Withnail and I Page #4

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.

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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.]

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