Prick Up Your Ears Page #5

Sleep together, do you?

No...

but we have sex.

Are you sure?

Yes.

You don't mean you want to have sex?

No, we do.

But your friend's not like that, is he?

He's married, he's got a child.

So you're surprised, are you?

Not really.

This may come as a shock to you...

but I suspect your friend...

may be homosexual.

Jesus!

And there I am,

sleeping in the same room with him.

You mentioned your wife.

Where is she now?

The last I heard,

she'd taken the kid to Lyme Regis.

Try and team up with them again.

Make a fresh start.

Don't you worry.

Not too Spartan, is it?

On the contrary, a room of one's own.

Prison gives a writer credentials.

Everyone else, it takes them away.

It was the first time in 10 years

they'd been split up.

- So prison was a taste of freedom.

- For Joe.

When did you do this?

- I haven't seen this.

- Its a radio play.

I did it on my own in prison.

- Ive sent it to the BBC.

- Why didn't you tell me?

I could help you write a proper letter.

You'll never hear back.

I already have.

"We had a little room...

"and our life was made quite comfortable

by the National Assistance Board.

"We had a lot of friends

of all creeds and colors...

"and no circumstances at all.

"We were happy enough.

"We were young."

"I was 17 and he was 23.

"You can't do better for yourself than that,

can you?

"We were bosom friends."

- "I hope I haven't shocked you."

- "As close as that?"

"We had separate beds."

"He was a stickler for appearances.

"But we spent every night

in each other's company.

"It was the reason

we never got any work done.

"I used to base my life around him."

- "Don't often get that, do you?"

- "No."

"He had personality."

Could we make that line read

"stickler for convention"?

"His mentality wasn't fully developed.

"He was bound to make good

sooner or later."

I knew nothing about him

when he walked in.

Mr. Orton...

- Hello.

- Hello, dear.

I thought the radio play was derivative.

I said so.

- Did he mind?

- Not at all.

Im writing a better one for the stage.

Mr. Orton, that would be gorgeous.

Would it be rude to inquire

how you're managing to live?

National Assistance, $3.10 a week.

Im afraid Ive just come out of jail.

Excellent.

The papers will love all that.

This is what we call an advance.

It means that when you finish

the new play you're writing...

the one that's going to be better...

you bring it along and show me.

John Orton.

Don't like that.

Sounds too much like John Osborne.

Are you attached to John as a name?

No.

Try to think of another one, dear.

Next time I come...

can I bring my friend?

Right around the back, and when you

hit the middle of the sofa, lunge.

Yes.

- Is that better, Joe?

- Fine.

- Is the view better for you?

- Its better for me.

Except, it's not our play.

You're making it into a cheap sex farce.

That's not what we wrote.

We?

- Ken thinks...

- You wrote this play, Im directing it.

I don't give a damn what this refugee

from a secondhand clothes shop thinks.

I will not have him in rehearsal.

It fucks up the actors.

- He's a friend.

- After all, it's your play.

It is your play, isn't it?

You just want to be liked.

That's your trouble.

Am I 25 or 26?

For publicity purposes.

Peggy's been pestering me

for some undisputed facts.

Why not tell the truth? 31, "Joe."

I can't put 31.

I don't look 31.

Besides, 31 is a well-known bus.

Married or single?

Married...

Divorced.

One kid.

Ive dedicated it to you.

What more do you want?

Did you put my full name?

Or just Kenneth?

Ill put your phone number, too, if you want.

Why now?

You're not ashamed of me?

Hair loss is often thought of

as a sign of sexual potency.

Does your experience bear that out?

More people wear wigs

than is commonly realized.

Trades union leaders...

sporting personalities...

members of the royal family.

Its better than the beret.

Shall we keep it on?

Yes, I think so.

I shall wear it to our first night.

Itll be $70.

$70?

This is on me.

And this is on me.

Im not calling you "Joe."

You sound like rough trade.

To me, you're John. You'll always be John.

For Ken and Joe...

opportunity knocked.

I just want to see if it works.

What?

The wig.

Im going to end up like you.

Yes.

Stay there.

All right?

You got the time?

Not right now.

Hey.

You see the fellow in the wig?

He's wanting it, ask him.

Oh, fear.

Go on.

Got a match?

- What?

- A light.

- Im afraid I haven't.

- Pity.

I was thinking of popping in

for a Jimmy Riddle.

You know.

It works.

- It really works.

- Go on, get in there.

I daren't.

- Do you want me to come?

- No.

Go on.

They are called cottages, you know.

Gentlemen's laves.

In the States, it's tearooms.

Really?

In England, tearooms

are something quite different.

So are cottages.

Have you ever seen anything going on?

You don't want it stuck up your ass,

by any chance?

If you mean what I think you mean...

no.

No harm in asking.

Ken!

We were just having a chat.

- The police! Out! Quick!

- Jesus.

Thank you.

My second play, Loot,

is a bigger hit than my first.

Its also a better play,

and it is the critics' choice.

Best play of the year.

The film rights have been sold

for a record figure.

Currently I am working on a screenplay

for four boys...

who are nudging Jesus Christ...

for position of number one

most famous person ever.

But have I ever met these fabled creatures?

Have I ever met their manager,

Ms. Brian Epstein...

and have I been paid?

No. Then why am I doing it?

Vanity.

Im going to jack it in, Beatles or no Beatles.

What I would like to do at this moment...

would be to ease down

their Liverpudlian underpants...

and ram my Remington up their arses.

The lovable mop-heads.

- What about me?

- What about you?

I can't remember

when you last touched my cock.

I can, actually.

It was about two years ago.

Only, I can't remember the actual date.

Pity.

I could have put it in my diary.

"The last time Joe touched my cock.

"Grouse shooting begins."

Maybe we should go away.

Somewhere where there is plenty of sex.

And I don't mean Southport.

Somewhere even you might be happy.

Morocco, maybe.

What do you think?

I don't want to go away.

I just want to go to the awards.

I could! Look, "Joe Orton and guest."

Id behave. I wouldn't say a word, I promise.

- No.

- Why?

- Because it's for me. I wrote it.

- I gave you the title.

Okay, so when they have awards for titles,

you can go to that.

Yes?

No, this is Mr. Orton's personal assistant.

No, he's tied up at the moment.

I see.

Yes.

Thank you.

Paul McCartney's calling to see you.

He's on his way now.

- Here?

- Yeah.

Sh*t.

- Was that him?

- No, no.

Someone more cultured.

The chauffeur, I think.

- Did you tell him the address?

- He knew the address.

I wish Id known. This place is like a pigsty.

He won't mind. He's used to it.

He's an ordinary working-class boy.

They all are.

He's the nicest, though.

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