Prick Up Your Ears Page #4

Sh*t, Ill never catch up.

So what's this?

We are halfway through a novel.

You are, you mean.

Its a collaboration, dear.

We've written it together.

- Stop it, Im reading.

- You're not.

- Test me, then.

- What on?

Mythology.

Who is the father of Oedipus?

- Laius.

- Who is his mother?

F*** his mother.

Boy Hairdresser.

Nice title.

Ive shown it to one or two...

selected colleagues...

- and we laughed.

- You're kidding.

We had a real chuckle.

The trouble is that normal sex...

is still a novelty for most people...

in book form.

A book such as yours...

- which very wittily...

- We thought it was witty.

...explores the byways of sexuality...

is ahead of its time.

We are a very conservative firm.

Isnt one of the directors T.S. Eliot?

Yes, that's right.

Is he in the building?

Thursday. Yes, he is.

Fancy, John,

we're under the same roof as T.S. Eliot.

He wants to know which is his chair.

This one.

Yes, well, thank you very much

for letting us see this.

You can keep it a little longer if you want.

Show it to a few more friends.

Thank you, no.

And remember, next time you see Mr. Eliot...

tell him he has two devoted fans

in Islington...

who think The Waste Land

is a real knockout.

Never mind.

At least you can say

you sat in the same chair as T.S. Eliot.

Yes, Im never gonna wipe my bum again.

Why did you leave all the talking to me?

Its your book as much as mine.

Im shy. Its not my territory.

This is dead-center me.

Nice bum.

- He heard that.

- So what?

Now you're shy.

This is Mr. Halliwell.

Really?

Doesn't knock on my box one bit.

He's got a big one.

- How do you know?

- Its written all over his face.

- Look at the package on that.

- Where?

- We're on.

- I didn't see anything. What did he do?

What do you want, a telegram? Come on!

He's built like a brick shithouse.

- He's probably a policeman.

- Yes, I know. Isnt he wonderful?

We've got tickets for the Proms.

All right. What's your name?

- What do you mean, what's my name?

- Mine's Kevin.

Mine's Howard.

- That's a poncey name.

- Patrick, then.

Catholic, are you? What do you do?

- I don't know. What do you do?

- Im a fitter, car components.

Im a dog handler.

On an individual basis,

or are you a tool of a large organization?

Im so sh*t scared, I don't know

if Ill be able to do anything.

We don't want to let this

make us late for the Proms.

Listen, sweetheart, which do you prefer?

Him or Sir Malcolm Sargent?

Hello. My name's Kevin.

- Mine's Kenneth.

- Mine's Kenneth, too.

- Sh*t.

- Only, my friends call me Patrick.

We're all friends here.

Do you kiss?

I don't think he likes me.

You like him, don't you?

Sure.

Kiss him.

And so, 10 years passed.

- Not like that.

- No, silly, not like that.

Nothing happened. Looking back on it,

I suppose it was some kind of preparation.

An education, maybe.

Well, if it seemed like that to Joe,

it can't have done to Ken.

- No.

- His hair was falling out.

God, I know the feeling.

And whereas he'd stopped writing,

Joe had started.

Still, they were both failures,

so it didn't matter.

- It didn't matter yet.

- Quite.

You want rice pudding

with the sardines or separate?

With.

Jam?

No.

Mozart was dead by the time he was my age.

- Im not even young anymore.

- What about me?

You never were.

I can't see

how we are ever going to make our mark...

defacing library books.

- You didn't tell me one of them was a nancy.

- Im sorry, Mr. Cunliffe?

The bald one, Miss Batersby.

A homosexual. A shirtlifter.

- In Islington?

- Haven't you noticed?

Large areas of the borough

are being restored...

and painted Thames green.

Noel Road.

This calls for a little detective work,

Miss Batersby.

"F***ed by Monty." indeed!

Men died! Died!

Registration:

K-Y-R...

4-5-0.

The above-mentioned vehicle...

appears to be derelict and abandoned...

in Noel Road...

and I have been given to understand...

you are the owner thereof.

"But before enforcing remedies...

"I give you the opportunity

to remove the vehicle from the highway."

The little prick.

Unzip our trusty Remington, John.

We will piss on this person

from a great height.

"Humber Hawk" indeed.

Dear sir,

thank you for your dreary little letter...

- "Dismal" is better.

- "Dismal," then.

I should like to know...

who provided you

with this mysterious information.

"Furnished" is better than "provided."

Its more municipal in tone.

You will note the typing,

Miss Batersby, is the same.

Our book jacket...

their letter.

Got you, my beauties.

This is the novel Clouds of Witness

by the noted authoress Dorothy L. Sayers.

Could you read what the accused

have written on the flap of the jacket?

"When little Betty McDree says

she has been interfered with...

"her mother first laughs.

"'It is only something the kitty

has picked up off the television.'

"But when sorting through the laundry...

"Mrs. McDree discovers

a new pair of knickers are missing...

"she thinks again.

"Her mother takes little Betty

to the police station...

"where to everyone's surprise...

"she identifies P.C. Brecken-Coolidge

as her attacker.

"A search is made

of the women's police barracks.

"What is found there

is a seven-inch phallus...

"and a pair of knickers

of the type used by Betty.

"All looks black for kindly P.C. Coolidge.

"This is one of the most enthralling stories

ever written by Miss Sayers.

"Read it behind closed doors...

"and have a good sh*t

while you're reading it."

The probation officer has suggested

that you are both frustrated authors.

If you are so clever at making fun...

of what more talented people have written...

you should have a shot

at writing books yourselves.

You won't find that such a pushover.

Sheer malice and destruction,

the pair of you.

I sentence you both to six months.

- F***ing A.

- It was your idea.

But Im the youngest.

Prison worked wonders for Joe.

And being a man, of course...

he made out it was much more of an ordeal

than in fact it was.

- Where did he go?

- Brixton, for about five minutes...

then one of those open places in Sussex.

Quite near my health farm, actually,

and with much the same effect.

Though at rather less expense.

Yes.

And at my place you don't get psychiatry.

What about your parents?

Dead. Both of them.

When I was a little kiddie.

Im an orphan.

The guy I share a room with...

Ken...

he cracks on he's the orphan.

Don't you believe him.

He reckons he got up one morning...

and found his dad

with his head in the gas oven.

Didn't even call the ambulance.

How is he, by the way?

That was your mother.

Tell me about your father.

There's nothing to tell. I was 18...

I came down one morning and found him

with his head in the gas oven.

You called the ambulance, naturally?

Oh, eventually.

I made a cup of tea first.

He was quite plainly dead.

- You weren't fond of him.

- Not particularly.

You're fond of your roommate.

We're everything to one another.

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