Matchmakers

Office. Brusque young WOMAN at desk. She slaps open a file of documents.

WOMAN:       Next!

            (Enter a MAN, diffidently)

MAN:              Good morning.

WOMAN:       And you are?

MAN:              Er, Davies, Michael Davies –

WOMAN:       (reading from file) ‘Box 1029, sincere, intelligent business executive, 6 feet, tolerant, good sense of humour’?

MAN:             Oh yes, that’s me.

WOMAN:       Let’s have you against the wall then.

MAN: I’m sorry?

WOMAN:       Come on, come on, I’m not immortal you know. (she shoves him up against a wall) Exactly how tolerant are you?

MAN:              Well, I – (she knees him in the groin and he doubles up) What the – ?

WOMAN:       Hmm. Not very.

(she crosses something out in his file and takes out a tape measure to check his now diminished height)

Five foot three and a half inches. Just as well you came in isn’t it, otherwise some poor cow from Clapham might have got herself lumbered with some walking Toby jug.

MAN: Look, what’s all this about?

WOMAN:       Just normal procedure, Box 1029. Before running your ad we must be perfectly satisfied you are all you claim. For example, you say here you’re intelligent.

MAN: Well, one doesn’t like to boast –

WOMAN:       What’s a pagoda?

MAN: Huh?

WOMAN:       Watch my lips. Pa-go-da.

MAN: Oh, well, it’s a sort of Venetian boat isn’t it?

WOMAN:       I’m asking the questions, Box 1029. If a man walks into a bar and gets a black eye, what sort of bar is it?

MAN:             A colour bar, ha ha ha?

WOMAN:       An iron bar, Box 1029. Well, you’ve failed the intelligence test. You’ve got a choice of replacements: idiot, pratt, berk, simpleton or graduate.

MAN:             Well, I did go to Cambridge –

WOMAN:       I’ll put moron. Now then, sincerity. Do you masturbate?

MAN:              No!

WOMAN:       I thought so. We’ll change that to ‘lying bastard’.

MAN:              Would you believe me if I told you you’re the most repellent young plebeian it’s ever been my misfortune to come across?

WOMAN:       No, I went to Cambridge too. Now then, business executive. What kind of business?

MAN:              I’m an account manager in an advertising agency.

WOMAN:       Lowest of the low, Box 1029. I’ll put ‘scumbag’. Right, that just leaves sense of humour.

MAN: (eagerly) Right, bloke goes into a –

            (she smashes a custard pie into his face)

WOMAN:       You’re not laughing, Box 1029.

MAN:              Ha ha ha.

WOMAN:       Pathetic. (she crosses it out)

MAN: That doesn’t leave me with very much does it?

WOMAN:       Let’s see. (reads from file) ‘Moronic, lying bastard, dwarfish, scumbag status, seeks uninhibited stripper or similar for sex, bondage and concert-going.’

MAN:             I say, you’re not leaving that last bit in are you?

WOMAN:       Have you got anything against Beethoven, Box 1029?

MAN:              No, I meant that bit about sex.

WOMAN:       Why not, it’s the only part that matters isn’t it?

MAN:              Well, yes, but –

WOMAN:       Then meet me in the Plume and Feathers at seven-thirty. I don’t like Beethoven either. Next!