Withnail and I Page #2

[ They sit at a bench in the park.]

I:

You know what we should do? I say, you know what we should do?

Withnail:

How should I possibly know what we should do? What should we do?

I:

Get out of it for a while. Get into the countryside. Rejuvenate.

Withnail:

Rejuvenate! I'm in a park and I'm practically dead. What good's the

countryside? What time is it?

I:

It's eight.

Withnail:

Fours hours to opening time. God help us. Have we got any embrocation?

I:

What for?

Withnail:

To rub on ourselves you fool. We'll cover ourselves in deep heat and

get up against a radiator. Keep ourselves alive until twelve.

[He spits.]

Withnail:

Jesus, look at that. Apart from a raw potato that's the only solid to

have passed my lips in the last sixty hours. I must be ill.

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The Flat

[I is writting in a notebook on the settee while Withnail wonders round

wearing his overcoat and his underpants, smearing himself with deep heat.]

I [mentally]:

Even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day. And for once

I'm inclined to believe Withnail is right; we are indeed drifting into the

arena of the unwell. Making an enemy of our own future. What we need is

harmony. Fresh air. Stuff like that.

Withnail:

Wasn't much in the tube. there's nothing left for you.

I:

Why don't you ask your father for some money. If we had some money we

could go away.

Withnail [inspecting a bottle for dregs]:

Why don't you ask your father. How can it be so cold in here. It's

like Greenland in here. We've got to get some booze. It's the only solution

to this intense cold. Something's got to be done. We can't go on like this.

I'm a trained actor reduced to the status of a bum. I mean look at us!

Nothing that reasonable members of society demand as their rights! No

fridges, no televisions, no phones. Much more of this and I'm going to

apply for meals on wheels.

I:

What happened to your cigar commercial?

Withnail:

That's what I want to know. what happened to my cigar commercial. What

happened to my agent? Bastard must have died.

I:

September. Bad patch.

Withnail:

Rubbish. Haven't seen Gylgod down the labour exchange. Why doesn't he

retire.

[He picks up a paper.]

Withnail:

Look at this little bastard. Boy lands plumb role for top Italian

director. Of course his does. Probably on a tenner a day and i know

what for:
Two pound ten a tit and a fiver for his arse.

[He points accusingly at I.]

Withnail:
Have you been at the controls!?

I:

What are you talking about?

Withnail:

The thermostats. what have you done to them?

I:

I haven't touched them.

Withnail:

Then why has my head gone numb. I must have some booze. I demand to

have some booze.

[He lunges towards the mantlepiece where there is a bottle of lighter

fluid.]

I [standing up]:

I wouldn't drink that if I were you.

Withnail:

Why not?

I:

Because I don't advise it. Even the wankers on the site wouldn't drink

that. That's worse than meths.

Withnail:

Nonsense, this is a far superior drink to meths. The wankers don't

drink it because they can't afford it.

[He pours the contents of the bottle into his upturned mouth.]

Withnail:

Ah. Ah. Have you got anymore?

[I shakes his head. Withnail presses forwards and I backs off.]

Withnail:

Liar, what's in your toolbox?

I:

No we have nothing. Sit down!

Withnail:

Liar, you've got antifreeze.

I:

You bloody fool. You should never mix your drinks! [Withnail laughs

histerically, collapses to the floor and emits unpleasant vomitting

noises.]

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The Street

[They walk towards a rather rough looking pub: 'The Old Mother

Blackcap'.]

Withnail:

All right, this is the plan. We get in there and get wrecked.

Then we'll eat a pork pie. Then we drop a couple of soamser

fifties each; means we'll miss out Monday but come up smilling

Tuesday morning. What's that appalling smell?

I:

Perfume on my boots. I had to scrub the with essence of petunia.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Pub

[Withnail moves somewhat precariously to the bar. The pub is a simple

affair with a few men sat round at tables drinking.]

Withnail:

Two large gins, two pints of cider. Ice in the cider.

I:

If my father was loaded I'd ask him for some money.

Withnail:

If your father was my father you wouldn't get it.

Barman:

: There you are lads.

Withnail:

Chin chin.

[Withnail chinks his glass against the other, which I has not picked

up yet, and downs the gin in one. I follows suit but gags slightly.]

I:

Ugh. What about what-his-name?

Withnail:

What about him?

I:

Why don't you give him a call.

Withnail:

What for?

I:

Ask him about his house.

Withnail:

You want me to call what-his-name and ask him about his house?

I:

Why not?

Withnail:

Alright. what's his number?

I:

I've no idea - I've never met him.

Withnail:

Well neither have I. What the f*** are you talking about?

I:

Your relative with a house in the country.

Withnail:

Monty? Uncle Monty?

I:

That's him. That's the one. Get the Jag fixed up. Spend the

weekend in the country.

Withnail:

Alright. Give us a tenner and I'll give him a bell.

I:

Get a couple more in. I'm going for a slash.

[Next to the door to the gents is a rather large Irish man sat with

his pint and his paper.]

Big Irish man:

Ponce

[I ignores him and goes into the gents.]

I [to himself]:

I could hardly piss straight with fear. he was a man with 3/4 of

an inch of brain who'd taken a dislike to me. What had I done to

offend him? I don't consciously offend big men like this. And

this one's a decided imbalance of hormone in him. Get any more

masculine than that and you'd have to live up a tree. [he reads

the grafitti] 'I f*** arses', Who fucks arses? [aloud] Maybe he

fucks arses. [to himself again] Maybe he's written this in some

moment of drunken sincerity. I'm in considerable danger in here.

I must get out of here at once.

[He walks back into the bar.]

Big Irish man:

Perfumed ponce!

[Withnail is still at the bar. He has made considerable progress with

his cider and is eating some snack.]

Withnail:

You'll be pleased to hear Monte's invited us for drinks.

I:

Balls to Monty we're getting out.

Withnail:

Balls to Monty!? I've just spent an hour flattering the bugger.

I:

There's a man over there doesn't like the perfume. The big one.

Don't look, don't look. We're in danger, we've got to get out.

Withnail:

What are you talking about?

I:

I've been called a ponce.

[Withnail turns to address the room in general.]

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