The Pakalolo Tavern is empty with the exception of a defrocked vicar, a hungover Greengrass and his formerly well-hung hound. The hound is wearing a bewildered expression and an oversize bandage around what was, until recently, its oversized hindquarters. Prior to imbibing yet another pint of Fernet Branca, Greengrass leans over to have a word in the vicar's ear:
- A word in your ear, vicar. Ingrid sez to me, she sez that this place were teemin' wi' foreigners all bloody neet!
- My good fellow, your language, please!
- Teemin' wi' 'em, it were - like flies round cow... ...muck. It were that froggy bloke fetched 'em in - 'im wi' t' Tarzan gear on 'im. They come from all over t'show, she sez -Argentina, Froggyland, Scotland... ... there were even one reet bonny lass wi' a funny name - Marbella or summat. T'pubs never shut where they come from, tha knows - life is one eternal lock-in. Done for my dog, they did, wi' their performance-enhancing pills. 'e's never performed better in his life, an' 'e'll never perform again. Ah were thinkin' o' matin' 'im wi' Ingrid's chihuahua - quiet, Nebuchadnezzar, lad! - but...
- He will be in my prayers, of that you may be assured. Should we get down to business? I've written this - eh - "rap" poem that I'd like us to recite at next Sunday's service. The verger's son has promised to provide us with some "beats", as he calls them, and I think it will be just the thing to attract more young people to our church. Here is your copy!
The vicar hands Greengrass a sheet of paper, stands up, and starts reciting - only to break off after a few lines.
- Greengrass, you're supposed to take part! I'd really appreciate it if you would stand up, move around, point at the flock now and then, and join in at the end of every line - defrocked, dead shocked, half-cocked, head-knocked, etcetera. Make an effort, man!
At this moment, a scantily-clad man with a French appearance enters and shambles to the bar. Greengrass leans over to whisper a word in the vicar's ear.
- A word in your ear, vicar. That's 'im!
Offside goes straight behind the bar and starts pulling himself a pint of the black stuff.
-Hi Greengrass, how's it going? Ingrid still off, is she? Oh, hello, vicar.
Greengrass looks askance at the intruder.
- My lad Ingrid sez 'e'll be back as soon as she gets out o' t'clinic.
Offside saunters o ver to the juke-box and chooses 'Je te pogue, moi non plus', sung by Jane McGowan. The vicar eyes Offside's attire. The cream rises. Offside fixes the vicar with an icy stare.
- Tell me, vicar, you wouldn't be from the London Missionary Society by any chance?
- Well, if you were, I might want to have a word with you about your fellow priests' actions in the South Pacific a couple of centuries ago. Like, why would you tell people who live in a hot climate that they have to cover themselves for the sake of decency, or why tell them they should stop rolling around in the grass all day and get to work, you know, stuff like that...
A panicked expression creeps across the vicar's face. Pint in hand, Offside walks across and finds himself a stool. He sits next to the vicar and slaps him on the back.
- Just kidding, vicar, just kidding. I know you'd nothing to do with it yourself. Hey Greengrass, I heard a good one today, listen to this. In a game of football, how can a player score two goals without setting foot on the pitch?
Greengrass and the vicar exchange a look of disbelief.
- It's impossible, says Greengrass
- Maybe, divine intervention...
- No, no, none of that crap. Just a normal football game, and well, ok, a slightly unusual set of circumstances...
Offside stops dead. He's suddenly spotted the dog and now stares at the beast, wide-eyed.
- Jaysus, Greengrass, is that a hyena?
Greengrass fixes Offside with any icy stare (n.b. not the same one that Offside used earlier).
- No, it's not. And that's a good thing fer thee, cos (eyes Offside's loincloth) them 'yenas eats dead meat.
A sound is heard from outside.