Mr. Wiggin:
...I see. Well, of course, this is just the sort of blinkered philistine pig-ignorance I've come to expect from you non-creative garbage. You sit there on your loathsome spotty behinds squeezing blackheads, not caring a tinker's cuss for the struggling artist. You excrement, you whining hypocritical toadies with your colour TV sets and your Tony Jacklin golf clubs and your bleeding masonic secret handshakes. You wouldn't let me join, would you, you blackballing bastards. Well I wouldn't become a Freemason now if you went down on your lousy stinking knees and begged me.
Client 2:
We're sorry you feel that way, but we did want a block of flats, nice though the abattoir is.
Mr. Wiggin:
Oh sod the abattoir, that's not important.
(He dashes forward and kneels in front of them)
But if any of you could put in a word for me I'd love to be a mason. Masonry opens doors. I'd be very quiet, I was a bit on edge just now but if I were a mason I'd sit at the back and not get in anyone's way.
Client 1:
(politely) Thank you.
Mr. Wiggin:
...I've got a second-hand apron.
Client 2:
Thank you.
(Mr. Wiggin hurries to the door but stops...)
Mr. Wiggin:
I nearly got in at Hendon.
Client 1:
Thank you.
(Mr. Wiggin exits. Mr Tid rises.)