THE GREASY SPOON - THE PERFORMANCE

SCENE BRIEFING

SETTING: A snug, steam-fogged greasy spoon cafe in Coventry city centre. 10:15 AM on a chilly Friday.

CHARACTERS:
• JOE: Early sixties. Built like a lamppost, deeply sleep-deprived, world-weary cynic.
• BOB: Early sixties. Flat-capped, sturdy, irrepressibly gossipy, temporarily possessed by Laurence Olivier.
• BRENDA: Mid-fifties. Proprietor, quick-witted in an apron, entirely willing to play along.

FX: GREASY SPOON AMBIENCE. HISSING GAGGIA STEAM WAND, SPATTERING BACON ON A STEEL HOTPLATE, CLINKING THICK-RIMMED MUGS, MUFFLED RING-ROAD TRAFFIC OUTSIDE.

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BOB:
(PROJECTING TO THE BACK ROW OF THE UPPER CIRCLE)
Morning, Joseph!

JOE:
(LOW GROWL)
Morning, Robert.

BOB:
(DECLAMATORY, HAND TO HEART)
It is not merely Robert! Stand before me and gaze in wonder, for I am Lord Robert of the Brew!

JOE:
(BEAT)
What?

BOB:
Dear sir, are your listening receptacles packed with suet? Ceased to function? Or hast thine ears simply surrendered to the damp?

JOE:
(HEAVY SIGH)
What the bloody hell is the matter with you today?

FX: CHAIR LEGS SHUDDER ABRUPTLY ACROSS LINOLEUM. A DRY, AUDIBLE CLICK OF ARTHRITIC KNEE BONES.

BOB:
(BOOMING)
Nothing ail-eth me, knave! On this grand Friday of our Lord, I am brimming with majesty!

JOE:
Full of shite, more like. Sit down, you daft apeth. Brenda’s looking.

FX: CHAIR SCRAPES HEAVILY AS BOB DROPS HARD BACK ONTO THE VINYL.

BOB:
Well? What did you think?

JOE:
About what?

BOB:
My performance! The projection! The regal carriage!

JOE:
Performance? I thought you were having an aneurysm.

BOB:
Piss off, you uncultured heathen. I’m getting into character. I’m the star of the show.

JOE:
What show? The Royal Shakespeare Company running low on pensioners?

BOB:
Our Maisie! Her primary school’s doing a historical pageant. She came round on Tuesday, looked up at me with them big brown eyes, and begged me to take the lead.

JOE:
Hang on, Sir Robert of Bullshit. Are you telling me she begged you, or did you bully the headmistress after two pints of mild?

BOB:
(INDIGNANT SQUAWK)
Double piss off! No! Mr Henderson—the year four teacher who was supposed to play the Earl of Warwick—went down with the shingles. Maisie needed a hero.

JOE:
Should’ve told 'em to bugger off. That’s what I’d do.

BOB:
(LEANING IN, DROPPING THE BOOMING VOICE)
Truth be told, mate... I’m bricking it, ain’t I? Three pages of script and half of it’s in rhyming couplets.

JOE:
Serves you right for showing off.

FX: SQUEAK OF PLIMSOLLS ON LINOLEUM. TWO HEAVY MUGS OF TEA THUD ONTO THE FORMICA.

JOE:
Ah, bless you, Brenda. You're a lifesaver. Get a load of this nobhead, thinks he’s Richard Burton.

BRENDA:
No problem, Joe. An actor, Bob? What in?

BOB:
(INFLATING HIS CHEST)
Lord of the Realm, Brenda! Earl of Warwick, master of men, defender of the Midlands!

BRENDA:
Ooh, lovely! You'll be brilliant, Bob. Just don't forget your false teeth on stage like old Arthur did in the pantomime.

BOB:
(ROARING, THEATRICAL)
Why, thank you, Lady Brenda of the Spoon! I am profoundly humbled by thine endorsement! Unlike this sour-faced wretch sitting opposite!

BRENDA:
(EXAGGERATED HIGH-SOCIETY VOICE, RUSTLING HER APRON)
Why, 'tis an absolute pleasure, Lord Robert of the Brew! We common folk can only marvel at your noble presence!

FX: JOE BLOWS A MASSIVE, WET, DISGUSTED RASPBERRY.

JOE:
Don't encourage him, Bren! He’s an idiot. You couldn't teach Bob to act if you strapped him to Kenneth Branagh for ten years.

BRENDA:
(FEIGNING DEEP SCANDAL)
Hark at Sir Joseph of the Grump! I am deeply wounded by your bitter tongue, sir!

JOE:
(PAUSE, THEN SUDDENLY PLAYING ALONG WITH DEEP, MOCK GRAVITAS)
My sincerest apologies, good Lady Brenda of the Lard. I meant no disrespect to your ladyship. Only to Lord Nobhead sitting across from me.

FX: BOTH MEN SCRAPE THEIR CHAIRS BACK SIMULTANEOUSLY AND HEAVE THEMSELVES UPRIGHT WITH GROANS OF STIFF LOWER BACKS.

BOB:
(HEAD HELD HIGH, CHIN OUT)
An apology most incomplete! Yield to my greatness, Sir Joseph!

JOE:
(FLOURISHING AN IMAGINARY VELVET CAPE)
Sod right off, your lordship. You’ll be waiting till kingdom come. And Lady Brenda... may we trouble your scullery for two of your finest bacon sarnies?

BRENDA:
(SNORTING WITH LAUGHTER)
Coming right up, your highnesses! Brown sauce or red on your royal rashers?

JOE:
Brown. Thick as mud.

FX: SQUEAK OF PLIMSOLLS DEPARTING. BOTH MEN DROP HEAVILY BACK INTO THEIR SEATS.

BOB:
(CHUCKLING, GENUINELY WOUND UP)
It’ll be a good laugh, I suppose.

JOE:
(SLURPING TEA)
Oh, it bloody well will be. I’m booking front row tickets just to watch you forget your lines and wet yourself on stage.

BOB:
Fuck off, Joe.

FX: SLURP OF TEA FOLLOWED BY BOB’S DEFENSIVE SNICKER AND JOE’S SATISFIED CHUCKLE AS THE GREASY SPOON BACKGROUND FADES OUT.