Monologue

What a fucking day! What a damn awful shit day. What is it? What the fuck is it? Blue's on four but they've got blue to two?

Yeah, yeah, 'ang on - cut that one out - there. Now it's blue on two. That's right, blue on two. Then orange to - fuck - it's on six. Ok, pull it out - there. Now, terminate it into - oh fuck - another blue one? Can't be. Shit - 'ere's another one. No, 'ang on - this fucker's blue and white, but - oh hey, it's just for your own confusion, here's another fucker. 'Oo the fuck 'as fucked about with this?

I'll ask 'em - I'll just fuckin' ask 'em. I'll say 'What silly twat 'as fucked about wiv this phone point? 'Oo's fuckin' put anuvver point in an' fucked all the connections up?

Shit. I hate people.

'Excuse me, Mrs Jackson? Forgive my forwardness but I wonder - has anyone altered the connections in the back of here at all? No one has tried a little do-it-yourself in this area? No? Gosh no! No, I'm not suggesting anything - I'm just asking a silly question. Do you know that, even as the image crossed my mind I dismissed it? I do apologise - my mouth had cantered off with me before I had the chance to recant my thoughts. Yes, I agree. I'm quite sure you're right. It must have been installed this way when the house was built. Dear, dear - they don't build houses the way they used to do they? Pardon? Oh no, no - everything's fine - I estimate that the telephone will be re-established very shortly.

Lying fucking cow. Bet it was 'er 'usband. Always get these jobs on a Monday. 'Ubby's at 'ome on the weekend so they piss off down to B&Q on Friday night - buy loads of wire an' a phone - then 'e tries to put in a new line on Saturday - an' then, on Sunday, as if by magic, no phone! Fuckin' twats. Not one of them ever coughs to bein' guilty.

All the same - the bastards

I don't fuckin' care whether they get their shitty phone on again or not

No, I don't.

Well, no and yes I suppose. No 'coz the job's crap and yes 'coz - 'coz I'll be in this stinky, shit-hole of a house until I get it right. And as much as I'd like to, I can hardly go up to the owner and say 'I've done with your fucking phone missus and you're right - it's fucked. Plus your kids are shits, your house stinks of cats piss and I've poured your shitty excuse for a cup of tea into the back of the telly. So your 'ubby's fucked for porn on the satellite - and why don't you get a job? You lazy, fat slag.

That'll be fifty quid please.

Not likely, is it?

I hate this fucking job - I hate it six bastard days a week. On a rolling shift including Sundays.

Working on Sundays?

I must be fucking mad. See me? I'm the wanker up the pole wiv the wind 'owlin' round me knackers. Christ! I'm just asking for some base-ball cap wearing kid, (in his boom-boom shitty cheapo car mark you) to swipe me ladder out from under me. Either that or I'm crouched down behind some flea-bitten sofa, wiv' some farting arsehole sat on it, jabbering on about Eastenders or some other moron shit and me? I'm smiling and trying to make polite conversation.

And guess what? All the while 'er spoilt bloody cat's takin' too much interest in me toolbox.

Is that your cat, Mrs Jackson? Oh, yes - he's lovely. My, what a fluffy coat he's got, although - could you just move him? I suspect he's going to do something - ah, is he? A pedigree? Yes, now you mention it, I can see that he's a bright little thing - but, as I said, I think he's trying to do a - oh yes, Tiddles? That's his name? Tiddles? Really? Gosh, how original - look, he's taking a dump in my… Yes, he's a little marvel, isn’t he? How old did you say he was?

Twelve? I'll give him fuckin' twelve, the little bastard. Fuckin' Tiddles, the smirking fucking bastard. I'll 'ave 'im.

I fucking hate cats. Wanna know why? Well' just watch 'em, the fuckers. And their stupid bloody owners too. They reckon their cats love 'em, right? The stupid twats. I see 'em - rushin' down to Tesco's to buy fuckin' great big tins of 'Tasty Little Bits of Bunny Rabbit In A Can' or 'Gorgeous Gleanings of Gazelle's Gizzards' while Mr Tesco smiles an' rubs 'is 'ands an' watches 'is bank balance climb ever higher. And these stupid shits just lap it up.

And then, when they've got home and scooped all this slop into a bowl (and clock how much it costs 'em) what does the cat do? What does Dear Little Mr Tiddles actually fucking do? Well, he starts by rubbing his evil little body round their legs. And they're going 'Ooh he loves me' while all the time, the little shitter's just scent-marking his territiory. Then what? I'll tell you fucking what. Dear Mr Fluffy, Mr Paw-Face or whatever the fuck, fills his evil little face with as much 'Best Juicy Chunks Of Tasty Birdie' as 'e can and then, after letting off some evil arse-blast, fucks off out into the garden an' murders some poor little sparrer! Or more to the point, beats the poor little bleeder half to death then just fuckin' looks at it. Then looks at it's stupid bastard owner. And then then the fucker fucks off!

Fuckin' cats.

Orange to three,

I hate people -

white to five,

and I hate cats.

green to six.

- and I hate this job.

Well, Mrs Jackson - goodness only knows how your phone stopped working, but it's alright now. Yes, on behalf of Telecom-telecom, I'd like to say that we're very sorry. It must have been a great inconvenience to you. Put in a claim - er, what for, exactly? No, of course - none of my business. Yes, I'm sure you could.

Would you just sign here? Thank you.

Goodbye.

If I'm quick enough back into the van - wonder if I can run 'er fuckin' cat over?