The Greasy Spoon - The Guts

I write radio scripts because they are fun to write. I might get people far more skilled behind a microphone than me to perform them. Here's a new radio script featuring Joe and Bob in a greasy spoon cafe in Coventry.

SCENE BRIEFING
SETTING: A snug, steam-fogged greasy spoon cafe in Coventry city centre. 10:15 AM on a warm Tuesday.
CHARACTERS:
• JOE: Early sixties. Built like a lamppost, deeply sleep-deprived, world-weary cynic.
• BOB: Early sixties. Flat-capped, sturdy, irrepressibly gossipy, half-deaf from factory work.
• BRENDA: Mid-fifties. Proprietor, rapid-fire tea slinger in plimsolls. 

---

FX: Greasy spoon ambience. Hissing Gaggia steam wand, spattering bacon on a steel hotplate, clinking thick-rimmed mugs, muffled ring-road traffic outside.

BOB:
Morning, Joseph.

JOE:
Why are you so bloody chipper?

BOB:
Can’t a man be happy for no reason?

JOE:
No.

BOB:
Well, I am. So, that’s that.

JOE:
Well, go and be happy getting the coffees in.

FX: Bob, off-mic, calling over to Brenda for two coffees. Heavy footsteps return with mugs thudding onto the table.

BOB:
Here you are, grumpy. Get that down your neck.

JOE:
Ta. About time.

BOB:
What’s going on with ya?

JOE:
Nowt.

BOB:
Bullshit. I mean, you’re always grumpy, but today takes the biscuit.

JOE:
(SIGHING LOUDLY)
What are you? The happy police?

BOB:
Yes! Yes I am! Today, I have appointed myself as the Happiness Commissioner!

(BEAT)

JOE:
Have you been drinking?

BOB:
No!

JOE:
Have you been smoking funny cigarettes?

BOB:
No! You cheeky sod. I’m just trying to cheer you up.

JOE:
It’s not working. You are pissing me off.

FX: Loud screech of a metal chair leg dragging across lino as Bob jumps to his feet.

BOB:
(PROJECTING LOUDLY TO THE ENTIRE CAFE)
I do declare, good people of Coventry, that today is happy Tuesday!

JOE:
Fuck off. No, it’s not.

BOB:
What the hell is the matter with you today?

JOE:
Nothing.

BOB:
Yes there is. You are grumpier than normal and that’s saying something.

JOE:
Look, right? I’ve got bad guts again.

BOB:
Ah.

JOE:
Yeah, fucking ah. They are like a bollocksed turbine.

BOB:
Er, Joe?

JOE:
What?

BOB:
You’re not likely to—

JOE:
What?

BOB:
Yer know. Let one go.

JOE:
Piss off! I ain’t uncouth.

BOB:
Thank fuck fer that. I don’t need you gassing—

FX: PARRRPPPPPP! Joe lets rip with a long, echoing, resonant flatulence.

BOB:
(YELLING)
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?

JOE:
(SNICKERING)
Wasn’t me.

BOB:
(INDIGNANT)
That better not bloody smell!

JOE:
It won’t. It was just gas.

BOB:
I thought yer said yer weren’t uncouth!

JOE:
I ain’t!

BOB:
Yer could have fooled me!

JOE:
That ain’t hard.

BOB:
Piss off! Ah, fuck’s sake! The smell.

FX: Off-mic, Bob frantically pleading with Brenda behind the counter for air freshener. Footsteps jog back accompanied by the metallic rattle of an aerosol can.

BOB:
I’m gonna spray this bugger right up your ar—

BRENDA:
(SLIDING IN TRAY-FIRST)
Now, now, Robert. None of that language. Joe, love? Would yer like a Buscopan?

JOE:
Ah, please, Bren, if yer can spare a couple.

BOB:
Give him the whole bloody box.

FX: Foil blister pack crunching as tablets pop out, overlaid with frantic, aggressive hiss of aerosol air freshener being deployed.

JOE:
Bloody hell! That stuff reeks! Stop spraying it.

BOB:
I’ve gotta get rid of the smell.

BRENDA:
Ah, now, Bob. There’s no smell.

JOE:
Thanks Bren. He’s always overreacting.

FX: PARRRPPPPPP! Joe lets rip with a second, even louder, shuddering trumpet blast.

BOB:
Ah! Fer fuck’s sake! Yer dirty bugger!

JOE:
I can’t help it, it’s me guts.

BRENDA:
Poor Joe. Although…

(BEAT)

BRENDA:
Quick, Bob. Pass me that air freshener.

FX: Double aerosol hiss sprays furiously into the cafe air, fading out beneath Bob’s coughing fits.