THE GREASY SPOON - METRIC MILES

SCENE BRIEFING

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

CHARACTERS:

• JOE: Early sixties. Built like a lamppost, deeply sleep-deprived, world-weary cynic.

• BOB: Early sixties. Flat-capped, sturdy, irrepressibly gossipy, half-deaf from factory work.

• BRENDA: Mid-fifties. Proprietor, rapid-fire tea slinger in plimsolls.

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:
(PUNCHY, BREEZY)
Morning, mate!

JOE:
(LOW GROWL)
Alright.

BOB:
Full of the joys of spring, as per usual.

JOE:
Piss off.

BOB:
Bloody hell, cheer up! Face on you like a smacked arse. What’s up?

JOE:
Bollocksed, ain’t I? Two hours’ sleep. Ceiling stared back at me all night.

BOB:
Ah. The old nocturnal staring contest.

JOE:
Yeah.

BOB:
Going to be a right barrel of laughs this morning, aren’t we? One-word answers and heavy breathing.

JOE:
(SIGHING HEAVILY)
Get the coffees in and shut yer cakehole. That’ll help.

FX: CHAIR LEGS SHUDDER ON LINOLEUM. BOB’S SCUFFED SHOES SQUEAK TOWARDS THE COUNTER.

BOB:
(OFF-MIC, SHOUTING TO BRENDA)
Two large whites, Bren! Extra hot, before misery-guts here slips into a coma!

FX: HEAVY CERAMIC MUGS SLAPPED ONTO FORMICA DESK. BOB’S CHAIR SCRAPES HEAVILY AS HE DROPS BACK DOWN.

BOB:
Here you are, grumps. Get that down your neck.

JOE:
Ta.

BOB:
Got a bit of news that’ll put a smile on your miserable boat race. You know Ron Wheate? The gobby sod who props up the bar at the Larkin?

JOE:
Oh aye. The world’s leading authority on everything. Can’t stand him.

BOB:
Well, Brenda was saying he was in here yesterday morning. Whingeing like a stuck pig about his piles.

JOE:
(PERKING UP SLIGHTLY)
Wheate? The loudmouth?

BOB:
Spilling his guts to the entire room! Bellowing over the poached eggs! Said he’s got it so bad he has to carry an inflatable rubber ring cushion in a Co-op bag.

FX: BOTH MEN CHUCKLE. BOB CACKLES LOUDLY.

JOE:
(GENUINELY TICKLED)
Ron Wheate sitting on a giant rubber doughnut? You weren’t lying, Bob. That has actually cheered me up.

BOB:
Thought it would! Mister Big Shot, sitting on thirty PSI of compressed air!

FX: TWO SIMULTANEOUS, AGGRESSIVE SLURPS OF PIPING HOT COFFEE, FOLLOWED BY A SATISFIED SIGH.

JOE:
Decent brew, this.

BOB:
Course it is. Brenda made it. Not that useless article Tracey.

JOE:
Tracey couldn’t boil water without burning the kettle. Waste of wages.

BOB:
They pay her to look at her phone behind the till! Scandalous.

FX: MUGS THUD ONTO THE TABLE MATS.

BOB:
See that Andy Burnham’s latest wheeze? Wants tourist taxes on hotel rooms. Taxing folks for going tbeing on holiday! Great ideea or what?

JOE:
(DRY)
Well, they knock a quid off the bus fare to balance it out, don’t they?

BOB:
Oh aye. That’ll tempt the Americans over to Coventry, won’t it? A cheaper number 12.

FX: LONG, DELIBERATE SLURP. THEN COMPLETE SILENCE AT THE TABLE. CAFE CHATTER CONTINUES IN THE BACKGROUND.

BOB:
You alright, mate? Gone quiet again.

JOE:
(DROPPING HIS VOICE, LEANING IN)
Bob.

BOB:
Yeah?

JOE:
That thing you just said about Ron Wheate.

BOB:
(CHUCKLING)
What, the rubber dinghy under his arse—?

JOE:
(SHARP, URGENT)
Keep it down! Shut up a second.

BOB:
(WHISPERING)

What’s the matter with yer?

JOE:
(TERRIFIED OF BEING OVERHEARD)
The… metric miles.

BOB:
The what?

JOE:
The farmers. The grapes. The piles, you deaf bastard!

BOB:
What about ’em?

FX: JOE’S CHAIR CREAKS UNDER HIS WEIGHT AS HE LEANS IN CLOSER.

JOE:
(BARELY AUDIBLE MURMUR)
I get ’em. Dreadful. Like sitting on a hot kettle. I’ve had to start putting the Andrex in the fridge.

FX: A BEAT OF DEAD SILENCE.

BOB:
(BURSTS OUT IN AN EAR-SPLITTING GUFFAW)
You put the bog roll in the fridge?!

JOE:
(HISSING, FURIOUS)
SHUT UP! Brenda’s looking! Keep your voice down!

BOB:
(SNORTING WITH LAUGHTER, TRYING TO WHISPER)
In the salad crisper next to the flora?! Chilled quilted two-ply?!

JOE:
It provides relief, alright?! It’s medical!

BOB:
(WIPING AWAY TEARS)
Tell you what, mate…

JOE:
(DEEPLY SUSPICIOUS)
What?

BOB:
Christmas is coming up. I’ll buy you a puncture repair kit.

JOE:
(LONG, EXASPERATED SIGH)
Fuck off, Bob.

FX: FINAL, RESIGNED SLURP OF COFFEE ACCOMPANIED BY BOB’S HELPLESS, WOBBLY GIGGLING TO FADE.