I’ve just found a bloody chicken in the fridge. And not even a real one. One of them ones that squawks. That’s it. I’m dead. I’ve died and gone to Blackpool.
The Kitchen.
James grabs a bottle of vodka from the freezer. It’s 9:14 AM. He unscrews the cap.
THE SCENE OPENS. The living room looks like a bomb hit a fancy dress shop and a kebab shop at the same time. A single, sad high heel lies on its side. A traffic cone is inexplicably on the coffee table. Confetti is stuck to everything.
Morning, shaggers! I’ve just been for a dip in the North Sea. Absolutely Baltic. Me bits have retreated so far inside me, I think I’ve become a woman. Anyway, recap: Marnie got her lad out, Sophie cried in a bin, and I definitely snogged someone’s dad.
The Garden.
storms in, looking like a pumped-up pitbull in a spray-on T-shirt. He is furious.
pours vodka on her bacon sandwich and eats it.
Suddenly, the front door SLAMS open.
Two hours later, they are all banned from a karaoke bar called “The Crooning Cod.”
Welcome to the club, pet. Now get a brew down yer and tell us who you’re gonna chin today.
(Voice like gravel) Why does me fanny taste like last night’s tequila? And why am I wearin’ a single sock and a traffic warden’s hat?
