Pets

Hamish:
[Voiceover] My name is... Hamish. I'm thirty five years old and in less than a week, I'll be dead. In a way, I'm dead already... Look at that poor bastard on the kitchen table, being operated on by an unqualified parrot and a drug dependant cat. Funny thing is, this is the high point of my day... It's all downhill from here... So that's a vacuum cleaner and this is my life. Ha! You'd think I wouldn't miss it so much...

JP:
It's hopeless! It's jammed solid! It won't budge!

Davina:
What are you going to do, then?

JP:
Well, we have a difficult decision to make.

Davina:
You mean?

JP:
Yes, it's either the patient, or the hoover, I can't save both of them. What will it be?

Davina:
We really need that hoover.

JP:
Yes, we do!

Hamish:
[Voiceover] Nice people, eh? Or at least I thought they were, just one short week ago...

Trevor:
Do you believe in life after death?

Hamish:
No, because if there was life after death, we wouldn't call death 'death', because it would still be life. So I think what you're asking is "is there life after life?", which is a really stupid question.

Trevor:
Don't know, do ya?

Hamish:
Of course I don't f***ing know! I'm not dead, am I? Although I suspect that having a conversation with you is tantamount to being dead. Anyway, why the sudden interest in death?

Trevor:
I'm in a bit of trouble.

Hamish:
What sort of trouble?

Trevor:
Money trouble.

Hamish:
How much money?

Trevor:
Three thousand pounds.

Hamish:
[Incredulously] What?

Trevor:
Lost it on a horse on the one fifteen.

Hamish:
What horse?

Trevor:
The Stumbler, I think his name was.

Hamish:
Why the *hell* did you bet three thousand pounds on a horse called The Stumbler?

Trevor:
I thought he would win!

Hamish:
Where'd you get the money in the first place?

Trevor:
Borrowed it. I got a bookie in the smoke, bung's me the odd pony for the horses, see.

Hamish:
Will you *please* stop talking like you're in The Sweeney!

Trevor:
Sorry, sort of goes with the image...

Hamish:
Only if you're a c*nt!

Trevor:
Thing is, he's a violent psychopath who hurts people who don't pay him back.

Hamish:
Oh, dear! Oh, dear! And you owe him three thousand pounds?

Trevor:
Yeah. Well, no. Er, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Theoretically, I owe him three thousand pounds, technically... You do.

Hamish:
What?

Trevor:
I used your name to borrow the money.

Hamish:
Could you run that by me just one more time?

Trevor:
If you don't come up with three thousand pounds by the weekend, you're very likely to be dead.

Hamish:
I see...

Trevor:
Sorry.

Hamish:
[Voiceover] And that's all he said. "Sorry". As if that could possibly make up for everything.

Davina:
[to Trevor] Oi, limp dick! You seen my tablets anywhere?

Trevor:
No!

Hamish:
[Voiceover] Oh, this is the cat. She's a Persian blue, but I prefer to think of her as a crazy, psychotic b*tch.

Trevor:
No, I haven't seen your tablets.

Davina:
Are you sure? Because if you have and you're not telling me I'm going to put a skewer through your knob!

Trevor:
You're not very good in the mornings, are ya?

Davina:
So, have you seen them?

Trevor:
A long-term dependence on prescription drugs can actually be more harmful than beneficial, according to a report in my magazine...

Davina:
*Really*? I wasn't aware that "Big Lady Flaps Monthly" was a medical publication.

Trevor:
I'll have you know, that's a quality read!

Davina:
It's a spangle mag!

Trevor:
So?

Davina:
It's not like it carries any kind of intelligent editorial.

Trevor:
Yes, it does.

Davina:
Where? In between pictures of "Miss Mega Muff" and "Sally Super Snatch"?

Trevor:
Actually, it focuses on a number of important issues.

Davina:
What's important about seeing a couple of Readers' Wives being back-scuttled with a cricket stump?

Trevor:
Well, it's important to me.

Hamish:
[Voiceover] Classy people, my friends... Is it any wonder I started to feel... Desperate?

Trevor:
Did I tell you about the time I went to college?

Davina:
*You*?

Trevor:
Yeah, me!

Davina:
I didn't know you could take an Honours degree in wanking!

Davina:
So... You were rescued by animal liberation people?

Trevor:
In an almost military-style operation, they effected my escape and took me back to their secret base in the woods. For the next three years, we went on a series of thrilling adventures together.

Davina:
What sort of adventures?

Trevor:
Well, there was the time we rescued those children from the mine...

Davina:
The mine, yes...

Trevor:
The day we smashed an international drugs cartel operating out of Colombia...

Davina:
Yes...

Trevor:
And one memorable weekend where we chaired a secret peace initiative between members of the Israeli government and the Palestine Liberation Organisation. Eventually though, I had to be rescued again. This time, by the RSPCA...

Davina:
Why?

Trevor:
It was Claire. She started... Touching me... In unusual places...

Davina:
Such as?

Trevor:
The kitchen, on the landing and in the shed.

Davina:
You're making this up, aren't you?

Trevor:
Yeah.

Davina:
You know, I think you are possibly the most irritating person I have *ever* met!

JP:
Hello!

Davina:
I stand corrected...

Trevor:
Hello. Can I have a word?

Davina:
You can have two words, if you like; f*** off!

Trevor:
I was wondering if we could have a little... Chat?

Davina:
[sighs] Does it in any way involve your grubby little knob?

Trevor:
No?

Davina:
Are you sure? Because if it comes anywhere near me during the course of our conversation I'm going to cut it off at the root and gouge out your eyes with it!

Trevor:
Maybe I'll come back later...

Davina:
What do you want?

Trevor:
Well, it would appear by some bizarre sequence of events, Hamish has been elected as the new head of one of the Mafia's most powerful crime families.

Davina:
So what do you want me to do about it? Send him a congratulations card?

JP:
You wanted to see me, dogfather?

Hamish:
[Speaking in a stereotypical Italian-American accent] Yeah, yeah, thanks for comin'. It's good to see you, my old and trusted friend. How's business?

JP:
Business is good!

Hamish:
I'm glad that business is good.

JP:
It's good that you are glad, that makes me glad, too.

Hamish:
Good, I'm glad for you.

JP:
And I'm glad that you're glad for me.

Hamish:
Good...

JP:
I'm glad that it's good that you're glad...

Hamish:
[Cuts him off] Shut the f*** up!

Davina:
I've had another letter from my boyfriend Vince. He says he's doing voluntary work on behalf of UNICEF in West Africa and won't be back until after the rainy season. Which, apparently, is why he can't take me out for a curry on our anniversary next Tuesday. He's sent me a photo of himself and some *slag* called Samantha, who he says is assisting him in vaccinating the entire population of a remote tribal village. I think I know how Samantha is assisting him and it doesn't involve sticking needles in people's arses. Then again... Maybe it does. When he comes back, I'm gonna cut off his head, hollow it out and use it as a toilet roll holder!

JP:
[Dressed in a Santa Claus hat and fake white beard] Do you know what day it is?

Hamish:
Let me think... Yes, I know. Is it the one hundred and twelfth anniversary of the invention of cardboard?

JP:
Mm, no.

Hamish:
The state opening of parliament?

JP:
No.

Hamish:
National "No Wanking Day"?

JP:
Close, but here's a clue; what am I acting out? "Whoa, ho, ho, ho, ho!"

Hamish:
Got it!

JP:
Ja?

Hamish:
The assassination of Martin Luther King!

JP:
No, I'm Father Christmas!

Hamish:
No, you're not, you're a featherless spangle blister.

JP:
[Looking over a miniature Nativity scene] "We are three wise men and we bring you gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. We have absolutely no idea what 'myrrh' is, but we thought you'd like some anyway."

Davina:
What the f*** are you doing?

JP:
I'm re-enacting the moment when the Three Wise Men meet the little baby Jesus.

Davina:
Well, could you tell them to keep the noise down, please? I have a headache.

JP:
At least I'm doing something that conjures up the spirit of Christmas, what are you doing?

Davina:
What does it look like I'm doing?

JP:
I'm not sure... But it's giving me a very warm feeling inside...

Davina:
Tosser.

JP:
I'd appreciate it if you didn't swear in front of the Virgin Mary.

Davina:
And I'd appreciate it if you didn't exist!

JP:
So... Cleaning yourself? It must take a lot of practice to do it properly. You need to be quite supple. So... You probably have to work out. Do you think you could teach me how to do it?

Davina:
Why are you so weird?

Davina:
I've had a Christmas card from my boyfriend Vince. It would seem that he's taken a group of underprivileged children to visit Santa in Lapland, which is why he can't be with me on December the twenty fifth this year. He knows I'll be disappointed but says if I "could just see the grateful smiles on the children's tear-stained faces", I'd understand. And in the words of former seventies pop star and one-time Irish presidential candidate Dana, he says it's going to be a "cold, cold Christmas" without me. Turd! Apparently, there's been a cock-up with the room booking at the Lapland Hilton, so he's had to move into a small igloo just south of the Arctic Circle with one of Santa's helpers, whose name is Sharon. She's sixteen, surprisingly grown-up for her age and it's her job to stuff the turkeys in the Father Christmas canteen. Vince says he'll be staying on for a bit to help her with her work. I think I know what he'll be stuffing this Christmas. When he gets back, I'm going to remove his giblets, replace them with sage and onion and then put him in the oven at one hundred and seventy five degrees Celsius for twenty minutes per pound and twenty minutes over. I wish the drugs would work. I really do...

Hamish:
Why don't we just accept it's *not* Christmas and do what we normally do?

Davina:
No! I absolutely refuse to let Trevor rub himself up against me.

Trevor:
Oh, go on! It is Christmas, after all.

[a loud crashing noise is heard somewhere within the house]

Hamish:
What was that?

JP:
It sounds like a fat lady in high heels who has just fallen through a window onto a plate of jelly. Or it might not be...

Trevor:
It's burglars! They're after the presents!

Hamish:
There *aren't* any presents because we didn't buy any because it's *not* Christmas!

Trevor:
So what are they after then?

JP:
Perhaps it's him!

Davina:
Who?

JP:
Father Christmas!

Hamish:
[Wearily] Oh, god!

Trevor:
Why would Father Christmas want to steal the presents? It makes... No sense!

JP:
You're right. It's a mystery wrapped in an enigma hidden in a riddle.

Davina:
Whereas *you* are a twat.

Trevor:
Look, take it easy. First thing's first, we're in a tricky situation and need to take some sort of action.

Hamish:
Such as?

Trevor:
Well, since this whole Christmas thing was his idea, I suggest we beat the crap out the parrot and then eat him in lieu of Christmas dinner.

JP:
Can't you eat someone else?

Davina:
I like your idea and yet I feel it is unworkable until such a time as we are no longer f***ing well tied together!

Hamish:
Bastards! You utter bastards!

Davina:
Oi, f***stick! Keep the noise down! Have you any idea what time it is?

Hamish:
All right, I get it!

Trevor:
What?

Hamish:
I get it! I know you're having a party in here!

Trevor:
A party?

Hamish:
Yes! You're having a party and you didn't invite me!

JP:
No, we're not! It's a discussion group! An interactive workshop event, if you will.

Hamish:
At four o' f***ing clock in the morning?

Trevor:
We like to get an early start.

Hamish:
I see... And what prey are you discussing?

JP:
Today's topic is "Self-Abuse: Is It a Sight for Sore Eyes?"

Hamish:
You're lying!

Trevor:
No, we're not. I have here a selection of educational texts, which clearly define the link between blindness and pulling your pug.

Hamish:
They're wank mags!

Trevor:
Maybe so, but if you look on page three of the current edition of The Rimshot, you'll be surprised by what you see.

Hamish:
It's a picture of a traffic warden and a rather tired donkey...

Trevor:
No, below that. "Readers' Wives Respond to Polling".

Hamish:
You're still lying, you bastards! You're having a party!

JP:
No, I think what we have here is a very serious question of moral ethics.

Hamish:
What we have here is a serious question of why you *c*nts* are having a party at four o'clock in the f***ing morning!

Davina:
If you wish to join the debate, we will have to ask you to moderate your language... You tosser! Do you *have* anything to contribute on the subject of wanking? I imagine you *do*!

Davina:
I've had another letter from my boyfriend Vince. At least... I think it's Vince, because the stupid *f***er* appears to have changed his name, to "DJ Hip-Hop Cowboy Grandmaster Mix Man Iced Tea Cube M&S. Wanker! Apparently, he's bought a field, in the middle of absolutely nowhere... Not far from Cardiff... And a lorry-load of cut-price, slightly contaminated bottled water. He says he's going to start a "really wicked club" for hard-core music fans and it's going to be really "word"! Big respect! When he gets back, I'm going to remix his 12-inch once and for all! The drugs don't work, you know... They just make you f***ing *cranky*!

Trevor:
I don't know why... But I get this strange feeling we're being watched...

JP:
Being watched by nurses from the nurses' home, who are probably only wearing skimpy underwear and black stockings?

Trevor:
Why are you so weird?

JP:
I was just using a well-known fear-reducing exercise, to let you know that you only *think* you are being watched. And I was touching myself while I was talking about the nurses...

Trevor:
If you had any fewer brain cells, I would ask to be re-housed by the council!

JP:
Okay, then, what proof have you that you're being watched?

Trevor:
Well, [Points in front of himself] Only that f***ing great security camera on the wall!

Davina:
What's the matter with you?

Trevor:
Promise you won't laugh?

Davina:
I promise I won't laugh.

Trevor:
I got me growler caught on the top of a Winnie the Pooh hot water bottle. [Beat] You didn't laugh?

Davina:
That's because it isn't funny! When are you going to learn that spangling off over licensed products is the first rung on the slippery ladder to insanity! Look at the trouble we had extracting your bollocks from the screw top of that Teletubbies Thermos flask... And you had that Pok?mon sweets dispenser up your arse for a fortnight!

Hamish:
What's wrong with him now?

Davina:
He's been banging one of your hot water bottles again and his knob's stuck fast!

Hamish:
[to Trevor] You bastard! Not my Star Trek: The Next Generation hot water bottle?

Trevor:
Nope.

Hamish:
Surely not my priceless limited edition seventies reproduction Starsky and Hutch?

Trevor:
Nah.

Hamish:
My god! You've been porking Winnie the Pooh!

Davina:
And Eeyore too, by the look of it.

Hamish:
[to Trevor] Have you no shame? Is there no inhabitant of the Hundred Acre Wood that you would not consider violating? Can Christopher Robin and Piglet not sleep easy in their little beds?

Davina:
Seems to me it *might* come loose if we could just get Trevor's pink whippet to shrink in size...

Hamish:
And how do we do that?

Davina:
[to Trevor] Try thinking about your mother.

Trevor:
As a matter of fact, my mother was a very fine-looking animal...

Hamish:
Oh, I think I'm going to be sick!

Davina:
Other ideas?

Hamish:
[to Trevor] Well, just try focusing on *any* living creature or inanimate object with whom you *cannot* imagine having full intercourse.

Trevor:
Nope... Can't think of one!

Trevor:
What you doing?

Hamish:
Shh! Can't you see I'm on the phone?

Trevor:
Who you speaking to?

Hamish:
No one. I'm held in a queue and will "be dealt with shortly"...

Trevor:
Oh, my god. You poor bastard.

Hamish:
At the moment they're playing the theme music from The Bodyguard...

Trevor:
The Bodyguard?

Hamish:
Yes... But interestingly, it's not the original version, it's a little-known cover version by a gentleman who sounds like a cross between Chris de Burgh, Barbra Streisand and Kermit the Frog.

Trevor:
F***! That's awful!

Hamish:
I know, but you are required to listen to the bastard thing in case someone at the other end answers the phone.

Trevor:
How long you been listening to that dog spangle?

Hamish:
Seventeen hours...

Trevor:
Jesus! Seventeen hours on hold?

Hamish:
They started off by playing Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I've Got Love in my Tummy...

Trevor:
[Groans in disgust] Do you want me to stay with ya? Or would you rather play out this long, godforsaken vigil alone?

Hamish:
I think I'm going to need all the support I can get...

Trevor:
So... What should we talk about now?

Hamish:
God knows! Where are you going for your holidays?

Trevor:
Well, since you ask, I was thinking of going out to Thailand to get one of those Thai brides. There's thousands of them out there, all looking for handsome, cultured types like me.

[Hamish sighs irritably]

Trevor:
They cook for you, wash your clothes and satisfy your every sexual desire... All they ask in return is that they can bring their entire f***in' family to live in your house!

Hamish:
What kind of a marriage is that?

Trevor:
And they've got these little white plastic balls that they stick inside their front bottoms every morning and the... And the balls rub together and vibrate so they can walk around all day pleasuring themselves.

Hamish:
How big are these balls?

Trevor:
I dunno... About... As big as sweet and sour pork balls, I suppose?

[JP suddenly perches on top of the chair Hamish is sitting on]

Hamish:
[to JP] Oh, hello, feather dick... How are you?

JP:
How's it, blokes? What are you doing?

Trevor:
Hamish is held in a queue and will be "answered shortly"...

JP:
[to Hamish] Ah, bad luck!

Hamish:
Thank you.

JP:
So... What are you doing to fill the time?

Trevor:
Talking bollocks!

Hamish:
Trevor says that Thai women stick sweet and sour pork balls inside their front bottoms in order to pleasure themselves...

JP:
Hey, I heard that as well! What do you think they do with the egg-fried rice?

Davina:
I've just had a long and emotional telephone call with my boyfriend Vince. He was press-ganged by the Peruvian Navy a couple of months ago, but he managed to jump overboard during a perfect storm off the coast of Uruguay. Now he's living with a tribe of genetically mutated pygmies in the Amazonian jungle. Some of them are over nine feet tall and they apparently treat flea-bitten tomcats like Vince as deities. Last time this happened, he came back with four foot long earlobes, a pierced scrotum and a bottom lip the size of the Hollywood Bowl! When he comes home this time, I'm going to heat up some water in a saucepan and boil the bastard in a bag. The drugs don't work, you know. They just make you worse.

Hamish:
What *are* you doing, Trevor?

Trevor:
Spag off!

Hamish:
Charming!

Trevor:
If you must know, it's a protest. Sort of political act. I am covering the walls with me own faeces.

Hamish:
So what's different?

Trevor:
What do you mean?

Hamish:
Well, aren't you *always* covering the walls with your own sh*t? You normally call it going to the toilet.

Trevor:
My personal hygiene is beyond reproach. I'll have you know I went through an entire roll of arse wipe last year.

Davina:
What are you doing?

Trevor:
I've got an itch!

Davina:
Hm.

Trevor:
I've got an itch and I can't reach it! Driving me f***ing mad!

Davina:
So?

Trevor:
So, do you think you could possibly... Scratch it for me?

Davina:
Sod off.

Trevor:
What?

Davina:
Well, it always starts like this, doesn't it? You start by asking me to scratch your back, then you roll over and ask me to scratch your front. The next thing I know you've got an enormous great purple growler and you start panting like a dog on heat!

Trevor:
I *am* a dog on heat!

Davina:
Well, I'm not falling for it this time. If you've got an itch, find someone else to scratch it for you.

Trevor:
But I've only got short arms...

Davina:
Grow your claws!

Trevor:
I'll pay you...

Davina:
With *what*?

Trevor:
Jaffa Cakes?

Davina:
If you think I'm going to play with your pink whippet for a bit of chocolate covered sponge with a jammy filling, you're very much mistaken.

Trevor:
So what do you do if you get fleas?

Davina:
I scratch them myself.

Trevor:
What about the ones you can't reach?

Davina:
There is no part of the body that a cat cannot reach. That's how we keep ourselves so spotlessly clean. We are able to reach every square inch of our skin with our tongues.

Trevor:
Now... You know what I'm going to say next, don't you?

Davina:
[Wearily] Yes...

Trevor:
So there's not actually any need for me to say it, is there?

Davina:
No.

Trevor:
So you won't scratch me back then?

Davina:
No!

Trevor:
What's in the bag?

Davina:
F*** off!

Hamish:
Where exactly *is* this itch?

Trevor:
How many times do I have to tell you, donkeyflaps? It's on my back!

Hamish:
Where?

Trevor:
Right in the middle.

Hamish:
Well, why don't you scratch it yourself?

Trevor:
I can't!

Hamish:
Why not?

Trevor:
Can't reach it.

Hamish:
Why not?

Trevor:
Me arms are too short.

Hamish:
Why?

Trevor:
Well, I don't know why! Maybe it's something to do with evolution and natural selection.

Hamish:
Oh, have you been watching Animal Planet again?

Trevor:
Look, my back is itchy, I can't reach it, will you scratch it for me?

Hamish:
F*** off and die!

Trevor:
You sadistic bastard!

Hamish:
Why don't you rub your back up and down against the window frame?

Trevor:
I tried that.

Hamish:
And what happened?

Trevor:
I fell out of the window.

Hamish:
What about using an abrasive object with something sharp and pointed at one end?

Trevor:
Brilliant idea! I'll use the parrot!

Davina:
I've had another letter from my boyfriend Vince. All he ever thinks of is pleasure. He stowed away in the lifeboat of a cross-channel ferry last week, now he's down in Cannes trying to sell the film rights to his authorised autobiography. Last time he did this he was away for six and a half months. He came back with a three episode mini series, Elton John's wig and a signed photograph of Liz Hurley squatting in a litter tray. When he gets back this time I'm going to cut him into equal parts and feed him to the rats over a thirteen week period, with an option for a further thirteen parts. Don't talk to me about pleasure! Since Vince buggered off there are very few avenues of pleasure open to me. Even the Prozac on the Kitty Cat doesn't help any more. You know those mobile phones that vibrate? Well, I found one that someone had lost and in desperation I inserted it, long ways, in... You know, my most private place and guess what? It hasn't rung once. Just my luck to find a vibrating phone belonging to someone with no f***ing friends!

Trevor:
[to a wailing JP, who has hidden himself in his cage with a blanket covering it] Oh, for f***'s sake! Alright, I'm sorry I used you to scratch my back! And I'm sorry I used you to wipe my bottom. And I'm really, *really* sorry I flushed you down the Hewitt afterwards.

Hamish:
Ohh, god!

Trevor:
What's the matter with you?

Hamish:
You bastard!

Trevor:
What?

Hamish:
Oh, you utter bastard! You know perfectly well what's wrong with me!

Trevor:
Self-inflicted wounds, mate.

Hamish:
"One drink", you said! "Won't do you any harm", you said!

Trevor:
Oh, stop complaining, you ungrateful pug box! You had a good time, didn't ya?

Hamish:
[Unaware that JP is tapping on his head with his beak] Did I? Because I don't remember! I woke up this morning with a hangover from Hell... It, it feels like there's a woodpecker banging my head!

Trevor:
No... That's the parrot.

Hamish:
[to JP] What the f*** are you doing?

JP:
Sorry mate, I thought it might help.

Hamish:
Might help? In what way?

JP:
I... Don't know.

Trevor:
You're not really a drinker, are ya?

Hamish:
What makes you say that?

Trevor:
Well, you have three halves of lager, put on a dress and go into your Kylie Minogue routine.

JP:
I think you captured her quite well.

Hamish:
Kylie Minogue? What the hell are you talking about?

Trevor:
And then you go and steal a selection of traffic cones, a "no parking" sign and three sleeping policemen.

JP:
One of whom was a chief inspector!

Hamish:
Now I *know* you're making it up!

[a shot of a couple of traffic cones in the room is shown, complete with a dramatic music sting]

Hamish:
Oh, god!

Trevor:
But that was *nothing* compared to what you did next!

JP:
[to Hamish] Look at me, now!

Hamish:
Which was?

Trevor:
You mean you don't remember?

Hamish:
If I don't remember impersonating Kylie f***ing Minogue and stealing a road sign then isn't it likely that I don't remember what I did next?

Trevor:
You gave the cat one.

Hamish:
[Beat] I'm sorry?

Hamish:
I did *not* shag the cat!

Trevor:
Well, we'll know for sure in exactly... Three months' time.

[a shot of a calendar flipping from March to June is shown]

Hamish:
[to Trevor] I *knew* you were lying!

Davina:
I have a strange craving for coal-flavoured cat food.

Hamish:
Oh, f***!

Hamish:
Oh! Oh, god! Oh, god! Oh, god! Oh, god!

Trevor:
What's the matter?

Hamish:
What do you *think* is the matter?

Trevor:
Is it your arse thing, again?

Hamish:
No, it's not my "arse thing"!

Trevor:
Well, what is it, then?

Hamish:
Oh, let me think! What could it be? Oh, yes, that's it; I got the cat pregnant!

Trevor:
Oh, that! So you got some pox-ridden old slapper up the duff, so what?

Hamish:
"So what"? "So what"? So what the hell am I going to do?

Trevor:
Well, as I see it, you're facing a serious moral dilemma.

Hamish:
Moral dilemma?

Trevor:
Yeah. Should the cat have an abortion... Or should you wait until the kittens are born? And then drown them!

Hamish:
The parenting instinct isn't strong in you, is it, Trevor?

JP:
So... What's it like being pregnant?

Davina:
Have you ever had a selection of plastic Pok?mon toys stuffed up your arse?

JP:
Well... Since you mentioned it...

Davina:
Okay! Bad example! But I mean that's what it's like being pregnant. It's uncomfortable, it's tiring... And worst of all your tits hurt like a bastard!

JP:
Would that be a permanent pain... Or more of an intermittent throbbing? Perhaps if I were to rub them gently that might help? Because it would certainly help me!

Davina:
Why are you so weird?

JP:
Have you got a nest yet?

Hamish:
Do you believe in love at first sight?

Trevor:
Do you want a simple answer? Or a complex explanation?

Hamish:
I'll go for the latter.

Trevor:
What?

Hamish:
The second one!

Trevor:
Well, it depends largely on whether you're talking about an emotional love, based on an instant spiritual rapport with someone, or a good, hard shag with a stranger. The two have very different implications from an interpersonal perspective.

Hamish:
And the simple answer?

Trevor:
No, of course I don't f***ing believe in love at first sight!

Hamish:
But what if I were to tell you that I was planning to ask the cat to marry me?

Trevor:
What if I were to beat you repeatedly round the head with an excessively large wheel jack?

Hamish:
How would that help?

Trevor:
Dunno... Just always wanted to do it.

Hamish:
My mind's made up. I'm going to do the decent thing.

Trevor:
Don't tell me! You're gonna ask the cat to bring over a couple of mates and then shag all three of them at once!

Hamish:
What?

Trevor:
After which they'll disappear into the kitchen and rustle you up a quick snack while you have a little snooze.

Hamish:
No! I'm going to propose to the cat! Over a romantic dinner for two...

Trevor:
My idea was better.

Hamish:
By the way, have you seen the candles anywhere?

Trevor:
Oh...

Hamish:
Oh, no... Not again!

Trevor:
Sorry... They just... Fit up there so nicely... And give me a warm, tingling sensation whenever I cock me leg.

Trevor:
Goldfish only have a memory that lasts about three seconds.

JP:
Aw, that's a shame!

Trevor:
Why?

JP:
I've entered a pub quiz and I wanted to have the goldfish on my team... I thought he might be quite good on the sports questions...

Trevor:
Nah... He'd be sh*t.

Hamish:
Tell me, how much pain do you think you can take?

Trevor:
What's this about?

Hamish:
I thought I might start by cutting off your ear.

Trevor:
Is it to do with your arse thing?

Hamish:
Then I thought I'd smear an umbrella with extra hot chilli sauce, stick it up your dog star, open it and then pull it out very, very slowly... What do you think about that?

Trevor:
When you mention hot chilli sauce, I don't know whether to be afraid or hungry.

Hamish:
And as a pi?ce de r?sistance, I thought I'd put your bollivers in one of those little kitchen gadgets you use for cutting hard-boiled eggs into lots of very thin slices.

Trevor:
Fair enough, but what is this all about?

Hamish:
Don't pretend you don't know, you pathetic, irresponsible bag of spunk! Spitting your demon seed hither and thither with no thought of the consequences! Staining everything in your path, from kitchen carpet to carbon-based life form! I'm surprised there's anything left in you, but a pale, diluted conserve of low-protein potato water!

Trevor:
An eloquent explanation and yet I fear I am no closer to comprehending the cause for your evident distress.

Hamish:
Liar! You slipped the cat a length of doggy hosepipe and then left *me* to take the blame!

Davina:
What the *f**** is all this noise? It's putting me off my Prozac!

Hamish:
Ah, you need fear for your kittens no longer, Trevor has just agreed to marry you and bring them up with you.

Davina:
You what?

Hamish:
Don't worry, you'll get used to his funny little ways in time... The smell I'm not so sure about...

Davina:
I don't know *what* you're talking about, but it's too late anyway...

Hamish:
Too late?

Davina:
Yes... The little bastards arrived half an hour ago and I flushed them down the toilet... I'd give it five minutes before you go in there...

Hamish:
You? You? You?

Davina:
Well, I wasn't really cut out for motherhood. Anyway, now that I've got my figure and my life back, what does everyone fancy doing?

Trevor:
I suppose a shag's out of the question?

Hamish:
I wonder if I'll ever play the Dane...

Trevor:
What?

Hamish:
The Dane! Hamlet, you cat snatch!

Trevor:
The only Dane you'll ever play is a Great Dane.

Hamish:
What do *you* know of the call of the greasepaint?

Trevor:
On the contrary, I've walked out in front of a hundred or so people many times and felt the thrill of the crowd, the lights in my eyes, trembling as I stumble nervously through my carefully prepared speech...

Hamish:
Yes, but fortunately you haven't had to appear at the magistrates' court for a while, have you, Trevor?

Trevor:
That's the problem when you get famous, everyone wants a little piece of ya, everyone wants to get s finger into your pie!

Hamish:
What the f*** are you talking about?

Trevor:
You haven't heard, then?

Hamish:
What?

Trevor:
I have been chosen!

Hamish:
Chosen for what?

Trevor:
For that well-known TV talent show!

Hamish:
Pets Win Prizes?

Trevor:
Bollocks! I'll have you know, I'm going on Stars in Their Eyes!

Hamish:
Have you gone mad?

Trevor:
They listened to my tape and I have been chosen, for the very next show.

Hamish:
Isn't Stars in Their Eyes a show for people who look like someone famous?

Trevor:
Yeah?

Hamish:
Well, you don't look like anyone famous. Except possibly... Sid James?

Trevor:
F*** off!

Hamish:
The Elephant Man?

Trevor:
F*** off!

Hamish:
A crumpled relief map of the Himalayas?

Trevor:
I may not look like anyone famous in my everyday life, no.

Hamish:
But?

Trevor:
But, when I go behind that screen, I will come out, looking like...

Hamish:
Who?

Trevor:
You can't guess?

Hamish:
No?

Trevor:
Can't you see the astonishing resemblance?

Hamish:
Forgive me...

Trevor:
Around the eyes?

Hamish:
Trevor, will you shut up and tell me who you're supposed to look like?

Trevor:
Marilyn Monroe.

Hamish:
Oh, spag off!

Trevor:
You can't see it?

Hamish:
*Of course* I can't see it, no!

JP:
[Appears out of nowhere] How's it, guys? What's up?

Hamish:
Trevor's going on Stars in Their Eyes as Marilyn Monroe!

JP:
About time! Although... I've always thought he looked more like Ella Fitzgerald...

JP:
Marilyn Monroe... Was she a true American icon, who even years after her untimely death has achieved virtually mythical status? Or was she just a pear-shaped blonde bimbo with an arse the size of Gatwick Airport?

Hamish:
Maybe I should enter for Stars in Their Eyes myself...

JP:
You don't look like anyone!

Hamish:
Well, I've always thought I bear a striking resemblance to the late, great Frankie Howerd...

JP:
But he was a comedian! You have to look like a singer to get on Stars in Their Eyes!

Hamish:
What about... Robbie Williams?

JP:
Too tall...

Hamish:
Morrissey, out of The Smiths? Suzanne Vega?

JP:
Forget it, fat nose! You don't look like anyone! You've got more chance of meeting a donkey than being kicked to death by Matthew Kelly! Mm... I think I meant to say that the other way around...

Trevor:
"I wanna be loved by you, just you!"

Davina:
I have to tell you that if you sing "boop-boop be-doo" one more time, I will take that microphone and shove it so far into your digestive system your arse will be able to perform stand-up comedy from the *inside*!

Trevor:
F*** off, spaniel tits! I've *got* to rehearse!

Davina:
[sighs] Who *else* is in this show?

Trevor:
There's a scaffolding engineer from Teesside, who does Barry Manilow...

Davina:
Yes...

Trevor:
A bricklayer from the East End, who turns in a very believable Elaine Paige...

Davina:
Mmm?

Trevor:
And a trainee traffic warden from Essex, who does the Pet Shop Boys...

Davina:
Both of them?

Trevor:
I think so.

Davina:
Well, that's it, then. You've got no chance, have you?

Trevor:
Well, thank you *so* much for your support!

Davina:
You're welcome.

Trevor:
I shall go and practice my boop-boop be-doos in the bathroom!

Davina:
Don't forget your microphone, Norma Jeane!

Hamish:
Do you honestly think Trevor's got a hope in Hell of winning this show?

JP:
He seems very determined... Don't forget, people used to say Chris de Burgh was crap...

Hamish:
Now you *know* what I'm going to say next, so I won't bother to say it.

JP:
Okay, bad example. But sometimes, if you're really, *really* determined, you can make your wildest dreams come true...

Hamish:
Give me one example?

JP:
I can think of two! Dorothy, in The Wizard of Oz...

Hamish:
Yes...

JP:
And Saddam Hussein!

Hamish:
I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore...

Davina:
Stars in Their Eyes is on telly tonight, with Trevor...

Hamish:
I'm sorry, but I refuse to watch it! There's a very interesting documentary on the Discovery Channel...

Davina:
What's it about?

Hamish:
It's about the hindsight of stress-related injuries among South Atlantic dolphins and people who work in colour copying shops.

JP:
Don't you want to see Trevor? We could ring up and vote for him!

Hamish:
*Why* would we want to vote for him? We both know that Trevor is only spectacularly proficient at one thing; choking his pink whippet! Unless he plans to do *that* on Stars in Their Eyes, he doesn't stand a chance!

JP:
I wouldn't put it past him...

JP:
Well, this is it, guys! The big moment! They're going to announce the winner!

Davina:
It's terribly exciting, isn't it?

JP:
I can hardly wait! My arse has contracted to the size of a tiny peanut!

Davina:
Do you think Trevor's going to win?

Hamish:
Oh, for f***'s sake!

Davina:
Well, I suppose we should look on the bright side... Trevor would have been completely unbearable if he'd won...

JP:
How do you think he'll take it?

Davina:
Badly, I should think. He's been absolutely living the part of Marilyn Monroe... I caught him spangling off over a photograph of John F. Kennedy on Tuesday...

JP:
Ja... And last night he ate three bottles of aspirin...

Hamish:
[Reading a newspaper] Oh, look at this...

Davina:
What?

Hamish:
Well, it says here that the Earth has been hit by a meteorite the size of Wales...

Davina:
Really? Where did it land?

Hamish:
Wales...

Hamish:
I have had a vision!

JP:
A vision?

Hamish:
I was in the downstairs loo...

JP:
Ja...

Hamish:
There was a blinding white light...

JP:
Ja...

Hamish:
And I saw...

JP:
A vision of Elvis Presley?

Hamish:
No!

JP:
Was it Casper the Friendly Ghost?

Hamish:
No! It was an archangel!

JP:
An archangel? In the downstairs toilet?

Hamish:
Yes!

JP:
What was it wearing?

Hamish:
What? Does it matter?

JP:
It might.

Hamish:
Right, it was wearing a green halterneck evening gown with hand-stitched sequins and slingback emerald slippers!

JP:
Did it have a matching evening bag?

Hamish:
Will you shut up!

Davina:
I've had a postcard from my boyfriend Vince... That *is* a miracle! He smuggled himself onto one of the trains going through the Channel Tunnel a few days ago. Now he's living as a Trappist monk in a spartan monastery just outside Valletta on the island of Malta. Last time he did this, he was away for twelve years. He came back with a bald patch shaved in the middle of his back and he refused to speak for six months, except to ask for the occasional back rub... Or a wank. When Vince comes back this time, I'm going to nail him to a cross and prop him up outside Tescos in Cricklewood Broadway. They drugs don't work, you know. They just make you worse.