Well here it is folks, warts and all as promised, the original 'Man Who Ran out of Toothpaste'. Believe it or not the beauty that is our current show sprang from these humble beginings. This was written in one night over several beers and has neither been corrected, revised, nor edited from the original.
WARNING: what follows truly is shite...
THE MAN WHO RAN OUT OF TOOTHPASTE
by Lewis Ironside and Chris Snelson
C: Did you just see that?
L: Probably. You?
C: Definitely...Squirrel?
L: With a Moblie?
C: And three community support officers in high speed pursuit.
L: Thought it was a racoon.
C: What? With shades on?
L: Possibly not.
C: At 5 in the morning outside Wetherspoons in Leicester Square.
L: I'm of the opinion that the time and place are fairly irrelevent given the circumstances
C: Plot exposition's got to go somewhere.
L: How'd we get here?
C: Rickshaw?
L: No. Definitely a racoon.
C: You being racist?
(blank)
L: Shall we start again?
C: Probably best.
L: Did one of them look like Johnny Vaughn?
C: What? No! (pause) We're dreaming... oh my God, we're dreaming
L: Can't be.
C: What?
L: We can't both be dreaming
C: Why not? We could both be asleep.
L: But I can't be in your dreams if I'm dreaming!
C: Maybe I invented you.
L: I had sex with your sister!
C: What's that got to do with it?
L: What sort of crazy fuck invents someone to anally pleasure your own sister with a gerbil?
C: Good point. But we must be dreaming!
L: Why?!
C: One. We have both just witnessed an event of such gratuitous surreal....magnitudeosity...that Dali would be proud to strip naked and lube it up Two. My cock looks bigger.
L: Three We are sitting outside the moon under water in Leicester Square at five in the morning and we both have beer.
Enter waiter
C: I told you that plot exposition would be useful. And four: Barmen never do table service!
Waiter: They do in O'Neils.
L/C: We're not in O'Neils!
Waiter: It appears to me you're both stuck in a lucid dream.
C: Are you being racist?
Waiter: What? No! The occurrence manifests itself when the conscious forebrain accepts the desire of the subliminal subconscious (hind-brain, hypocampus, call it what you will) to emerge forth into the realm of conscious realisation, thus allowing the precipitator to become aware of their dream and in certain circumstances manipulate and control said aspirations.
C: He's right we're not in O'Neils.
L: Who are you?
Waiter: Sigmund Freud.
C: No, you're not, he had a beard.
Waiter: (pause) You're right. But I've read one of his books. And I've got a finger puppet. (Holds up left finger) Sigmund! You're naked! (Hold up right finger) Oh.
L: If this is a dream then why the hell do I have some Sigmund Freud wannabe in it?
SF: Oedipus Complex?
L: That's your answer to everything
C: Wasn't he Greek?
SF: No, incestuous.
C: Now you are being racist.
L: I have no desire to sleep with my mum!
C: I do!
SF: Yeah, me too.
C: Face it, dude, you've got a MILF!
L: I don't wanna know!...So how do we know whose dream this is?
C: It's mine.
L: How do you know?
C: Why would you be dreaming about me having a bigger cock?
L: Good point. But I remember waking up this morning!
C: So do I!
SF: False awakenings! You've never gone for a whole shitty day at work only to find you have to wake up and do it all again.
C/L: Work?!
SF: Oh never mind.
C: So how can we know which one of us is dreaming?
SF: Simple! If you hit him and he doesn't wake up the you'll know for certain that he isn't the one who's not dreaming...and vice-versa...probably. Alternatively, if either one of you knows what number I'm thinking of, you are the one who's dreaming.
C: Seven
L: Twelve
SF: You are both awake!
C: Nice. (looks down)
L: Nice. (looks at beer)
C: Hang on! With a gerbil?!
L: No. It was definitely a squirrel.