alittlepoison

Our character talks like a pervert who has seen a thing or two. Like Bob Hoskins. He is dressed in a dirty executive shirt and pirate eyeshadow, and has a wide, thin black moustache. He is rather sweaty and hunched.

“Hello children.

I said hello children. Where’s your manners? Lost ‘em, have you? Unmannered children, are we? Completely dismannered? Utterly devoid of your actual manners?

I like manners. Hello you at the back. I can see you. Keep it zipped! Zip it up tight. When I’m talking I don’t want to hear any little peeps from the back row. And no little peeps from the middle. Yes, you awful bunch of despots in the middle. I see you! And as for you in the front rows… yes, you little peeps in the front row. I can see you! Nothing wrong with these eyes. Not after I operated on them myself.

What you sitting in the front rows for? Think you’ve hit the big time? Think you’ve on the television? The front row indeed. I like you… the front row… least of all. I like you, yes, the middle row… not very much. The back row? Let’s just say I’m glad you’re where you are ’cause otherwise I’d start to feel a little sick. You make me feel all rotten in the belly, like I’ve just had two too many pork chops. Oh no, back row boys and girls, you ain’t my favourites now. I got no favourites. A man like me ain’t got no need nor wont for favourites. I’ll tell you why later on. “What’s your favourite colour”, they used to ask me. What do you think it was? (field a few responses from the kids)

Naaah, it wasn’t that. Oh no, not that one.

My favourite colour is… nothing! I hate all colours! Even pink! It makes me hopping mad to see a rainbow! I went to Buckingham Palace to see the queen a few years ago. First thing I did was smash all the lightbulbs and paint the windows black. I wasn’t invited back again… heh heh heh. Silly old queen.

I respect the front row, mind. I don’t like it, but I respect it. I had to work plenty to make it to the front row of life. When I was at school, I always made it a big dirty point to plonk myself right up the front. Gets you a good view of all of the nice friendly teachers. (at this point look to any female teacher with a lechy grin) Hello, nice friendly teacher. Even when I was four times bigger and twelve years older than everyone else around me. I cast a great shadow all around me. And I ate really stinking crisps. Loudly. Just to get up all those people’s heckles. Stinky crisps. Cheese and onion. (pause) Pickled onion.

(at this point pull out an antique pistol, look down the sight and then replace it)

Who wants to be in my gang? You? You? Nah, forget it. None of you are mean enough to be in my gang. You’ve got to be plenty mean to be in my gang. You’ve got to be as mean as me. You got to be super mean. You’ve got to be so mean that when you sneak in the background of a photograph, who ever is taking has to throw away the camera. You’ve got to be so mean you can crack an egg in the palm of your hand and fry it with just your pure stinking meanness. You’ve got to be over 18 years old, too. So forget it. Creeps.

In fact, you’ve got to be as mean as me to be in my gang. An no-one… NO-ONE!… is as mean as me. So in my gang there’s only numero uno del primo… just me.

Now I don’t know what you filthy lot want to be when you grow up. Doctors? Astronauts? Yukk. I don’t care. I don’t give a flying dutchman what you want to be. Me, I do this and that. I do a bit of this (mime playing the violin), and a bit of this (mime pickpocketing), and of course a bit of this (mime unemployment). I cook eggs for businessmen. People with a lot of money. Sometimes I want a bit of their money, see? Sometimes they don’t want to give it to me. Don’t want the eggs I’m cooking. Catch my drift? So I got to think up new ways to get them to hand over the cash. I try something new… like boiling them. Lovely boiled eggs. I leave em to fry for a bit. I use a whisk. I mix em all up into an omelet. Anything it takes to get me a pretty penny. Oh, I love the sound of money. It sure is funny, my filthy friends, to have money. I wash myself in money. I rub it all over my dirty face, until it smells like me and I smell like it. I blow my nose on a ten pound note. Then I take it to the shop and ask them to change it for two fivers. Yes, that’s right. Then I use those five pound notes to wipe all the ugly gunk from my armpits. Then I take myself to another shop and make them change those horrible, horrible notes for ten £1 coins. And I take those coins, I do, and I use them to scrape all the bilious grime from out of my ten horrible, filthy, putrid, toenails. Then I throw them in the dust bin. I don’t know why… Maybe I’m just too mean to look after them.

I met a man who told me he could talk to the animals. Can you believe that? Talk to the animals? Makes you think, doesn’t it. What if cows could talk? I reckon the conversation would go like this. The cow says hello. I’m thinking - what? a talking cow. I must be off my greasy gourd. I must have flipped my bin lid. I can’t believe it! A talking cow! I could make millions out of this situation! Imagine getting it on the tele! All the time the cow’s looking at me… I’m stunned speechless. I can’t say a word! I’m stunned, I am! And so the cow says hello again, I’m talking to you buster. Imagine selling it to the circus! And I’m still to stunned and shocked to get a word out. ‘I’m talking to you’ says the cow. ‘I got a question for you, mate’ he says. ‘Whahaaa-aat’ I stammer out, overblown with emotion at this uncanny situation.

‘Why have you been drinking all my cow milk?’

I ain’t got an answer for that! I never even thought it was strange - which it is - til that heffing cow asked me that question! Sweet mike on a bike! I have it every morning in my tea cup… I pour it royally over my crispy flakes every morning!

So maybe, boys and girls, if animals could talk then we wouldn’t. We’d be too shocked, see? Imagine that? The cows would get too big for their boots! They’d start getting on the tele! Imagine that, boys and girls!

Phew, right, I’m off to do some crimes. And if you see a cow, don’t forget to tell them who makes the burgers.

I do.”