“And another thing,” screamed William Shakespeare, his face reddening. “Where the fuck was my chocolate?”

“I’m sorry, what chocolate?” said the man behind the desk.

“The fucking pillow chocolate,” said Shakespeare. “The fucking chocolate you put on the fucking pillow. Don’t you do that in Australia?”

“I’m sorry sir, that’s not something we do here.”

“Why the fuck not? Everyone likes a fucking chocolate. Is it too much to ask? Is it too much to fucking ask?”

Sophie Ellis-Bextor put a hand on his arm. “Just calm down a bit. Let’s keep things in perspective.”

The bard blanked her and continued abusing the man. “I suppose I should be glad you didn’t smear my bed in Vegemite, you depraved animals,” he cried.

“Just stop it,” said Ellis-Bextor firmly. “You’re starting to embarrass yourself.”

This time, Shakespeare reacted. “Oh I am, am I? How about now?” he said, pulling his penis out and hanging it over the top of his breeches. “Am I embarrassing myself now?”

“Well obviously,” said Ellis-Bextor with disgust.

“That’s funny,” said the playwright, bouncing his member up and down slightly. “Because I don’t feel embarrassed. I don’t feel any embarrassment whatsoever. Are you sure it isn’t you who’s feeling embarrassed?”

“Look at you,” spat the angular-jawed vocalist. “You’re a grown man waving his thingy around in a five-star hotel. Of course I’m embarrassed.”

Disgust registered in the form of Shakespeare’s curled lip before radiating across the rest of his face. “Oh you’re embarrassed, are you? I bet you wouldn’t be embarrassed if it were Chris Rea who were doing this. I bet you wouldn’t be embarrassed if Chris Rea’s big, tight balls were about to be revealed.”

“Chris would never get his balls out in a hotel lobby,” cried Ellis-Bextor at the top of her voice, whirling round as she did so.

Shakespeare watched her stumble away for a second and then growled under his breath: “I love it when you show some passion.”

When she was out of sight, Shakespeare calmly replaced his hairy knob inside his breeches and turned to face the man behind the desk. He was about to say something when his brow suddenly creased. He paused a moment.

“Sir?” said the man.

“Did she say ‘Chris Rea’ then or just ‘Chris’?”

 

“This place better be good,” said William Shakespeare.

“Oh, I think it will be,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor. “It’s quite breathtaking.”

“You know how I am with hotels though,” said Shakespeare. “If it’s not right, it puts me on edge. You’re right though, it does seem good and I believe the food’s exquisite.”

“Just look at it,” said Ellis-Bextor. “Breathtaking. Just breathtaking.”

Shakespeare visibly relaxed. “Yes, you’re right. I can feel myself easing into the place. It should be great.”

At that moment, a familiar-looking man walked from the lift to the front desk.

“Hey,” said Ellis-Bextor, tapping Shakespeare on the arm. “Is that Chris Rea?”

“So what if it is?” said Shakespeare. “What’s so great about Chris Rea?”

“Just, you know, he’s famous. That’s all.”

“Famous for what? Famous for music or is it something else?”

“Well, music,” said Ellis-Bextor looking confused.

“Oh, so it’s nothing else then?

“No.”

“Chris Rea’s not famous for anything else?”

“No.” Ellis-Bextor started to feel a bit unsettled.

“You don’t think he’s got big testicles then?” asked Shakespeare.

“What?” said Ellis-Bextor, utterly confused.

“You heard,” said Shakespeare aggressively.

“I don’t know. I’ve no idea what size Chris Rea’s testicles are.”

“No, but I bet you’ve been wondering. I know you. You’ve been thinking about Chris Rea’s testicles all morning.”

“No, I haven’t. Why would I have been doing that?”

“You want to see his testicles. You think his testicles are bigger than mine.”

“I don’t really care what size Chris Rea’s testicles are,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“You think his testicles are bigger than mine and you think his scrotum is tighter. What’s the matter? Do you not think I offer big balls and a tight scrotum?”

Tears started to form in Ellis-Bextor’s eyes at the severity of the bard’s onslaught.

“Do my balls sag too much?” screamed Shakespeare. “Do my small balls hang too low? Just say it. Just fucking say it. Just say that you think Chris Rea’s balls are bigger than mine and that they don’t hang as low. I know you fucking want to. I know you’ve spent the entire morning thinking about Chris Rea’s balls.”

Ellis-Bextor dropped to her knees; huge, wracking sobs causing her shoulders to heave.

“Fuck you, Rea!” shouted Shakespeare across the lobby.