The Shoe Leather Express

Writing and Comedy from James Harris

Refugees welcome

Photo under a CC0 license via Pexels.com.

Two Civil Servants are waiting for the Hone Secretary, who enters.

CS One: Ah, Home Secretary, so glad you could join us.

Home Secretary: I was just watching daytime television.

Cs Two: Pointless?

Home Secretary: Not as much as dealing with you idiots. Now, what have you got?

Cs One: Right, Home Secretary, so we do have a few ideas based on your proposal.

Home Secretary: Use gigantic waves to push refugees back across the English Channel. Pretty cool, right?

Cs Two: Ye-e-e-s…. The thing is, ‘cool’ as the idea undoubtedly is –

Home Secretary: I saw them do it at Center Parcs. So much fun!

Cs One: But we would obviously be talking about a much-larger operation here.

Home Secretary: I like the word large!

Cs Two: It would cost 500 million, Home Secretary.

Cs One: We don’t have 500 million, Home Secretary.

Cs Two: We don’t have five million, Home Secretary.

Cs One: Also it’d be illegal under international law.

Home Secretary: But not illegal under British international law.

Cs One: Is that… a thing?

Home Secretary: Well what about a cheaper option, like sinking their stupid little boats?

Cs One: Sometimes the weather’s bad.

Home Secretary: Yes, I can imagine the headlines if we lose any of our sailors… Well, what about sending them to remote islands?

Cs Two: The issue there is the people who already live on the remote islands. A lot of them feel terribly British, you see, right down to not liking foreigners.

Cs One: There is one other possibility…

Cs Two: You sure?

Home Secretary: Come on, hurry up, I’m very hungry!

Cs Two: We let the refugees in, but… We’re really mean to them.

Cs One: You know, follow them around making intensely belittling comments all the time, like ‘You’ve got a big nose’ or ‘You’ll never get a job in those shoes’, and keep this up until they eventually leave of their own free will.

Home Secretary: But isn’t that just the current system anyway?

Aide Two: Here’s the twist –

Aide One: – in light of current unemployment figures  –

Aide Two: We could make benefits claimants do it.

Aide One: Or community-spirited volunteers.

Aide Two: ‘Drive out to help out’, we thought.

Aide One: Basically: We get the public to get rid of the asylum seekers for us. And we don’t pay them.

Pause.

Home Secretary: I absolutely… love it! It’s just the combination of cheap and cruel we’re looking for. Well done morons – treat yourself to a glass of water! It’s this kind of innovativeness which makes Britain such a great country. After all, why else do so many people keep wanting to come here!

End

A memory

At times like this I comfort myself with the time I played a tiger in a Lana Del Rey video. Oh, I remember – the way we filmed the long takes, the heaviness of the tiger suit, Lana’s preternatural calm. I remember most of all though the breaks, when they’d winch the head off me, and I’d have a brief few minutes to prowl about. One day my walks took me to the back of the studios where I met, all alone, Lana. She was standing there smoking in that beautifully-sculpted, slightly-taller than you might think hipster way. And I remember approaching her, stooped, my paws raised, and going ‘Ra!’ And Lana saying ‘God – you scared me!’ And me saying, ‘Sorry.’ And then her, ‘Are you a real tiger?’ And me replying ‘No, I’m a translator from Nottingham.’ ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Lower your paws.’ And so I did and stood before my idol; she was so radiant I had to look at my feet. And Lana said, ‘It’s so stressful all this, don’t you think?’ ‘And the lights are hot – especially for me.’ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I have to search really hard to find a moment for myself. You won’t tell anyone I’m here will you?’ ‘Nottingham men,’ I said, ‘are famously taciturn.’ And she laughed at that, and I really felt that it was going well – who knows where the conversation could have gone from there. Maybe she liked men dressed as big cats. But next moment one of her people had found her and could be seen approaching with a coffee and an ashtray for her cigarette and also an arm leading her back to the set. She was gone.

That was nine years ago. I’m still a translator from Nottingham, and she’s more famous and respected than ever. But I’ll always have the time I played a tiger in her video. Often as the nights draw in I find myself looking at photos; look, that’s me on the left. The other guy’s a tiger.

Video to ‘Born to Die’ (2013), directed by Woodkid.

Last orders

“Pub Night” by igormazic is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

Boris Johnson and Dominic Cummings in hi-vis jackets.

Boris Johnson: I’ve told you before Dom, I have no desire to witness the consequences of my own actions.

Dominic Cummings: Prime Minister, it’s necessary. The focus groups are saying the public want to see you getting more directly involved.

Boris Johnson: It just seems against my, you know, liberal British values of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Dominic Cummings: Those are American values, sir.

Boris Johnson: Well, I am American, even if I gave up my citizenship to avoid paying tax!

Dominic Cummings: That is very American, Prime Minister.

Boris Johnson: Do I look alright?

Dominic Cummings:  They’re all pissed, sir.

Boris Johnson: They’ll eat me alive like a lump of fried lard!

Dominic Cummings: Yes, but you need to be their lump of fried lard. Get in or I’ll kick you!

Sounds of a busy pub.

Boris Johnson: Listen up, er… er… boozers!

Drinker:  Hey, it’s Boris!

Boris Johnson:  Yes it is, your upstanding Prime Minister and, and as it’s now 9.55 in the evening, and I have to tell you to, er, er… drink up and go home!

Drinker: Home?

Boris Johnson: Yes, sort of ‘drink up then get out’, to paraphrase Rishi, not that any of you should pay any real attention to him.

Drinker Two: But I’ve just ordered –

Dominic Cummings: Tough. Out!

Boris Johnson: It’s the new rules, terribly, er, er, sorry.

Drinker Three: But I’m eating.

Dominic Cummings: Throw your food in the bin!

Drinker Three: But –

Dominic Cummings: Scrape off the veg!

Sound of a breaking glass.

Female Drinker: Prime Minister!

Boris Johnson: Yes, attractive young woman.

Female drinker: I voted for you. And I thought you were freedom loving. And now you’re telling us that we have to go home right in the middle of our night out?

Dominic Cummings: Don’t listen to her, Prime Minister.

Female drinker: Do listen to me, Prime Minister.

Boris Johnson: Dom, Dom, do listen to this, er, I must say, buxom young woman. How could anyone tell the Great British Drinker that he cannot have his or her or their pint? Or in this person’s case pint, pie and gravy and what’s that?

Drinker Three: Mushy peas.

Boris Johnson: Well I say you have a right to your mushy peas!

A murmur of agreement.

Boris Johnson: And, and this vile policy that I – I – just introduced – as well as any other ones you don’t like – now or in future – well just I say – to hell with it! How dare my government interfere with your lives!

Cheers.

Boris Johnson: Never! Never! Barkeep – buy everyone a round! We must and shall defeat this horrendous government overreach by – drinking all night! And later – all doing shots!

Loud cheers and singing of ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’.

Dominic Cummings: It’s going to be a long night.

End

Late August

This story is exclusive for Shoe Leather Express readers. If you like it, consider buying the author a coffee here.

All day he had felt certain she was going to do it. Her pauses had grown too long, her laughter too deliberate, as if occurring in spite of a concealed and growing disdain. It didn’t matter how much the tickets had cost, although he had actually got them for free, that he had hyped them up, saying that the President was a great live act, essential really, that you had to put aside your disappointment as to his policies and just enjoy his stand-up, that in many ways he had filled the void in American cultural life vacated by Bill Cosby, now disgraced. But she was from Latvia – what did she care? They barely had comedy over there and until recently they hadn’t even had elections. He tried to explain but his enthusiasms seemed to occur in a void, like he was busking in a train station, alone and at night and cold.

He had known it was coming for a while. In conversations he found himself looking at her more. Looking at her as if checking for something, often prompting her shrill, smiling ‘What?’, to which he said nothing, just smiled back. It was like he was being tortured and his only happiness was in the brief cessations of pain. Though it had happened before. As a younger man he would have tried to do something, make a gesture, write a card, make a compilation CD. And indeed he did that again now, leaving a loving note beside her as he departed for work each morning, which would still be in the same place every night when he returned.

He had even been dreading it playing cricket that morning.  Freddy had come over, sanguine in his white jumper.

‘Alright Marv?’

‘Alright,’ Marvin said.

‘Doing alright isn’t he?’ The bowler.

‘He is.’

‘How’s your lady by the way?’

‘Oh’s she’s alright. We’re going to see Obama tonight.’

‘Really? That’s brilliant. He’s on tour isn’t he. Where is it again?’

‘It’s at the Camden Roundhouse.’

‘I love the Camden Roundhouse. I’d like to direct my own show there, you know.’

This was exhausting. ‘Well, you better get back to long-on.’

‘Hadn’t I just! Pint afterwards?’

‘Cider.’

Freddy grinned and then trundled back across the pitch, clapping his hands as he did and offering a few motivational shouts. In truth they didn’t have much to do, so he for his part slipped back into anxiety, wondering what his tactics should be. Why had this happened? It had happened to him before.

They had met, before there had been a they, in a bar. Funny story – it bore telling – he had been waiting for another date, but had arrived, this being his habit, having been single so long, ridiculously early. So he had chosen to sit at a pub round the corner from the actual pub where they would be meeting and sat there reading; he had bought interesting things, challenging things, to read, but ended up just going through the Times’ sport section.

She had been there with a group of friends, all beautiful, she the most. When she absented herself to go to the bathroom one of those friends, Lea, a short little Danish girl with black hipster glasses, asked him about his book. The unopened book on the table that was. It was just something his friend had recommended, he said, a novel about a messed-up American family, but to be honest, he couldn’t get into it. Tell me though he asked – is it true girls liked guys who read? Because, he didn’t tell them, he’d been reading all his life but his last four girlfriends had left him after periods ranging from five months to two years.

‘You’d have to ask Karen that,’ said Lea.

‘You’d have to ask Karen what?’ said Karen returning.

‘Whether guys who read are sexy.’

‘Yes, very.’

Lea looked at Marvin with a nod, smile and a slight raise of the shoulders. ‘There you are then.’

‘He wants to know why,’ said Lea.

‘Because you can talk about what you’re reading.’

‘But surely you can talk about that with your girlfriends.’

‘Women don’t talk about books. Well, that’s not true actually,’ said Karen. ‘But most women don’t. They just talk about feelings.

Karen smiled.

‘I can’t believe you’re saying that,’ Marvin said. ‘If I said something like that I’d be shot.’

‘Well, best not say it then,’ said Karen. She was sat down now, facing her girlfriends and their extensive empty glasses. ‘Alright, are we getting another pitcher? Or shall we move on?’

He leant back, reading the cover of his book a thousandth time, when they spoke to him once more.

‘What’s your name nice man?’

‘Me?’ Marvin looked up. ‘Marvin.’

‘Nice to meet you Marvin. We like you Marvin!’

The girls were raising their drinks, led by Lea. ‘Cheers Marvin!’

‘Thanks,’ Marvin blushed. ‘I like you too.’

‘What are you doing here Marvin?’

‘Um, just having a drink. But actually I’ve got a date.’

‘A date!’ Lea shrieked; Karen was expressionless. ‘First – second? Do you like her? Are you in love?’

‘I don’t really know anything about her, except that she works in IT.’

‘Well I’m sure she’s going to love you. I’m sure she’s going to think you’re just smashing. Where are you meeting her?’

‘Lea, would you stop shrieking?’ Karen said. ‘You’re literally shrieking in my ear.’

‘Round the corner actually.’ He checked his watch; it was still far too early. ‘In fact I’d better go.’

‘Ohhh that’s a shame!’ Lea said. ‘But you have a good date yeah! We’ll drink to you!’

He was gathering his things together, filling his tote bag. He offered them a big, he was sure nervous-looking, smile.

‘Er – it was great to meet you.’

‘Nice to meet you Marvin!’

‘Thanks.’

‘Good luck.’

‘We love you Marvin.’

‘Shhhhhh.’

He walked to the table and then, paused at the crossing to the front bar. He could still hear the girls, principally Lea, hooting with laughter behind him, and suddenly he felt – yes, he could do it. He turned and walked slowly back to the table.

‘So uh – ladies. Here’s my card.’

He dropped it on the table, just a little closer to Karen than the others.

‘You’re a web designer?’

‘Yeah, I mainly make websites for, uh, magicians. Musicians! I mean musicians, I make websites for musicians. Do you have one?’ he said, a bit quieter and much more definitely to Karen.

‘A website?’

‘A card.’

‘I do.’ She rummaged in her large gold bag, rooting out a small silver card. Karen Astaju, MA, Senior Recruitment Consultant.

‘Oh, thanks.’

‘No problem. Enjoy your date, then.’

‘I will.’

And walking backwards a few step before turning, he moved across the carpet and onto the next pub, noting of course before he did the laughter returning, all of it aimed at Karen.

When he came back she was on the bed watching Netflix. He called to her, she acknowledged his coming in and, before he did so, he waited in the living room a moment. Right now, she really felt she could strike any moment, that their status-changing conversation was imminent.

He came into the room; she was in a T-shirt and sweatpants.

‘Hi.’ His voice high, feminine.

‘Hi,’ she seemed to imitate – mockingly?

‘How was your day?’

‘Fine. Yours?’

‘It was alright. I’m really hungry actually. Do you want to eat something there or –‘

‘Actually I already ate. There’s some left, actually, in the fridge, if you want.’

‘What is it?’

‘Rice.’

‘Thanks, I will. I thought we’d go in about an hour.’

‘What?’ she looked over. ‘Oh, an hour.’

‘What are you watching?’

‘Amy Schumer. She’s really funny.’

He sat on the bed, watching the flickering screen a moment. ‘I love you,’ he said.

‘Mmm?’ she looked over. ‘Love you too.’

*

Whenever she said it he felt the noose loosen a little. But there was no doubting it was there, the tightness in his throat, the stumbled words and the heaviness of actions which had once come naturally.

It had been two years now. They had moved in together after six months – ‘Why wait?’ she had said, so warm to him in those days, at least as warm as the others had been – and they had been so lucky to find this small flat in Battersea. Admittedly, it was a bit end-of-the-liney, but they were ahead of the curve of the city’s gentrifying wave and, basically, they got to live together.

When you thought about it, it was a terrible optimism, to live together, like a child’s belief in the good. Back then they had barely analyzed it. In the mornings, he cycled over to Brixton to his major employer, a record label, which had a red sofa and a selection of board games. He drank coffee and WhatsApped her through the day and she Instagrammed back pictures of herself at the office and yes, one time there had been pictures of the kind he would, he feared, shortly have to delete from his phone forever.

So why were they here? Why had they arrived at the end place? The last times? They had none of the usual issues. He wanted a kid, she wanted kids. He wanted to live in London, she wanted to live in London, although maybe move back to Latvia for a bit, because her parents were getting old and she would want to be near them, particularly with a new baby. The sex was good – fine, she was more keen on the old S & M than he was, but he did his best, had a really decent crack at being tied up and whipped. What he was trying to say was: compared to the incompatibilities which had seen Trudy, Michelle, Sonya and Yoko leave him, the difficulties they had experienced seemed negligible.

They headed out together, bussing to Waterloo first and then picking up the Northern Line to Chalk Farm. They – they were still they, he clung to it, how bad it could be when she was prepared to accompany him to a concert, looking so splendid in red, in black – didn’t speak much on the way. When they got out the tube station the approach was already thronged with people. The gig had of course sold out within minutes of tickets being released. It was fortunate, actually, how he had arrived at tickets – face value £150 – for the show, having designed a site for an aspiring musician named Kenneth who it turned out had been one of the President’s former bodyguards. ‘What’s he like then?’ ‘Well,’ Kenneth had replied, ‘He’s just really normal. Just an ordinary guy you know? I think he finds it all as ridiculous as anyone.’

They moved down the hill, past the calling scalps, to where one of the polite bouncers frisked them; security was tight, although not as tight as it would have been a few years earlier. ‘Enjoy the show,’ said the bouncer, but he said it with more conviction than was usual, in a way which made it clear that for this event he really did feel like joining them.

‘Exciting,’ said Karen they moved up the stairs.

‘It is exciting. I mean, it’s actually amazing that we got tickets.’

‘It’s a coup.’

‘A what?’

‘A coup.’

He felt the fact that they had tickets, and their presence at the event, was temporarily drowning all other problems. Or perhaps this was the beginning of a more general recovery. She was continuing to smile.

‘Do you want a drink?’

‘Yeah, beer.’

‘What do you want?’ he said, weak sweetness in his voice.

‘Just beer. Anything is fine.’

‘OK.’ He bent over and kissed her. She didn’t react much to it; it was like she couldn’t deal with official statements of togetherness, even if she accidentally displayed them the rest of the time, like she had to remind herself to be cold to him now.

He went to the bar and bought two expensive drinks. As he queued he felt that time had become very limited; he couldn’t imagine, now, further than Thursday, Friday, the weekend. He always wondered about this during these times, the end times; if he might say or do something which would conceivably lead to a changed outcome. If he say bought her the right drink – Red Stripe, that’d do, she’d drunk that before – or said the right phrase or the evoked the right memory. If that would be the difference between staying together, happy for years, or their hopeless parting.

‘Alus.’ Latvian for beer. He handed it over.

‘Thanks,’ she said. And then, ‘You look nice tonight.’

‘Me?’ He was wearing a black bowling shirt. ‘Well, thanks.’

‘Original.’ She smiled. ‘Honestly, you do. How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’ Marvin supped. ‘I mean, to be honest, I’m a bit upset about us.’

‘About us? Why are you upset about us?’

‘Yeah, well, we haven’t been getting on very well recently, you know.’

She thought about it. ‘No. We haven’t. Why do you think that is?’

Marvin shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’d do anything I could to change it.’

Karen tilted her head. ‘I don’t think we’re communicating very well.’

‘No,’ Marvin said. ‘What do you think we should do about it?’

But at that moment the latest audience call came, advising all members to take their seats, the show would be starting shortly.

‘Let’s talk about this later, alright?’ said Karen.

‘Alright,’ said Marvin, and they walked into the auditorium.  

The Camden Roundhouse was heaving; they were sat in the stands, looking down on the crowds, on the auditorium. It was a black, spacious hangar, with a huge tangle of girders hung from the roof above. The President wouldn’t be long now. Funny, how you still kept the title, President, even years after you had left office. Like you had attained a singularity, a distinction from other men. Smoke came out across the stage now, and a deep-voice boomed, like it was a hip-hop show: ‘Ladies and gentleman, the former President of the United States, Barack Obama!’

The crowd went wild. They were on the seats, looking down upon the bulk of the spectators, thousands upon thousands backing up to the stage as claxons sounded and, from within gusts of smoke, a middle-aged man in a blue suit walked into view. He raised his hand as he did, samples of wild-record scratching peaked and then faded as he brought his lips to the microphone saying, in an understated but evocatively cheery voice, ‘Hello London.’

The response was extraordinary – all those keyboard warriors, Guardian comment-leavers, who just minutes before had been in the theatre bar sharing their disappointment in Obama particularly in foreign policy, rising as one to acclaim the presence of superstardom. Even Karen, never the biggest Obama fan, was whooping shrilly and as she did she turned back to smile at him with a grin straight out of olden times, their golden days.

‘Hey folks here’s a good one. What’s the difference between George W. Bush and God? See God knows that’s he’s not George W. Bush.’

A first big laugh. There was real freedom in hearing Obama say something he would never have been allowed to before.  And he was soon into his stride. He had a relaxed style, less professorial than you might expect – perhaps he had taken comedy classes after his Presidency had finished, after all he had contacts galore. His central joke, it seemed, was to present himself as low-status in positions of great power, such as losing his cufflinks before a summit with Putin – ‘and Putin’s a guy who sweats the small stuff –‘ or trying to phone Merkel and getting the French President. ‘And I say, this is Hollande? I want Germany!’ He worked clean, fast, then slow, with the bigger jokes greeted with actual standing ovations, and then when people didn’t laugh, which was rarely, meaning literally, when individual people didn’t laugh, he’d react with self-deprecation or absurd threat. ‘You know, just saying, but the NSA does send me a record of everyone who doesn’t laugh,’ he said. ‘That’s what I call executive privilege.’

But the main thrust of the routine was, funnily enough, not politics but family and relationships. Obama still had that deadpan attitude, that ability to play his familial marginalization in a way which confirmed his own essential decency. Now Obama, freed from the constraints of office but still rolling back to reasonableness like water heading down a plug, talked about love.
‘At some point,’ said Obama, less Midwestern, more transatlantic now, ‘You’ve got to decide whether you prefer the idea of women or actual women. Know what I mean? Because men, when we fall in love, we fall in love with the idea. The idea of women.’ Singing now: ‘”Drea-mmmm. Dream dream dream.” Well that’s fine, that’s just fine when you’re 22 years old but one day you’re forty and shit gets real. Shit gets really real.

‘Because women you know – and ladies back me up on this – women are very much pragmatists. I would suggest women are the least romantic creatures, in the universe. The least romantic. Look at the bare facts of a woman’s life. You gotta have your monthlies, you gotta maybe go through childbirth, if you do have kids you gotta put up with all these asshole men who kill on the kids you’ve sacrificed every darned thing to raise. Not nice hey ladies? I feel you. And all the guys are like –‘ Obama pulled here a quite simply incredible face, raising his hands and tilting his shoulders:

I – I’m so in love with you…

Al Green.

‘So you can’t go on being a puppy dog forever. And at some point you gotta decide – Am I going to love the reality or the dream? Am I going to see my girl for what she is?’

Marvin looked at Karen. Could he see her as she really was? He looked over, seeing her mouth make little happy gapes as it followed the set-ups between laughs, trying to get every word. Look harder. Yes, he could begin to see her, beneath the yellowy make-up; crows’ feet, red-tinged black hair, blusher; she was, he felt suddenly sure, pregnant. Oh he could see her alright.

‘Michelle man, she ain’t romantic but she keeps me steady. If I ever said “Well, they made me President!” she’d say “You’re still getting dirt on the carpet, Barack.” And she was right.’

It was a real pleasure to watch Barack Obama’s first stand-up comedy special, ‘Live and Unleashed.’ He was a real man.

Laughed out, elated even, the crowd made their way home. Above them was a satisfied hum, but also the melancholy of a treat being over, with most of them having early starts the next day. Adult weeknights always had this, this end of the school holidays feeling.

*

They didn’t talk much on the train home. For a start, the carriages were too full, and it was only when they began to empty that he proposed they went for a drink, but she was tired, had work. By the time they disembarked from Waterloo to go to the bus the night had grown a little chillier; late August.

‘You know, this time of year always feels really sad. Because you start to feel the autumn. It’s like sadness on the horizon.’

‘Can I borrow your jumper?’ she said.

When they arrived home she was tired so she went straight to shower then bed. He stayed up watching comedy clips on his laptop, George Carlin, his favourite. He felt sure when she reentered the room she was going to say something; for now he just listened to the rushing of the water in the space between the clips.

But when she came back in she said nothing. She just got straight back into the bed, naked – he snuck a look, he couldn’t help it. She turned on her side, saying promptly ‘Goodnight’ as she did.

He watched another clip in the light, a hum in his chest. But now he couldn’t concentrate, he was too absorbed by her presence. He turned off the bedside light and lay flat.

In the dark, he felt sure she would say something soon. But for now he was in limbo. Limbo – at the word he remembered that, hilariously enough, the previous Pope, the weird one nobody had liked, had officially closed Limbo. Had shut it down. It had been one of the first things he had done.

To close nothingness, what a concept.

He looked across to her in the dark, moving only slightly. She was sleeping or pretending to. It wouldn’t be long now, that feeling was clear.

But who knew until it was done.

Who knew?

All he knew was that they had survived another day.

Enjoyed that? Buy the author a coffee!

Sketch

A pub in the northeast of England.

Andy. And I must say, for my part, I’ve never seen four standing ovations…

Dave. Andy.

Andy. Alright Dave.

Dave. Is it true?

Andy. What?

Dave. What people’ve been saying.

Andy. What?

Dave. You know.

Pause.

Andy. Dave, I’m not getting into this.

Dave. Is it true that you’ve been saying there’s a marked deterioration in the quality of Bob Fosse’s later work?

Andy. Now’s not the time pal. I’m here with my family.

Dave. And do your family your opinions on America’s greatest 20th-century choreographer? That although you acknowledge ‘Cabaret’ as a masterpiece you consider ‘All That Jazz’ to be self-indulgent? Do they know those words have come out their Daddy’s mouth?

Andy. It’s just my opinion Andy, alright.

Dave. No! It’s not alright! I won’t let people talk about Bob Fosse that on Teeside!

Pause.

Andy. (to himself) Well, if that’s how it has to be. If you must know, mate, I don’t like the way you’ve been talking about Stephen Sondheim either. Someone told me you said that he was ‘slightly overrated’.

Dave. Well he is man! His portfolio may be lyrically deft but it’s lacking in truly memorable numbers.

Andy. Can you hear what you’re saying? In front of my children.

Bartender. Now come on lads! You know this pub’s open to all kinds of tastes. If you can’t sit down like men and have a civilized discussion about musical theatre, you best take it outside.

Andy. Alright, that’s right.

Dave. Andy.

Andy. Dave.

Dave. Wait – are you turning your knees inside in a parody of one of Fosse’s signature moves?

Andy. No, I’m just making myself comfortable.

Dave. I’ve seen you man – you’re doing it again! That’s it, outside now.

Andy. Alright, outside it is. I’ll be back in a minute – once we’ve settled this for good!

Dave drains his pint.

The bartender pulls a chalkboard down. The left reads ‘Dave/Fosse’ and the right ‘Andy/Sondheim’, with chalk marks for their respective victories. They have had this fight before.

Sounds of shouting and fighting outside.

Dave. You punched me! (singing) And suddenly everything seems clear…

Andy. (singing) I’m punching you! You’re punching me!

Dave & Andy. (singing) Just two men fighting in a car park… Tonight!

Bartender. Settle in everybody – it’s going to be a long night.

*

 

Photos © 1979 Twentieth Century-Fox Film Corporation/Wikicommons public domain.