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Thread: Danny Dyer

  1. #46
    Join Date
    Apr 2008


    Is Dyer actually funny, though? I mean, he's amusing to laugh AT. Presumably he's got some self-awareness about this, but I don't see him as being particularly witty. In fact, his witlessness is what makes him a figure of fun.

    You're right about mock the week comedians being less funny than many members of the general public, it's an absolute shower of shit. Mind you, the format of those panel shows doesn't give much scope for being genuinely amusing. The most you can say for the Mock the Week contestants is that they're probably funnier than most people would be UNDER THOSE CONDITIONS.
    Αι ψυχαί οσμώνται καθ΄ Άιδην.

  2. #47
    Join Date
    Jun 2006


    I can't stand that show and other shows like it where it's all just so, so obviously rehearsed. I mean, I'm sure there's an element of that in HIGNYF, but at least there is *some* spontaneity there.
    Doin' the Lambeth Warp New: DISSENSUS - THE NOVEL - PM me your email address and I'll add you

  3. #48


    Re: Dyer. Yeah, it's not wit, but there's something weird going on, a tiny sliver of self-awareness that removes his chaotic persona from the Karl Pilkington thing which I detested. I think he's a funny character and I don't think I'm laughing at him. I admit it can be hard to tell. I like him, generally.

  4. #49


    Morgana Robinson's impression of him was pointless, he is already funnier than that. You can't parody a self-parody. It's complicated.

  5. #50


    Quote Originally Posted by Mr. Tea View Post
    I can't stand that show and other shows like it where it's all just so, so obviously rehearsed. I mean, I'm sure there's an element of that in HIGNYF, but at least there is *some* spontaneity there.
    Frankly, the fact that it's rehearsed makes it even worse. It would be bad enough if that was all the professional comedians could come up with on the spot, but the idea that they've already written and performed their awful lines is beyond belief.

    Danny Dyer doesn't need to rehearse to be funny, he has charisma and a natural funny bone. That's the basic for a comedian, which he isn't. To be a good, or even decent, comedian you need other things too. Like, I don't know, funny jokes, a facility for language, control of tone, use of voice. Dyer can use words quite well and he can certainly control and exploit his voice, in his own way, but like I stress, he's not even paid to be a comedian. He's actually an actor and not a bad one.

  6. #51
    Join Date
    Mar 2006


    These are all wonderful Owen, top of the class.

  7. #52
    Join Date
    Jun 2006


    Doin' the Lambeth Warp New: DISSENSUS - THE NOVEL - PM me your email address and I'll add you

  8. #53


    Episode 4. Part 1



    DANNY DYER and TAMER HASSAN are facing the camera, sitting down on the tube seats with their backs to the wall. Both actors are wearing tracksuits, and their faces are slightly flushed from an energetic game of five-a-side they have just played south of the river. The match resulted in a hard won draw, and the pair are travelling to THE VIC for a much-needed pint of beer.

    DANNY: What you call that tasty defender they’ve just signed? He was marking me the whole second half. If I wasn’t wearing shin-pads he would’ve had me in a fucking wheelchair.
    TAMER: Tosh Lines. He’s good for his age.
    DANNY: If we ever manage to get rid of Billy Mitchell or one of the other deadwoods we should poach this Tosh geezer. Get some new blood into the squad.
    TAMER: You can’t have him on the team. He’s bill. Sunhill C.I.D.
    DANNY: What? Fuck off. He’s not bill.
    TAMER: You mean to tell me you didn’t know, Danny? Wonders never cease me, son. He’s a fucking rozzer straight out of central casting, even got the Special Branch moustache.
    DANNY: Christ, I was that close to offering him a smoke, and all.
    TAMER: Chance would be a fine thing, you’ve been trying to roll that spliff for five minutes with nothing to show for it. Hand it over or we’ll be here all fucking day.

    DANNY passes his roll-up cigarette to his friend.

    TAMER: Here, talking about central casting… My agent gave me a bell last night about a low budget film that’s coming up, ‘Dagenham Dagger Man’. I’m auditioning for the wife beater part. There’s a few minor roles up for grabs, you should try out for Frank Harper’s retarded nephew character. You’re guaranteed to get a BAFTA if you're playing a dolly. It was only last week that that drag queen- whatsisname- got the Oscar for that Stephen Hawking movie.
    DANNY: How am I gonna find the time for acting and awards ceremonies when I’m trying to run a fucking bistro here?
    TAMER: That must be brown bread now you’ve gone and done over Jamie Oliver.
    DANNY: I’m doing it by myself now though, innit. Be my own boss. Who needs some zed-list running about the kitchen like a twat. I’m not going to lie, Tamer, he kept his dirt encrusted wedding ring on the whole time and never washed his hands once. Used the same knife for raw meat and vegetables. It’s a wonder half the Vic didn’t get scurvy.
    TAMER: There’s no teaching a geezer class. Some are born with it- some ain’t.
    DANNY: Talking about scurvy… I’ve got the patron saint of lost causes Dean Gaffney begging me for a waiter’s job. I mean, I’m trying to run a fucking business here, not a charity for washed up Cockney actors.
    TAMER: Here’s the ticket inspector coming, put this zoot away before we’re rumbled.
    Last edited by owengriffiths; 11-02-2016 at 01:11 PM.

  9. #54


    Episode 4. Part 2

    EXT SCENE: ALBERT SQUARE MARKET (daytime approximately 1:00pm)

    A number of angry looking men wearing grey thawbs and matching waistcoats are marching towards the square. Several are holding placards with the words ‘Walford Modesty Patrol’ written on them in large capital letters. Oblivious to his surroundings, a bespectacled young professional walks towards the menacing gang. He concentrates on drinking his candyfloss flavoured Yerba Mate tea before it gets cold, which he holds to his chest in a pewter gourd. One of the more militant Modesty Patrol volunteers is incensed by the young man’s exhibitionism, and darts over to him as he drinks through the straw. The middle-aged placard wielder snatches the metal gourd and throws it onto the street.

    MODESTY PATROL 1: Piss Off Hipster!
    MODESTY PATROL 2: Think you can creep around Walford like you own the bloody place? Look at your facial hair, you speccy twat. You’re an embarrassment to beards wearers everywhere.
    MODESTY PATROL 1: You’re a fucking disgrace, full stop.

    The leader of the protest acts to end this altercation.

    ABDUL ANWAR: Come, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.... in the caff.

    His followers walk after him obediently.

    ANWAR is a thirty-something rabble-rouser who attends the radical Silverlink mosque in Walford’s north side. He has a scar on his face that he claims he got ‘on active service’, when in actual fact he sustained the injury during a childhood game of pitch & toss. Arrogant by nature, ANWAR uses his leadership abilities to inflate his ego and ferment discord in the community.

    The group have stopped outside KATH’s CAFF. On the sound of ANWAR’s whistle the men beat their placards on the shop window in a steady tattoo, all the while chanting the word “scab”.


    TRICKY DICKY: What the hell’s going on?
    KATH: Those geezers are attacking the caff for no reason!
    CROWD NOISE: Scab! Scab! Scab! Scab!

    The customers are terrified but are unsure of what to do except cower beside the shabby formica furnishings. The banging noise is so loud that they can barely hear themselves think. Suddenly a placard crashes through the window, spraying shards of glass into TRICKY DICKY’s plate of egg & chips. With the tension ratcheted up to an almost unbearable level, ANWAR and his goons come streaming in through the door.

    CROWD NOISE: Scab! Scab! Scab! Scab!

    Holding up his arm for silence, ANWAR’s supporters end their frightful litany.

    ABDUL ANWAR: It is only right that you should be terrified, just as our brother imam of the local mosque was terrified when one of you non-believers attacked him with a pork roast. Such unspeakable provocation of a decent man- in Walford of all places- is outrageous. As you well know this has for a number of years been a majority Muslim area. That is why our modesty patrol was set up, to put a stop to your forbidden degenerate habits. We declare from this day on that sales of bacon- and other harem meats- will cease at once. Pork sausages will be taken off all menus, as the eating of all types of swine is not inshallah.

    ANWAR pauses to take a loathing look at the tearful customers.

    ABDUL ANWAR: I can’t fathom how you people eat this swill, I really can’t. It smells like a Glasgow council estate in here. The first thing I’ll have do when I get home is throw my clothes in the washing machine. Or maybe I should just throw them away. (Exhaling through his teeth) There’s so much grease on this floor that I’m slipping about the place like it’s an ice rink!


    The boys emerge from the Underground station en route to the Vic. The street is eerily quiet and the market traders have deserted their stalls. Jogging towards them is an agitated NIGEL BATES.

    DANNY: Hang about, what’s this?
    NIGEL: Danny, you’ve gotta help us. A squad of thugs have got the cafe under siege. Shit, there’s one of them there!

    The overweight man points towards one of the Modesty Patrol members before running away in fright.

    NIGEL: I’ll get the old bill round. Maybe give Grant a call as well…
    DANNY: Half a mo. That muppet looks like one of them New Highbury sponsoring slags. And he has the cheek to cause a bit of bother in my manor… He’s taking a liberty. Tamer, pass me that football.

    TAMER unzips his sports bag and removes the yellow five-a-side ball. Taking it from TAMER’s hands, DANNY dropkicks the heavy football into the chest of the Modesty Patrol member keeping guard outside the cafť. The man’s face grimaces in pain as he is winded. Eager for a bit of aggro, TAMER predatorily advances on the injured fundamentalist. With his shoulders tilted forward and his hands fixed tight to his pockets, he sticks his forehead right in his victim’s face.

    TAMER: Do you know who I am?
    MODESTY PATROL 1: (Gasping for breath) Yes…
    TAMER: Then you’ll know I’m a top boy in the Avondale Square Ataturks. And you’ll know that I don’t take kindly to WANKERS PISSING ABOUT!
    MODESTY PATROL 1: Please don’t hurt me.
    DANNY: Where’s the rest of you slags?
    MODESTY PATROL 1: In the caff.
    DANNY: If I catch you round here again I’ll smack your boat with a dumbbell, dummy.

    DANNY & TAMER charge into the greasy spoon.


    TAMER: Oi! Which one of you toe rags is the guvnor?
    ABDUL ANWAR: I am.
    TAMER: You’re not much to look at, scarface. What the fuck are you up to?
    ABDUL ANWAR: The devout men of the Silverlink mosque have had enough of this community’s insulting dietary practices.
    TAMER: You only have the bottle to go up against these people because you know East London’s moist. You wouldn’t dare pull a stunt like this in Sarf! Well come on then, try me for size. Toe to toe. I’ll take a fucking rusty shank to your left eyeball. And if I’m still in a good mood after that- I MIGHT JUST DO THE OTHER ONE!

    Accepting defeat, ANWAR leads the Modesty Patrol out the door.

    ABDUL ANWAR: You haven’t seen the last of us.
    TAMER: Is that a promise, pussyole?
    DANNY: Clissold Park is that way, boys. Now piss off, cos if you don’t I ain’t gonna be responsible for what I might do.
    TAMER: If any of you cants want to continue this little tete-a-tete, come find me down the Old Kent Road. I’m ready & waiting anytime.
    DANNY: (almost out of earshot) I appreciate the help and all Tamer, but do you have to mug East London off in front of all these people, in my manor. I've got a reputation to protect...

    KATH BEALE is crouched on the floor in tears, her granddaughter LUCY trying to comfort her.

    CLOSE UP of KATH’s crying face.


    Last edited by owengriffiths; 13-02-2016 at 10:01 PM.

  10. #55



    Episode 5. Part 1


    STEVE OWEN is putting the shop to bed. Flipping the door sign around to display ‘closed’, he moves to the rear of the store where he has a ghetto blaster sat upon a shelf. He meticulously tunes the radio in to AMNESIA FM, which is broadcasting tear out basslines and mic man chatter.

    MC TWO: Cream of the cropper, crazy like Chopper, don’t fuck drag queens I’m not Roy Cropper.
    MC ONE: After the set I’m down the caff just like Ed Milliband. Order myself a bacon san. Dun know I’m Walford Market man. E20 not Afghanistan. And it’s standard I eat ham & murk Milliband. Love dead pig more than David Cam. Ain’t got dough like David Cam. But trust me fam. I make bare P’s so I don’t shop in Oxfam.
    MC TWO: We nah sleep in cardboard box like tramps!
    MC ONE: Don’t ever get it twisted, yeah. Amnesia is a station for grafters who put the work in to get that paper. Some of them other dibby dibby stations on the dial are run by wastemen who turn up to the dance dressed like Big Issue sellers. Us man don’t tolerate none of that slackness. Allow that. If it ain't the best we're not interested. So when we’re in the market for quality electrical goods, the only place we even THINK of going to is Walford Radio Rentals.
    MC TWO: And trust me, Steve’s your man for a bargain. Bargains galore like a fucking Kentucky bucket. Right now he’s got badman deals on plasma screens, car soundsystems, fridge-freezers, and plug in heaters to keep you warm throughout the winter months. And there’s stacks of finance deals available. Buy now, pay later.
    MC ONE: That’s cos Steve Owen’s a safe guy. Used to be big in the music game but he came back to the ends cos he’s got shit to deal with. And it goes without saying Amnesia management don’t have nothing to do with pricks who don’t rep hard for East London. And you can't get more East than a shop with a big fuck off sign that says WALFORD on it.
    MC TWO: Can I just say one thing though? REAL stations don’t play ads for Trident. In this studio it’s strictly militant E20 manoeuvres, not zip-a-dee-doo-dah.

    Satisfied with the advert, STEVE turns the radio off.

    STEVE: That was twenty pounds well spent.

    He is temporarily distracted by the sound of someone knocking on the shop window.

    STEVE: Can’t you see we’re closed?
    MUFFLED VOICE: I know. I just want to talk.

    The shopkeeper opens the door to see DEAN GAFFNEY.

    STEVE: Oh, I didn’t know you were back in Walford. Come in.
    DEAN: Thanks.
    STEVE: So, what’ve you been doing with yourself? You’ve been away for- how long is it- ten years?
    DEAN: Yeah it’s something like that. I’ve been in Essex. I had a caravan in Southend. Spent most of my time down the pub, drinking pints and picking up fit birds.
    STEVE: (doubtful) Yeah…?
    DEAN: It was a good life, but the Child Support Agency started sniffing around so I had to hightail it back to London.
    STEVE: Right…
    DEAN: Don’t get me wrong, I love being back in Walford. But the cost of living is crippling me. I’m staying in the tents they’ve got pitched up in the allotments. It’s not too bad, but at five hundred quid a month it’s properly eating into my savings.
    STEVE: Fuck me! Half a grand for a bloody tent? What is the world coming to?
    DEAN: That’s kind of why I’m here, Steve. You wouldn’t have any jobs going, would you? Anything round the shop? Cleaning, lifting boxes, whatever really. I’ll do anything for cash.
    STEVE: I’m afraid I ain’t got anything that needs done at the moment, Dean.
    DEAN: I’ve got a GCSE in Leisure & Tourism.
    STEVE: Well… If I’m being honest business is pretty quiet round here. Maybe come back during the January sales. I can’t promise anything though.
    DEAN: Yeah fair enough. Anyway thanks for your time, Steve. Ta ra.
    STEVE: Enjoy Christmas, mate.
    DEAN: Yeah, you too.

    DEAN closes the door behind him. STEVE is disturbed by what the younger man had to say.

    STEVE: This gentrification lark is getting out of hand. But who’s gonna put a stop to it.
    Last edited by owengriffiths; 16-02-2016 at 01:40 PM.

  11. #56
    Join Date
    Oct 2004


    Quote Originally Posted by owengriffiths View Post
    STEVE: This gentrification lark is getting out of hand. But whoís gonna put a stop to it.
    Proper cliff hanger

  12. #57





    The camera lingers on the newspaper long enough for the audience to read the two main headlines and a subheading each:-

    LUFTI RACHMAN CAUGHT IN CORRUPTION SCANDAL- Councillor ‘must resign’ after allegations of bribe taking are revealed.

    JAMIE OLIVER FILES FOR BANKRUPTANCY- Celebrity chef’s business empire topples two weeks after his Walford restaurant fails to bring in the punters.


    Seated by the window are BIANCA JACKSON, RICKY BUTCHER and FRANK BUTCHER.

    BIANCA: I always knew that Lufti Rachman was shifty. I wouldn’t trust them lot as far as you can throw them, but he was blatantly the worst of the lot.
    RICKY: Yeah, it’s outrageous the way he can just get away with pocketing taxpayers money like that.
    FRANK: Well, I guess it’s like how that philosopher said- "we get the politicians we deserve."
    BIANCA: Well I didn’t vote for him! I voted for the BNP.
    FRANK: Keep your voice down Bianca!
    BIANCA: Why? If you ask me it’s about time the real cockneys stood up for themselves.
    RICKY: Er, I think I’ll get another round in.

    RICKY sheepishly makes his way to the bar, leaving FRANK to have a fraught conversation with his mouthy daughter in law.

    For once DANNY DYER is manning the pumps as TRACEY is busy changing the beer kegs.

    DANNY: What’ll you be having mate.
    RICKY: Can I have two pints of lager and a Bacardi & Coke.
    DANNY: I see the missus is giving your old man a mouthful.
    RICKY: Tell me about it, I made a beeline to the bar just to get a break from her. She’s a real nag, I’ll tell you that for nuffink.
    DANNY: Here, if you ever manage to get a word in edgeways you could suggest taking the kids to the Vic for dinner. We’re reopening the restaurant soon, only this time without that donut Jamie Oliver stinking the place up.
    RICKY: Yeah?
    DANNY: Deffo. My new menu is gonna be a nostalgic look back on 1970’s childhood. We’ve got Vesta Beef Curry, Findus Crispy Pancakes, you name it. We’ve got it all. And the kids can play on Mega Drives while their meal’s getting cooked. No gimmicks here, Ricky, just proper food and quality ambience
    RICKY: Wow, I haven’t eaten that stuff in donkeys. Where did you get hold of it?
    DANNY: They still make them in Taiwan, I get them shipped in especially. Nothing’s too good for Walford. I’ve even managed to source Lucozade in the plastic wrapped glass bottles- that old hospital visiting time favourite. And there’s a new dish I’m going to serve up too- Betty’s Hotpot.
    RICKY: What’s that then?
    DANNY: I dunno, I ain’t tried it yet. But the Mancs down the local methadone clinic swear by it.
    RICKY: I might just book a table then. Of course I’ll have to run it by Bianca, see if she lets me.
    RICKY: I look forward to having you, mate. Tell you what Ricky, have a vodka on me. Smirnoff and all. Nobody knows the hospitality side of business like Danny Dyer. Not like that slag Peggy, charging geezers Smirnoff prices for Park Royal rot gut.
    RICKY: Ta.
    Last edited by owengriffiths; 11-04-2016 at 04:54 PM.

  13. #58



    RICKY returns to his seat. Just that very moment DOT COTTON walks into the Vic. Almost at once the hubbub grinds to a halt as the revellers wait to see what happens. So incensed is BIANCA by DOTís presence that just this once she is rendered speechless. The old dry cleaner is oblivious to the tension in the room, and single-mindedly proceeds to the landlord.

    DOT: Can I have a twenty deck of Regal Kingsize please, Daniel? Ooh, and a book of matches too if you have one. I keep on losing my lighter.

    CUT TO: The Butcher familyís table.

    BIANCA: Is heÖ Is he gonna sell matches to that cheeky cow after she burned down half of Walford?
    FRANK: Leave it out Bianca. It was an accident, she didnít mean it.
    RICKY: Yeah, just calm down a bit and have a sip of your drink.

    CUT TO: The bar.

    DANNY: Yeah, no problem, Dot. Iíve erÖ got the matches out back. Why donít you follow me?

    The retired actor expertly leads DOT into the hallway away from the pub. Bianca shouts after them but thankfully the older lady is too self-absorbed to hear.

    BIANCA: Why donít you just burn the other half of the street down, Dot. Iím sure youíre foreign friend Lufti Rachman can set you up in a nice council house in no time, while hardworking families like mine with our five kids will be on the waiting list for another eight years! DO YOU HEAR ME!

    DANNY winces as he shuts the door behind them.

    DOT: Is this where you keep the matches? Wouldnít it make more sense to have them by the bar?
    DANNY: Yeah, I suppose so. Listen Dot. It might be best if you donít come back here for a while. Youíve stirred up a lot of shit up recently; certain people donít exactly think the world of you right now.
    DOT: Whatever for?
    DANNY: You burned your house down, you silly sausage.

    DOT stares into the publicanís eyes, as if she canít recollect the fire.

    DANNY: Anyway Dorothy, hereís the snout youíve been asking for. And youíre finest box of Swan matches.
    DOT: Someone must have already opened these Danny. Look thereís only nineteen fags in the pack.
    DANNY: Yeah, theyíre all like that now. With the taxation going up they didnít want to raise the priceÖ Tell you what Dot, have the pack on me- Iíll even give you a stack of Focus Points. And hereís some Philleas Fogg tortilla chips and all. The crisp that was so good Brussels had to take it away from us. But Iím telling you now, I wonít have none of that cheesy Septic Doritos shit in the Vic. We like the finer things in life. Anyway Dot, might as well leave through the back door now weíre here.

    DANNY opens the door and escorts DOT to the back garden. She has an upset expression on her face.

    DANNY: Chin up love, itís not so bad. Just think of it like itís the war. Channel some of that old Battle of Britain spirit, fight them on the beaches and all that. Youíll get through this Dot. Course you will- youíre a cockney. (singing in the style of a football supporter) Weíll meet again, donít know where, donít know WHENÖ

    Closing the back door, DANNY returns to the bar. Satisfied at dealing with that delicate situation, he pours himself a pint of beer and chases it down with a short of Whiskey.

    DANNY: Nice one, just what the doctor ordered.

  14. #59


    Previous two parts on previous page


    A small bespectacled man in a faded & ill-fitting suit enters the pub and approaches the bar.

    BRIAN: Is Daniel Dyer in tonight?
    DANNY: You’re speaking to him. What’ll you be having mate, a pint or an autograph?
    BRIAN: Hello Mr Dyer. I’m Brian Steele, I work in accounts for NatWest. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the past two weeks.
    DANNY: Here, has anyone ever told you you look like Penfold from Dangermouse? There’s definitely a resemblance there.
    BRIAN: Mr Dyer I’m here on a very serious matter. As of this week the business account you hold with us is twenty-seven thousand three hundred and forty nine pounds in overdraft. NatWest requires this to be paid back before the end of the month, along with eight thousand pounds interest.
    DANNY: Gordon Bennett, this must be a fucking wind-up. I’ve withdrawn Scottish Football Association from that account in weeks. What am I supposed to have spent the money on?
    BRIAN: The bulk of you’re purchases have been business supplies. I’ve got a list here. Look, December the 12th: Visa Debit paid to Muswell Hill Artisan Foods for two thousand pounds worth of tempura squid. December 16: twelve thousand pounds cheque made payable to Zanussi GB for the installation of a walk in freezer at business premises on 259 Commercial Road, E1. December 18: A cheque for four thousand three hundred and ninety-four pounds made payable to Oliver Enterprises. Our records show that this was for a large consignment of napkins and other catering supplies.
    DANNY: Who signed that cheque?
    BRIAN: Er, lets see. A Mr J. Oliver.
    DANNY: I fucking knew it! That toerag has been half-inching my money!
    BRIAN: With all due respect Mr Dyer, it’s NatWest’s money. And it is your obligation to pay it back promptly. Very promptly.
    DANNY: Hold on a second, it’s my former business party who’s got hold of the chequebook. I ain’t got nothing to do with this. I’m a victim of fucking fraud here.
    BRIAN: The details don’t concern us. In the event of any large financial transactions, no matter how irregular or fraudulent, the bank demands recompense forthwith. Need I remind you that failure to compensate us will lead to NatWest repossessing your business premises- the Queen Victoria Ale House & Gin Palace.
    DANNY: But I live here!

    As the two men argue a burly figure in a leather jacket enters the pub. BAZ is a bespectacled man in his forties. He makes his way to the bar, nearly shoving BRIAN aside.

    BAZ: I work for the Council Entertainment & Public Events department. Are you Danny Dyer?
    BRIAN: I think you’ll find that I’m having an important talk with Mr Dyer at the moment.
    BAZ: That can wait. Mr Dyer, I hereby serve notice that the Queen Vic will have to cease trading immediately. You neglected to apply for an entertainment license. Sorry mate, the place is going to be shut down.
    DANNY: What?
    BAZ: Can’t be helped. London Borough Tower Hamlets require all licenses to be applied for and fully paid up sixty days before they come into force.
    DANNY: But I haven’t held any live events.
    BAZ: On the opening night of the restaurant we received reports that you were playing local radio stations on a portable hi-fi. The Queen Victoria is a public house and is therefore a public space. By playing radio broadcasts without an entertainment license you have contravened Section 41 of the 1998 Criminal Justice Bill.
    DANNY: Can’t I get a pardon or something?
    BAZ: Afraid not, mate. I’m gonna need to pull the shutters down right now. You can fill in a form for an events license but honestly I don’t think we’ll be able to grant you one for another four months. Plus it costs two hundred quid.
    BRIAN: Before you make any more withdrawals you’ll have to pay NatWest what’s owed.
    DANNY: Stop talking over each other, I’m trying to think here!
    BAZ: There are several other regularities we might have to take action on. Is your ghetto blaster in the corner PRS compliant? And you’ve got kids over there eating food in an over 18’s section of the pub. Tut-tut.
    BRIAN: In the event of repossession all children will have to leave the premises…

    The pub falls silent as DANNY grabs a baseball bat from underneath the beer taps. With his left hand he points the bat into BRIAN’s neck while his other hand clutches the man’s collar to keep his victim firmly in place. The bank worker gulps in terror as his breathing is severely restricted.

    DANNY: You stockbroker twats are taking a liberty. First you fuck up the economy, next thing you’re trying to take down an honest east end businessman and make him homeless two days before Christmas. How about you just fuck off back to Thurrock before I break your fucking windpipe!

    Releasing him from his clutch, DANNY watches the banker fall to the ground and grasp for air. Within seconds BRIAN picks himself up and runs out of the Queen Vic without a glance back.

    DANNY: That’s right. Fuck of back to your slag wife, in your slag house, with your slag family, in your slag street, in your little slag of a town- where every slag is guaranteed full employment and COMPREHENSIVE SLAG INSURANCE!

    DANNY shifts his attention to BAZ the council worker, who clearly didn’t expect proceedings to take such a dark turn.

    DANNY: What about you, sunshine?

    He swings the baseball bat dramatically.

    DANNY: Do you wanna play rounders? You pikey Harold Bishop looking nonce. Or perhaps you’d prefer to go toe-to-toe with me and my machete. My name might not be Ravi Shanka, but trust me bruv- I will fucking shank ya!

    Not fancying his chances the council worker exits the pub slowly. Once BAZ is gone DANNY turns to the optics and pours himself a very generous measure of sambucca. The crowd are totally silent, not sure of what will happen next. Downing his drink in one gulp, DANNY slams the glass down on the mahogany work surface.

    DANNY: Right! You heard the man. The Vic is closed until further notice! Thanks for your custom, now politely fuck off.
    RICKY: But I haven’t finished my drink yet.
    DANNY: The only thing you’ll be drinking will be medicine- through an IV drip. Now fuck off the lot of ya. You’re all barred!

    The drinkers are too shocked to speak. Just that very second TRACEY returns from the back room.

    TRACEY: What about me.
    DANNY: You’re barred too, Trace.
    TRACEY: But I work here.
    DANNY: Don’t none of you clampetts get it? It’s over. The Vic is finished. NatWest and the council have only gone and cancelled Christmas. So all of you slags… get out!

    DANNY swings the bat at the bar and all the glasses fall to the ground in a crash. The locals can’t get out fast enough, many elbowing each other in their rush to the exit.

    DANNY: Nothing to see here, ladies & gentleman. It’s just the death of two centuries of proud cockney heritage. But don’t worry, I hear the next owners are going to open an artisan truffle charcuterie. You’ll forget the Queen Vic was ever here. And you wont remember nothing about that sorry mug DANNY DYER.

    Last edited by owengriffiths; 11-04-2016 at 05:32 PM.

  15. #60
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