PUCK ON THE ROOF

BIRD: Er, dude?

PUCK: Yes, dude?

BIRD: What are you doing on the roof with the octopus?

PUCK: It’s me mam, she says I can’t have it in the house.

BIRD: If Pussy slides down the tiles, she’ll probably have a heart attack with at least two of her hearts and die a horrible death then slush green splodge all over yer mam’s windows. So do everyone a favour and bring her down slowly.

PUCK: But Pussy’s enjoyin’ the view, like. You can see for miles up here, Birdy. All the way to the ICI plant at Billingham.

BIRD: Which rewinds me. I went to the Billingham International Dance Festival one year. Gawd, those Moldavian gals are hot. Got laid twice on the local school playing field at midnight, once by the chief ballerina, once by the interpreter. I tell ya, bonking in the open air, there ain’t nothing like it. Hmmm.

PUCK: Youse know Billingham? Wikkid. Respect, Birdy.

BIRD: I have tasted Billingham and all it has to offer. Shall we just say that the local talent isn’t fussy.

PUCK: Way-hey. Wait till I tell Tony. He’s well up for a shag. Now what about Pussy? How am I gonna get her down, like?

BIRD: Er, the same way you got her up there?

PUCK: But I've got Pussy by the tentacles. If I move, she’s dead blubber.

BIRD: Hold on. OK, right, let her go.

SPPPPPPPLATTTTTTTT!

BIRD: Shite on a bike. Now what are we gonna do? How are we gonna break this to Buff?

PUCK: Tell him…. tell him… tell him me mam took him to a better home. Now I’ll get me bike, and we’ll dispose of the body down the local tip, like.

BIRD: Great idea, Puck, lad. And shhh, mam’s the word.

PUCK: Film at eleven?

BIRD: You betcha.