PART VI

THE AUTUMN YEARS

[Elegant restaurant. A man in a dressing gown, who is not Noel
Coward sits at a piano.]

Not Noel Coward: Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Here's a little
number I tossed off recently in the Caribbean. [Sings]

Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis,
Isn't it frightfully good to have a dong?
It's swell to have a stiffy,
It's divine to own a dick,
From the tiniest little tadger,
To the world's biggest prick.

So three cheers for your Willy or John Thomas,
Hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake,
Your piece of pork, your wife's best friend,
Your Percy or your cock,
You can wrap it up in ribbons,
You can slip it in your sock,
But don't take it out in public,
Or they will stick you in the dock,
And you won't come back.

[Spontaneous applause breaks out all over the restaurant.]

Oh... thank you very much.

Woman: Oh what a frightfully witty song.

[Clapping.]

[Mr Creosote enters.]

First Fish: [in tank] Oh shit! It's Mr creosote.

[All the fish disappear with six flicks of the tail.]

Maitre D: Ah good afternoon, sir, and how are we today?

Mr Creosote: Better...

Maitre D: Better?

Mr Creosote: Better get a bucket, I'm going to throw up.

Maitre D: Gaston! A bucket for monsieur!

[They seat him at his usual table. A gleaming silver
bucket is placed beside him and he leans over and throws
up into it.]

Maitre D: Merci Gaston.

[He claps his hands and the bucket is whisked away.]

Mr Creosote: I haven't finished!

Maitre D: Oh! Pardon! Gaston!... A thousand pardons monsieur. [Puts
the bucket back.]

[The Maitre D produces the menu as Mr Creosote continues
spewing.]

Maitre D: Now this afternoon we monsieur's favourite - the jugged
hare. The hare is *very* high, and the sauce is very rich with
truffles, anchovies, Grand Marnier, bacon and cream.

[Mr Creosote pauses. The Maitre D claps his hands and
signs to Gaston, who whisks away the bucket.]

Maitre D: Thank you, Gaston.

Mr Creosote: There's still more.

[Gaston rapidly replaces the bucket.]

Maitre D: Allow me! A new bucket for monsieur.

[The Maitre D picks the bucket up and hands it over to
Gaston. Mr Creosote leans over and throws up onto the
floor.]

And the cleaning woman.

[Gaston hurries off. The Maitre D takes care to avoid the
vomit and places the menu in front of Mr Creosote.]

And maintenant, would monsieur care for an aperitif?

[Creosote vomits over the menu. It is covered.]

Or would you prefer to order straight away? Today for
appetizers... er... excuse me...

[The Maitre D leans over and wipes away the sick with his
hand so that the words of the menu are readable.]

... moules marinieres, pate de foie gras, beluga caviar, eggs
Benedictine, tart de poireaux - that's leek tart - frogs' legs
amandine or oeufs de caille Richard Shepherd - c'est a dire,
little quails' eggs on a bed of pureed mushrooms, it's very
delicate, very subtle...

Mr Creosote: I'll have the lot.

Maitre D: A wise choice, monsieur! And now, how would you like it
served? All mixed up in a bucket?

Mr Creosote: Yes. With the eggs on top.

Maitre D: But of course, avec les oeufs frites.

Mr Creosote: And don't skimp on the pate.

Maitre D: Oh monsieur I can assure you, just because it is mixed up
with all the other things we would not dream of giving you
less than the full amount. In fact I will personally make sure
you have a *double* helping. Maintenant quelque chose a
boire - something to drink, monsieur?

Mr Creosote: Yeah, six bottles of Chateau Latour '45 and a double
Jeroboam of champagne.

Maitre D: Bon, and the usual brown ales...?

Mr Creosote: Yeah... No wait a minute... I think I can only manage
six crates today.

Maitre D: Tut tut tut! I hope monsieur was not overdoing it last
night...?

Mr Creosote: Shut up!

Maitre D: D'accord. Ah the new bucket and the cleaning woman.

[Gaston arrives. The Cleaning Woman gets down on her
hands and knees. Mr Creosote vomits over her.]

[Some guests at another table start to leave. The
Maitre D approaches.]

Maitre D: Monsieur, is there something wrong with the food?

[The Maitre D indicates the table of half-eaten main
courses. The guests shrink from his vomit-covered hand.
The Maitre D realises and shakes a little off. It hits
another guest, who wipes his eye.]

Guest: No. The food was... excellent...

Maitre D: Perhaps you are not happy with the service?

Guest: Er no... no... no complaints.

Guest's Wife: It's just we have to go - um - I'm having rather a
heavy period.

[A slight embarrassed silence while the rest of the party
look at her.]

Guest: And... we... have a train to catch.

Guest's Wife: [as if covering for her previous gaffe] Oh! Yes!
Yes... of course! We have a train to catch... and I don't want
to start bleeding over the seats.

[An awkward pause. The Maitre D gropes for words.]

Guest: Perhaps we should ne going...

[They start to go. The Maitre D follows.]

Maitre D: Very well, monsieur. Thank you so much, so nice to see
you and I hope very much we will see you again very soon. Au
revoir, monsieur.

[He pauses. A look of awful realization suffuses his
face.]

Maitre D: ... Oh dear... I've trodden in monsieur's bucket.

[The Maitre D claps his hands.]

Another bucket for monsieur...

[Mr Creosote is sick down the Maitre D's trousers.]

and perhaps a hose...

[Someone at another table gently throws up.]

Companion: Oh Max, really!

[At another table someone else has really thrown up all
over the place. His mother and brother look at him
incredulously. Meanwhile Mr Creosote has scoffed the lot.
The Maitre D approaches him with a silver tray.]

Maitre D: And finally, monsieur, a wafer-thin mint.

Mr Creosote: No.

Maitre D: Oh sir! It's only a tiny little thin one.

Mr Creosote: No. Fuck off - I'm full... [Belches]

Maitre D: Oh sir... it's only *wafer* thin.

Mr Creosote: Look - I couldn't eat another thing. I'm absolutely
stuffed. Bugger off.

Maitre D: Oh sir, just... just *one*...

Mr Creosote: Oh all right. Just one.

Maitre D: Just the one, sir... voila... bon appetit...

[Mr Creosote somehow manages to stuff the wafer-thin mint
into his mouth and then swallows. The Maitre D takes a
flying leap and cowers behind some potted plants. There
is an ominous splitting sound. Mr Creosote looks rather
helpless and then he explodes, covering waiters, diners,
and technicians in a truly horrendous mix of half
digested food, entrails and parts of his body. People
start vomiting.]

Maitre D: [returns to Mr Creosote's table] Thank you, sir, and now
the check.