Hey, I think a woman's gonna move in upstairs. I found a letter addressed to someone called Deborah.
Great. What's it say.
How should I know? It's private. Actually, I did accidentally steam it open and read it. Her mother enjoyed her holiday in France but the weather was a bit disappointing.
France, eh? (Imitates French accent) Bonjour, Deborah. Je m'appelle Dermot. I am sensitive and artistic.
Have you got the sharp knife in there?
Yeah, it's on the side. I'll bring it out in a minute. Yo! Get down, bitch.
Dermot! Oh, I see. It's a duvet. Well, silly old me. I thought for a moment you'd spent all the money you owe me on a new suit, you piece of scum.
I'm looking after it for a friend.
No, you're not.
All right. It's an investment.
No, it isn't. It's a bloody new, bloody suit, you bastard.
It's not my fault. Whenever I see a cheque, I go out of control. I'm the same with tight black skirts, actually.
This is my money we are talking about here. What would you say if I emptied your wallet and went out on a spending spree?
I'd say, "What can you buy these days for an old library ticket and a picture of Lisa bending down on Brighton Beach?"
Well, what else have you bought for yourself?
Nothing.
Well, what's in that bag?
Oh, it's-- it's a cookery book.
You expect me to believe that, do you?
You're always saying you're tired of me cooking the same thing all the time.
(sighs) Yeah, all right.
Not that there's anything wrong with fish fingers Sur La Toast.
Take those stupid sunglasses off.
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