What About Dick? Page #3

personal, but you know

how we English people are

with emotions.

- We don't have any, Sir?

- No, we have some but

we don't share them.

We're not a touchy-feely race.

- Like the Nigerians.

- What?

Look, this may just be

sentimental tosh, but I

have been having feelings

about something, well

a little private.

- Any little private we know, Sir?

- It feels a bit awkward,

I mean, after all, we're

in the Army.

- It's fairly common in the Navy, Sir.

- It's just that if anything

should happen to me,

Sergeant, and this is

really important, I should

like you to--

- What, what did he say?

- That's just it, I can't remember.

- You can't remember.

- Just that it was very important.

- But, how could you possibly forget?

- It was that night,

when the piano appeared,

that the Regimental Transvestite Ball,

something terrible happened.

- Good evening, Major D*ckhead.

- That's Dihard.

- What?

- It's spelled D*ckhead but

it's pronounced Duh hard.

- Oh, sorry.

Splendid sight isn't it,

all these chaps in their

frocks.

- Stimulating!

- Fancy a stiff one?

- I already have one.

- Lovely gown.

- Thank you.

- Sorry to interrupt this gay banter, Sir,

but there's a bit of trouble in the camp.

- What sort of trouble?

- One of the civilians has been eaten.

- Beaten?

- No, Sir, eaten.

- Eton as in the public

school founded in 1440

by Henry the VI part three?

- No, Sir.

Eatin' as in tucked into a nice sandwich,

nibble, nibble, nibble part chewed.

- Good grief!

- Shall I cancel the ball?

- Good Lord, no need to do that.

The chaps have been up all

night sewing their dresses.

- Righto, Sir.

But I wish I had,

because shortly after the spot dance,

we cut right in to who

just won best frock for

a beautiful hand embroidered ballgown,

all hell broke loose.

- It should have been me.

- It was mine.

- My frock was much better than yours--

- No, mine had no holes in it--

- Look, yours is Bastille rubbish--

- I don't know what your--

- But this terrible

bickering was soon silenced.

by a deadly attack.

- What sort of enemy

attacks during drag night?

And I'll tell you one thing, Sergeant,

before I die, there is

a place far off in the

future where the wind

blows off of the mountains,

and people will be kind and good,

and respect one another

and be descent and fair.

- America, Sir?

- No, not America, Holland.

- But there aren't any

mountains in Holland.

- What?

- Well, there's canals,

and dykes and red light

districts with hookers

in the windows but no

mountains.

- The mountains are a metaphor.

- But Holland is known for being flat.

- It doesn't matter.

- Well, it matters

because if the metaphor is

to signify it, it must

be appropriate to the

comparison.

- No, no, you see, a

metaphor is by definition

a comparison between two different things.

- That's a simile.

But the argument was never resolved.

Lord Darling took a terrible wound.

- I'm done for, Sergeant.

Don't forget your promise.

- Oh I won't, Sir.

But I did.

In the morning, there

were only three survivors,

me, Deepak and this piano.

- Look, there's Helena Schlegel

walking down Bond Street.

Helena!

- Hello, Reverend Whoopsie.

Is the flashback over?

- Yes, thank God!

- How was the weekend with Dick?

- Marvelous!

We played games.

- Who won?

- Dick came first.

- It was such fun, Helena.

I hardly knew I had it in me.

- Then Dick found this piano on the beach.

- Oh, it's a beauty.

- Isn't it?

- We're giving it to the Workers.

- Oh, not to me, Dick?

- Mr. Whoopsie says The

Workers need some new

instruments.

- But such a beautiful

piano, you might have

thought of me.

- Whoopsie was very

insistent and apparently

has a young man in mind.

- Why don't you come

along and meet him tonight

at The Royal Working Men's Club.

- Oh, Dear God!

Oh, sweet Jesus!

Sh*t, Christ, hell,

f***, will it never end.

- I am very pleased to

present The Dick Piano for the

Working Classes to Leonard the Bastard.

So what do you think, Helena?

- I think it's monstrous.

Why on earth did you choose him?

- Well, look at him.

He's beautiful.

- But he can't play the

piano to save his life.

- Congratulations, Lennie.

- Thank you very much, Reverend.

- Leonard, this is Helena Schlegel.

- Very nice to meet ya, Miss Schlegel.

- How much do you want for the piano?

- Oh no, I couldn't possibly part with it.

- I'll give you a hundred guineas.

- Heavens, that's more than

my wife makes in a year.

- You're married?

- Who's the clever little ducky wucky?

Come on, Lenny give us a smackening,

muah, muah, muah, muah, muah, muah.

- This is Enid.

- Who's Enid?

- I'm Enid.

- She's your mother?

- No, she's me wife.

- Oh, sorry,

it's the light in here.

- Don't worry Vicar, if it weren't for me,

Lennie would starve.

- Why, what is it you do, Mrs. Bastard?

- She has men over.

- And what does she do with them?

- None of your business.

I make them happy.

You should try it sometime.

- Enid!

- What?

You're a stuck up git!

She's looking down her nose at us, Lennie.

- Golly, how awkward.

Well, I must be off to

play hunt the thimble,

with the Bishop of Thornton.

Enjoy the piano, Lennie.

- How are we ever going to

get that piano into our place?

- We'll manage somehow.

- Well, we'll have to get

a saw and cut it in half.

- 150 guineas.

- I cannot lie to you

miss but it's more than me

life's worth.

- Give me the address then.

- It's at the bottom of Glenn Close.

- I'll tell the Russell brothers.

- That's in Houndsditch, miss.

But you've probably never

won't have heard of it.

- Enid!

- What?

- She's only trying to help, girl.

- Well, I don't trust her, Lennie.

I don't like the way she's looking.

- At me?

- No, at the piano.

- Hey, you two idiots.

- Yes, miss.

- You're to take this piano

to Kensington Gardens.

- This what?

- I think she means the piano.

- Well, why didn't she

f***ing well say so?

- Well, she's a toff

but she has very nice--

- Oh, she certainly does, yeah.

- Hurry up you two Working

Class wankers, to Kensington.

- Kensington, I thought it

was going to Houndsditch.

- No, it's written Houndsditch

but it's pronounced

Kensington.

- Oh see, that's why she's a toff and I'm

just a c*nt--

- Tree boy.

Come on in, Warhorse.

- Look, Lennie, there's

a cart with our piano,

that's not the way to Houndsditch.

I knew it, they're heading for Kensington.

- Perhaps there's a mistake.

- Yeah, accepting pianos

from Whoopsie Dick 'cause

he's a mistake, quick after 'em.

- I'll call the police.

- No, no, no, no, not the police, Lennie.

Think of my work.

- What is it exactly that you do?

- I told you, Lennie.

It's a kind of therapy.

- But must they take their trousers off?

- We'll talk about that later, Lennie.

- No, I want to talk about it now.

- Alright, Leonard.

I'm an ass reader.

- You what?

- I tell peoples fortunes.

It's like palm reading.

Only I read their asses.

- Ass-trology.

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