Scene: A fish sits in a bleak grey room. It draws heavily on a cigarette, and exhales forcefully. Across from it, three stern-faced individuals regard it thoughtfully. The fish stares back, and crosses its fins with exaggerated effort. One of the triumvirate shuffles awkwardly in his uncomfortable plastic seat and, sweating profusely, loosens his collar.

Sk: Yes Mr Trout, your tackle is most impressive. Now when did you last see–

TM: A mullet? That would be 1990, Chris Waddle. At least that was until you introduced me to Dudley here from Sheffield.

Pin: Shut up Trout, and tell us exactly what is this emunctory you’ve ... snotted?

TM: More to the point, Falstaff, what is that smell?

Sk: Ah yes, that’ll be Pin’s under-flipper.

GB: (schooling) His axilla.

TM: Whatever, but surely some deodorant wouldn’t go amiss?

GB: (dramatically) Agreed. It really can be most distressing.

Sk: I’m acclimatized. Torquay is not so far removed from Billingsgate.

TM: Ooh yes, I’m back there now - it’s like a trawler-woman's trolleys. Mmmm ...

Pin: Now look–

TM: Look? This has nothing to do with visual acuity - I’ve got my eyes closed - yours is a Grade One olfactory offence. Someone should call the funk fuzz–

Sk: Or the rank rozzers!

Pin: Oh very funny.

GB: (giggling) Priceless.

Pin: Stop dammit! We will do the interrogation. You, fish-boy, are merely the interrogee. Savvy?

TM: Capisco, comprends, verstehe, savvy. You choose, Kommandant. You are, it seems, the boss.

Sk: Erm, actually ...

GB: (irresistibly) Trout, Pin and Skank just want to know what it is you’re submitting.

TM: I’m thinking this transcript will suffice. No more no less.

Pin: Bullsh–

Sk: It’s brilliant. Certainly no more bizarre–

GB: (titillated) Than anything else we’ve seen. Ooh Trout, I could just poach you in butter–

Sk: With a sprig of wild nettle–

GB: (gluttonously) And then gobble you down for supper.

TM: Coo! Any chance of a bombay shuffle? Rumour, nay, legend, has it you’re more than adequately equipped.

Sk: Woah that’s a bit unnecessary.

GB: (stiffly) Obviously, he meant me, Baden-Powell.

Pin: Please, you irksome salmonid, can you keep your mind out of the gutter?

Sk: Yes, and can you stop giving GB parenthetical inflections of speech? It really is most unprofessional.

TM: It’s emotional support. A crutch if you will. Or a gusset.

GB: (seething) Trout knows damn well that a bargepole would be far from insufficient.

TM: Well I’m not that fussy. I’d shag a hatstand if it contained a double letter.

GB: (stunned) Well.

(slams cell door)

Sk: Are you suggesting that this interrogation is fallacious?

TM: Ooh-err.

Pin: FAL-lacious, dick-weed. In that we’re talking oddly just to satisfy the specification of some moronic assignment?

TM: Finally ... with gas we cook.

Pin: I won’t let it happen. I can end a sentence with any word I choose.

Sk: As I will.

TM: We'll see.

Sk: Oh this is bollocks. I’m going back to the woods...

(Slams cell ...

TM: And while you’re there, find a dictionary and look up “biennial”. “Shoehorned”, cobblers.

...door)

Pin: I suppose now you’re happy?

TM: Not really. I expect you’d prefer it that I was sorry. Lest we forget, it was you that gave me freedom.

Pin: You realise that you’ll be eliminated after this, if we bother to mark it at all.

TM: Yeah right, “We’re all winners”.

Pin: At least the others made an effort. You’re just taking the pee...