SCENE: THE KITCHEN
NEIL: Everybody, everybody, listen up. I think we need to have a house meeting.
MIKE: So I said, is that hot apple sauce in your panties, or are you pleased to see me?
NEIL: Look, I don't want to get heavy or anything but, like, the landlord--
RICK: Neil, will you please! shut! up! I'm trying to concentrate on my article for the Student Socialist Times. I'm doing a shocking expose on how I went to a lecture last week, I made a special effort because it's a leap year this year, and nobody else turned up.
VYV: Right. I think it's time I told everybody that I'm an elf.
RICK: I expect it will be picked up by The Times, and it shall lead to a revolution of poetry and light, and Cliff Richard -- Sir Cliff! -- will personally congratulate me on a brilliant piece of investigative journalism and--
MIKE: I don't suppose, Rick, that you had this year's timetable?
VYV: Yeah. An elf. How do you like that. Look at my forehead. Look at my ears. Here, look at my feet. I'm a bloody elf. I'm six hundred and twenty-one years old. I've smashed fourteen thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven beer bottles on my forehead. Only an elf could do that.
RICK: Mike, shut up. And I shall kneel before him, before Sir Cliff, and gaze up into his sunnily benevolent smile.
NEIL: Guys, please, listen to me, this is like, really important.
MIKE: Neil, make us some tea, will you? I've got a date at seven and I need to tell her I've already eaten.
VYV: I ran away from home because I couldn't take another bloody minute of poncy gits prancing around the hills playing flutes and harps. It was bloody rubbish. And elves don't have telly, either, or the Sex Pistols, or fish'n'chips, they're all bloody vegetarians.
RICK: Shut up, Vyvyan, you stupid little... bogie-head. I don't know why you're complaining when we live in a fascist society devoid of anything resembling a functional education system. I bet the elves don't have Margaret bloody Thatcher, do they? Do they?
NEIL: The landlord, guys, he's been around and he's hassling me and he wants us to like, pay the rent and stuff and I'm scared, guys, I'm really scared.
RICK: Neil, will you shut! up! I call a house meeting! Who votes Neil should shut up? Me! Right, it's unanimous. Shut up, Neil, you stupid smelly hippie.
MIKE: So that a) I don't have to buy her dinner, and b) so I can tell her I'm still hungry for love.
RICK: And Sir Cliff will touch me gently with his sword, once, twice, thrice, and say, "Rise, Sir Rick!" and I'll rise! Rise! Like the sun over the bloodied battlefield of the Revolution.
NEIL: And he was really, like, negative, and he said he'd take my guitar and everything.
RICK: And mark my words, hippies who don't shut up will be first against the wall when the revolution comes, oh, yes, I'll see to that, Neil.
VYV: That's utter bollocks, Neil, you stupid bastard. He can't take your guitar.
NEIL: Oh, good, all right.
VYV: I traded it for two and a half crates of vodka last week.
RICK: And the Elves will be next, because somebody ate an entire bucket of vindaloo curry and blocked up the bloody toilet, didn't they, Vyvyan? And then I'll stick it to the Thatcher bitch, yeah!
MIKE: I guess that's why your mother called you Vyvyan with two Ys, then.
VYV: Two and a half crates of vodka! From the back of a truck outside the paint factory. Only an elf could drink all that and smash the bottles on his forehead after.
RICK: Oh, stop blubbering, Neil, and make us the bloody tea.
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