The English Abroad.
A play in one act.
St Tropez: a mediaeval port that has lost none of its charm; its narrow streets wind lazily beneath the sun as azure waves lap softly against the ancient shore.
Gigi is strolling along the seafront when a lion-like roar (in a broad northern English accent) rips through the air. A large, purple-faced man is gesticulating menacingly in the middle of the street:
Angry tourist: Police! Get me the police! Anyone 'ere know where the police station is? Shut up you. I want the police NOW!
Gigi is strolling along the seafront when a lion-like roar (in a broad northern English accent) rips through the air. A large, purple-faced man is gesticulating menacingly in the middle of the street:
Angry tourist: Police! Get me the police! Anyone 'ere know where the police station is? Shut up you. I want the police NOW!
Gigi: Ahem - can I help perhaps?
Angry Tourist: Yeah, I ordered mools mariner, right? And when it come it were too salty an' there were no wine, no cream, nothing so I said…
AT’s Wife: We've only bin 'ere two days.
AT: So I said I’m not 'aving this rubbish take it away. I’ll 'ave what 'e's 'aving cos the bloke next to me were eating a pizza.
AT’s wife: Disgusting it is.
A French waiter, who has been standing calmly by and is now on the phone to the police, smiles tightly at Gigi.
Waiter: Ils sont partis sans payer.
AT: An' the waitress brought the pizza, right, and she slapped it on table an' said "There is no wine with this meal."
Waiter: Et il l’a traitée de pute.
AT’s wife: This is disgusting, this is. We've only bin 'ere two days.
Gigi: Er – the waiter said you left without paying and you insulted the waitress…
AT: No I never, stupid cow. POLICE! Where's the police? I want the police.
Waiter: No problem, monsieur– you are going to spend ze whole day wiz ze police. Zey are on their way.
AT: I want the British Embassy! Someone phone the British Embassy!
AT’s wife: My 'usband's not well. 'E's already 'ad one heart attack. It's disgusting, it is. We've only bin 'ere two days.
The Angry Tourist clutches his chest and starts moaning loudly.
AT: Oooh! Arrgghh! Get an ambulance, quick! Oooh…
Waiter: No problem, monsieur – what is ze number for ze eenglish ambulance?
AT: Nine – nine - nine.
Gigi: Well, er – I’d better be off. Um – I’m sure the police will sort it all out.
(To the waiter) Je suis désolée. Nous ne sommes pas tous comme ça. Bon courage…
FIN
