Bastard-In-Law
B sits there nervously. A enters taking off a pair of mucky gardening gloves.
FATHER: Ah, Boris.
SUITOR: Bernard. (holds out his hand. Instead of shaking it, A gives him the gloves)
FATHER: Don’t let those touch the upholstery, I’ve been stacking compost. So. You’re the latest pretender for Jenny’s fair hand are you?
SUITOR: Yes.
FATHER: Sit down, sit down. (B sits) Only shut the door first would you? (B jumps up again to shut the door) Drink?
SUITOR: Yes, if you’re having one.
FATHER: Jenny said you were something of a piss-artist. Beer all right? I understand you were a red-brick man.
SUITOR: Thank you.
FATHER: (handing him a six-pack) That hold you for a while? I took a first at Balliol so I’ll be having my usual gin and tonic. Try not to ejaculate over the shag pile. So, you’re a mechanic I hear.
SUITOR: A mechanical engineer, yes.
FATHER: You mean you repair them? Sort of jumped-up electrician?
SUITOR: Not exactly –
FATHER: I can never get on top of this modern jargon. What is it they call dustmen these days? Refuse disposal operatives?
SUITOR: I believe it’s something of the sort.
FATHER: Yes, I believe it’s something of the sort too. So dustmen are refuse disposal operatives and you’re a mechanical engineer. Cheers.
SUITOR: Cheers.
FATHER: And how often do you and Jenny have sex these days?
SUITOR: I beg your pardon?
FATHER: I’m sorry, I thought I enunciated quite perfectly there. Jenny did say you would be able to understand up to 70% of what I said.
SUITOR: Yes, it’s not that –
FATHER: Only I like to use our mother tongue with precision. You see I find it can often disguise the sordidness of a given set of circumstances – without, alas, eradicating it completely.
SUITOR: I assure you, sir, we do take our commitment seriously.
FATHER: I’m very glad to hear it, Arthur. I would hate to think my Jenny had been swept willy-nilly into a salacious relationship with the first disreputable gigolo that happened along. Or in your case, the umpteenth. Beer all right?
SUITOR: Fine, fine.
FATHER: Good, good. And what sort of contraception do you use?
SUITOR: What?
FATHER: You know, so you don’t sire on her a child that would under the present circumstances perforce be born a bastard?
SUITOR: Look, isn’t this all getting rather personal?
FATHER: Well, I should think it was all rather personal, Alfred.
SUITOR: Bernard.
FATHER: The whole business is very personal. Erotic play with the toenails of a woman who is not your spouse. Mutual exposure of the most intimate parts of your respective, as opposed to respectable, anatomies. Using the same toilet seat.
SUITOR: I believe Jenny’s on the pill.
FATHER: She told you that did she?
SUITOR: Well, no, not in so many words –
FATHER: But you assumed she was intelligent enough not to just drop them without first taking precautions. Yes, well, that’s a reasonable assumption I suppose, you weren’t taking too much of a risk there.
SUITOR: Look, if it’s all the same to you, couldn’t we get back to the subject of Jenny and me marrying?
FATHER: Jenny and I. Grammar. You look nervous, Herbert. Have a cigarette.
SUITOR: Thank you. (takes one with relief)
FATHER: Pass me a cigar from that box will you? (B does so) You like cigarettes do you, Norman?
SUITOR: Occasionally –
FATHER: Splendid. And what about your other disgusting habits? Do you do much farting for example?
SUITOR: Right, that’s it. I came here in all good faith to discuss my intention to marry Jenny. I didn’t expect to be subjected to this barrage of childish insults and cheap abuse.
FATHER: That’s quite good. Do you mind if I write that down?
SUITOR: And I’m going to marry her whether you like it or not.
FATHER: You still need my consent though, don’t you, StJohn?
SUITOR: Well, do we have it or don’t we?
FATHER: No. I’ve decided not to divorce her after all. Brush that dandruff off the chair on your way out, won’t you?
PS
This was written for a putative TV series that was going to be produced locally, but it never got off the ground. Another of the writers on the team suggested that this was not necessarily a comedy sketch. (I think he was trying to be helpful.) Read another way, in a different context, he said, it could be a nightmarish little playlet about power and sexual one-upmanship. It belongs to the same period as Snooker Interview and Matchmakers, which have a similarly jaundiced view of bullying and various forms it can take, and with an objective eye I can see I must have been going through a gloomy patch. It happens. But at least I was still writing. And even though none of it was entirely useful, none of it, I contend, was entirely worthless either.