Withnail and I Page #2

I:

I told you. you've been bitten!

Withnail:

Burnt, burnt, the f***ing kettle's on fire.

I:

There's something floating up.

Withnail [with a fork in his hand]:

Fork it!

I:

No no no, I don't want to touch it.

Withnail:

You must you must. The poop will boil through the glaze. We'll never

be able to use the dinner service again.

[He rumages about in a drawer.]

Withnail:

Here, get it with the pliers!

I:

No, no, no, no, no, no. Give me the gloves.

Withnail:

That's right, put on the gloves. Don't attempt anything without the

gloves.

[I starts to move things about in the sink rather gingerly.]

Withnail:

What is it? What have you found?

I:

Matter.

Withnail:

Matter? Where's it coming from?

I:

Don't look. Don't look. I'm dealing with it!

Withnail:

I think we've been in here too long. I feel unusual. I think we should

go outside.

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The Park

[Withnail and I walk along a path in the park.]

Withnail:

This is ridiculous, look at me. I'm thirty in a month and I've got a

sole flapping off my shoe.

I:

It'll get better, it has to.

Withnail:

Easy for you to say lovey. You've had an audition. Why can't I have an

audition. It's ridiculous: I've been to drama school. I'm good

looking. I tell you, I've a f*** sight more talent that half the

rubbish that gets of TV. Why can't I get on TV?

I:

Well I don't know. It'll happen.

Withnail:

Will it? That's what you say. The only programme I'm likely to get on

is the f***ing news. I tell you, I can't take much more of this. I'm

going to crack.

I:

I'm in the same boat.

Withnail:

Yeah, yeah. I feel as sick as a pike. I'm going to have to sit down.

[ 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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