The Greasy Spoon — Tablets

Here's a new radio script featuring Joe and Bob in the Greasy Spoon cafe.

SCENE BRIEFING

SETTING: A snug, steam-fogged greasy spoon cafe in Coventry city centre. 10:15 AM on a chilly Friday.

CHARACTERS:
• JOE: Early sixties. Built like a lamppost, deeply sleep-deprived, world-weary cynic.
• BOB: Early sixties. Flat-capped, sturdy, irrepressibly gossipy.
• BRENDA: Mid-fifties. Proprietor, quick-witted in an apron, entirely willing to play along.

FX: GREASY SPOON AMBIENCE. HISSING GAGGIA STEAM WAND, SPATTERING BACON ON A STEEL HOTPLATE, CLINKING THICK-RIMMED MUGS, MUFFLED RING-ROAD TRAFFIC OUTSIDE.

---

BOB:
Alright, Joe.

JOE:
Wha’?

BOB:
(EXASPERATED)
I Said, alright? Are yer deaf again?

JOE:
Nope.

BOB:
Hang bloody on. What’s that thing?

JOE:
It’s a tablet computer.

BOB:
A what, now?

JOE:
A tablet computer, yer know, an iPad.

BOB
What’s the chuffing heck d’yer want one of them for?

JOE:
(DEFENSIVE)
Wanted one for a while.

BOB:
Right. But why?

JOE:
I can check the footy scores. Watch a few programmes and… yer know, other stuff.

BOB:
What other stuff?

JOE:
Get the bloody coffees in and mind yer business.

BOB:
(OFF-MIC, SHOUTING TO BRENDA)
Two coffees please, Bren!

BOB (CONT):
Here you are, mystery man. I thought tablets were what’s the doc gives yer—

JOE:
(ANNOYED)
I’ll bloody give you a tablet in a minute, and it won’t be this one.

BOB:
Ha! Always with the violence. Here, see that Spencer bloke has a book out?

JOE:
Yeah. One posh nob having a go at other posh nobs.

BOB:
Not a Royalist, mate? Thought you would be, what with yer military service.

JOE:
Nope. I served my country. Not some pillock in a Palace.

BOB:
Fair enough. I wonder why he’s done it now?

JOE:
Short of brass, mebbe?

BOB:
Yeah, could be. I ain’t letting yer off the hook. I want to know what else you need that I-thingy for.

JOE:
(FRUSTRATED)
Jeez, leave it—

BOB:
You watching dodgy stuff on it?

JOE:
Fuck off.

BOB:
Well, what d’yer need it for?

JOE:
(EXASPERATED)
Fer fuck’s sake. Look, I’m doing a bit of writing. Alright? Will yer shut yer trap now?

BOB:
Wow! Why wouldn’t yer tell me that?

JOE:
You’ll take the piss.

BOB:
No, I won’t! Harsh that is.

JOE:
I can see yer building up to it.

BOB:
I’m not, I’m going to call you Joe Wodehouse. Or Joseph Dickens. Maybe Joseph Hardy—

JOE:
(ANNOYED)
Shut it!

BOB:
I’m only messing. Are you going to write a book?

JOE:
I reckon I might.

BOB:
Bloody hell, mate. What about?

JOE:
An annoying midget from Coventry called Bob.

BOB:
Piss off, you. That’s not nice.

JOE:
Well, I’m not sure yet. I’m testing a few ideas.

BOB:
Does Maeve know?

JOE:
Of course she bloody does.

BOB:
What does she think?

JOE:
Well, Herr Gestapo, She thinks it’s a great idea.

BOB:
(PERFORMING)
Ve hav vays ov making you talk.

JOE:
Funny, daft bloody apeth.

FX: FADE OUT