The Largest Theatre in the World: Heart to Heart Page #2

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with the union, you will.

It's all right,

I'll drink from the flask.

All right, Tom. Forget it.

Tough girl, eh?

No, not tough at all.

I'm far too soft about some things.

For instance, I should be

confiscating that.

I should have you barred

from television.

That is if I'm not barred myself,

after tonight.

-How bad was it?

-Not good, Mr Mann.

Why you always call me Mr Mann?

Because you always call me Mrs Weston.

I only do that to remind myself

that you're married.

-How is Mrs Mann, by the way?

-Oh, fine, fine.

-Enjoying the new flat, I suppose?

-Like mad!

Good!

-Ta-da, David. See you tomorrow.

-Ta-da.

That is, if there is a tomorrow.

I suppose they can't sack me

before that. Or can they?

Well, they could refuse your

new contract.

So?

Oh, I see. It's your night for being

the embittered success, is it, Mr Mann?

Listen, Mrs Weston.

A thing doesn't stop being true

just because it's become a clich.

As has been written about so badly,

so often, success can be hell.

Now, you tell me about it.

I only know about failure,

and that isn't exactly heaven.

I wasn't a failure before this circus.

Well, you will be after this circus,

if you're go on as you're going.

Well, I have to have a couple of drinks

before I go in front of the cameras.

I've got to.

It's got nothing to do with

nerves or strain.

I could do this job on my head

any night.

And one of these nights you will.

Oh, Jessie, for heaven's sake,

stop this eternal wisecracking.

That's part of the whole thing,

this eternal wisecracking.

It's as if everyone in this profession

has to joke about their work

in order to keep sane.

Other people don't joke about

their jobs, do they?

Farmers do. I know,

I was brought up in the country.

Why do I drink? Oh, why do I drink?

Can you tell me that?

Well, I can give you one good reason.

Because you can afford to.

Farmers usually can't,

except on Saturdays nights.

-Oh, Jess!

-That wasn't a wisecrack, Mr Mann,

it was just a clich.

Look, hadn't we better get out of here

before we get locked in for the night

-and I am fatally compromised?

-You might just get strangled.

-I'd still get compromised.

-Hmm.

And, of course, Mr Weston

wouldn't like that.

-He'd hate it.

-A-ha!

-And so would Mrs Mann.

-Oh!

Sorry, that was the last one

from the flask.

It's the first six from the bottle,

if you ask me.

Do farmers feel ashamed of their jobs?

Now, what makes you feel

ashamed of yours, Mr Mann?

Well, in the first place,

it's grossly overpaid.

(TUTTING) That's a shame I could bear

a fraction of.

Oh, I'm sorry, that was

a wisecrack. Go on, second.

Second place, it's a job that could be

done by any man of fair intelligence,

a modicum of industry and a quick brain.

There must be thousands and thousands

of men who could do this job

happily and well...

-Oh, just leave it at thousands.

-For a tenth of my price.

-Some might stay sober too.

-And I have to get myself

a convertible Bentley

and a flat in Belgravia.

-And for one reason, one reason only.

-What?

-That.

-What?

That.

Apparently it makes a dimple somewhere

when I smile, God knows where.

God and you, Mr Mann.

Ten million morons go for this

every night. Why?

Don't ask me.

I'm not one of the ten million.

First few letters I got were

flattering, I suppose.

The next hundred or so, funny, in a way.

Now? Now, they're just

downright insulting.

Damn it, I used to be one of the best

political economists in the country.

Surely I'm worth more than this.

About 300 more pounds a week more,

I'm told.

Blast you, Mrs Weston. Good night.

-David?

-Yeah?

Hadn't we better go this way, hmm?

Not the front.

Perhaps.

-Are you driving yourself?

-Oh, no. Chauffeur.

-Brand new, 14 a week.

-(TUTTING) Hard luck.

-Jessie.

-Hmm?

I suppose I'm a self-pitying bore.

-No, David, not to me.

-But you do see my point.

Of course I do.

You could always go back to

political economy, of course.

No, it's too late.

I've burnt my boats, you know that.

Oh, well. You'll just have to learn to

live with that dimple, won't you?

Other people have had to learned

to live with much more worse.

Just a little homespun philosopher,

aren't you?

You must drive your poor husband

round the bend.

Possibly, but not to drink.

Ah, very funny.

Has he sold any poems recently?

Yes. As a matter of fact, he has.

Three weeks ago, to one of those

intellectual weeklies.

He got all of 12 guineas for it.

Ha! Why doesn't he get a regular job in

journalism or something or even this TV?

Surrender to the Establishment?

Even having babies would be

a surrender to bourgeois domesticity.

So, meanwhile, he just lives off you?

Why not? A genius has to

live off someone.

Genius!

Ah! Here's my grand convertible.

I've given Conway my chauffeur

the night off.

-Can you see yours?

-Yes, he's around. (WHISTLING)

Well, after alls said and done,

I suppose we don't do

such a bad job really.

At least, it's the most honest programme

of its kind, isn't it?

Now, don't make a wisecrack about that

or I will strangle you.

I wasn't going to. I think it is.

And I think as long as you're on it

and you stay sober enough to articulate,

it'll go on being it.

Thank you, Mrs Weston.

-Good night.

-Good night, Mr Mann.

Yes, yes, I grant you his following

and the excellent rating.

I even grant you that probably not more

than one viewer in a thousand tonight

realised that anything was wrong. But

that's just the one thousandth viewer

that I have to think of.

Well, he's probably a drinker, too.

The ones that notice usually are.

I don't want you to be facetious

about this, Frank, it's serious.

Oh, no, it isn't. He's not an alcoholic.

Still, I will talk to him, I promise.

Tell him that, in this business,

no one man is indispensable.

I shall remember those exact words.

And tell him that his new contract

isn't signed yet.

Well, I think he knows that.

Mine isn't either, if it comes to that.

Well, er, how'd you think

the show was, otherwise?

Well, Frank, since you ask.

Mind you, it's your programme.

I don't want to interfere at all.

I hope you understand that clearly but

aren't we getting a bit near the bone?

I mean, poor old Johnny Dawson-Brown

was made to seem

a pretty fair poop tonight.

-Well, he is a pretty fair poop.

-Possibly, but...

He's a very distinguished man

and, incidentally, a friend of mine.

That's nothing to do with it, of course.

Of course.

And tomorrow night we have

a minister of the Crown.

So I think a little easing up

would be in order. Don't you?

Put it to David Mann anyway.

But the other thing, the drinking,

now that is an order.

And you have to give it.

After all, it's your programme. It's you

who carry the can, if things go wrong.

Yes and, in television,

no one man is indispensable.

That's right.

Now, good night, Frank.

Good night, Stockton.

Jesus!

Hello. How did it go?

-Well, didn't you watch it?

-No, I had the Wilkinsons in.

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