For Some Reason Angry

	Stephen addresses the camera while making, tossing and dressing a 
	salad. For some reason he is very angry, as if always suspecting that 
	everyone is laughing at him.


Stephen		I was at the theatre two nights ago. The National ... OUR 
		National theat ... our Royal National Theatre. I saw a play,
		yes alright it was only a play. Oh brilliant, so now I'm to be
		judged and whipped and mocked and scorned because it was only a
		play. Great. Thanks very much indeed. Alright, yes it was only
		a sod-buggering play. No, MacEnroe wasn't in it, nor Lendl or
		Noah or any of the big stars. So it wasn't stuffed with top
		names. Christ, what do you want from me? Hm? Hm? Hm? My God, I
		go, I at least bloody bother to get off my fat, wobbling,
		lardy, smelly, huge, festering carpet and actually go to the
		theatre and suddenly I'm Adolf Eichmann. Well I'm bloody sorry
		but ... WHY WON'T THIS FRIGGING TOMATO SETTLE BLOODY DOWN!!!
		(He is having trouble slicing a tomato.) God! What is the
		earthly use of trying, just for once in your life, to make an
		honest salad, just trying, without help, without any other
		motive than love and an honest desire without the CRUDDING
		ARSING thing falling apart in your bloody hands. God! Anyway, I
		saw a play there, by Shakespeare as it happens. And I started
		thinking. Thinking about Shakespeare ...
		   O damn and BLAST this cucumber ... why does it have to be
		like this ...

Hugh		I walked into a shop the other day. Bloody hurt, I can tell
		you.