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Balls

A sketch from
A Bit of Fry & Laurie



Stephen enters a bookshop. Hugh is the assistant. Stephen stares at Hugh for a long time.

Hugh: Help you?

Stephen:
(Holding up a book)
Did you write this?

Hugh:
(Examining book)
Jane Eyre. No, that was Charlotte Bronte as a matter of fact.

Stephen: Right. Well I'd like to see her then please.

Hugh: I'm afraid she's no longer with us.

Stephen: Oh? Indeed? I can hardly say I'm surprised. Where can I get in touch with her?

Hugh: No, no. I mean "no longer with us" in the sense of "dead".

Stephen: Dead?

Hugh: Quite dead.

Stephen: When did she die exactly?

Hugh: Um ... 1855 I believe I'm right in saying.

Stephen: Let me see, 1855, that's five minutes to seven, isn't it?

Hugh: I'm sorry. I mean "1855" in the sense of the year "1855". Was there some problem?

Stephen: Well you'll have to do I suppose, since you sold me the book. I want my money back.

Hugh: Do you mind me asking why?

Stephen: I'll tell you why. Because this book is balls, that's why. It is complete balls.

Hugh: I'm afraid I really can't agree with you there.

Stephen: Oh can't you? Well listen to this then ...
(riffles through book and selects a passage)
"I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk." I mean???? It's just balls.

Hugh: Balls in what sense?

Stephen: Balls in the sense of balls. I mean "window-seat"? What window-seat? This is on the first page. Window seat. Where is this window seat, hm? What's it doing? And what Turk? I've never seen a Turk mount a window-seat. Simply balls. Nothing but balls.

Hugh: Well I think you're supposed to imagine it.

Stephen: Ho? All right, then, all right then: what about this ... um ... chapter thirty-eight ... "Reader, I married him." Now if that isn't balls, kindly fax me an explanation of what is. "Reader"? What reader? Or are you supposed to imagine this reader as well?

Hugh: No, that's you. It's addressed to you, the reader of the book.

Stephen: OH BALLS. How could she know me? You just told me the stupid tart died at five to seven.

Hugh: Well not you specifically. I mean whoever is reading it at the time. Jane Eyre is telling you that she married Mr Rochester.

Stephen: Jane Eyre is a made-up character! Kyor! She didn't exist.

Hugh: No but she writes the story. She is the "I" of the story.

Stephen: MAKE YOUR FRIGGING MIND UP. You just told me Charlotte Bronte wrote the story.

Hugh: She did ... but ...

Stephen: Well you're clearly as confused as I am. It's just balls and you know it. Complete balls. I want my money back. I want to read a book that doesn't go on about window-seats you've never even heard of and then has some mad bitch who's supposed to be dead calling you "reader" all the time.

Hugh: What about this ... proving very popular.

Hugh hands Stephen a book.

Stephen: What's this?

Hugh: The Invalid by Myra Penworthy Fennerweave.

Stephen: Any good?

Hugh: Excellent.

Stephen starts to read.

Stephen: "Talbot entered the room in a feverish haste, bearing his precious cargo before him like a votive offering. Elizabeth lay back on her bed, her face pale and pinched. "Richard is that you?" she moaned plaintively." Oh this is just complete BALLS! Balls, balls, balls.

Hugh: It's not actually. It's true. It actually happened.

Stephen: Oh double balls and bollocks.

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