David - “Sorry, but it's non-refundable. There aren't any guarantees with this service you know.”

Glenn - “What? Look! They're kissing now! What a fucking joke!”

Jill - “Excuse me...”

Glenn - “Oh, shut up you stupid bitch. You have horrible, horrible hair and one breast is quite visibly lopsided compared to the other.”

Jill - “What?! How dare...”

Glenn - “You're plain and stupid, and you have far too much makeup on. You look like a mime. Now where's that whistle?”

[Glenn grabs the whistle off David]

Glenn - “Ah yes. Next please!”

[Glenn blows the whistle]

Glenn - “Yes, hello! And you are?”

David - “Glenn, this isn't...”

Glenn - “Shut up, David, I'm networking.”

Linda - “I'm Linda. Is this...”

Glenn - “Linda! I once knew a Linda. She was a complete slut, you know. An utter unadulterated slag, bouncing from man to man until her thighs were red hot. A big, fat, stupid, ugly whore. Next!”

[Glenn blows the whistle]

David - “Security!”

Glenn - “No! You can't take me from this! Next!”

[Glenn blows the whistle again. A sound of struggling is heard]

Glenn - “Your uniform is ugly! Those handcuffs are shit! That can of mace is...Aaaaaargh!”

[Glenn keeps blowing the whistle]

[Fade out]