“Ah, Paris,” said William Shakespeare, pronouncing it in the French way.

“Shall we head out? See what this city’s got to offer?” said Sice Rowbottom from the Boo Radleys.

“Let’s,” said Shakespeare, rising from his seat.

The pair walked out of their shared hotel room into the corridor. A few paces down the hall, a man at the opposite end caught Shakespeare’s eye.

“That’s not… That’s not… No, surely not,” said the bard.

“I think it is,” said Sice, brightly, as the man in question stepped into the lift. “It’s Chris Rea.”

“No,” said Shakespeare with disbelief. He hunched down a touch and quickened his pace. “Chris Rea. Chris fucking Rea.”

“What’s the matter?” said Sice, jogging for a couple of steps to catch up. He grabbed Shakespeare’s ludicrously puffy sleeve and attempted to gain his attention.

Shakespeare shrugged him off. “Chris fucking Rea,” he said in a venomous voice. He went to start running, but Sice sensed danger and grabbed him with both arms.

“Get the fuck off me,” said Shakespeare, wriggling.

“Stop. What’s the matter with you?” said Sice. The lift pinged and the doors closed. Rea had gone.

Sice released Shakespeare, who whirled round. His face betrayed his rage. “Do you think he’s got bigger balls than me?” he demanded.

Sice was taken aback. “What? I don’t know. What the hell are you asking that for?”

Shakespeare produced a knife from inside his jerkin. Grabbing Sice by the throat and raising the knife to his neck, Shakespeare said: “Who’s got the bigger balls, Sice from the Boo Radleys?”

“What?” said Sice, frightened and confused.

“Whose balls are bigger, Sice from the Boo Radleys? Whose balls are bigger? Mine or Chris Rea’s?” Shakespeare’s grip tightened and the knife pressed into the Britpop singer’s flesh.

“Yours. Yours,” spluttered Sice.

Shakespeare’s grip on Sice’s throat loosened slightly. “Well they aren’t,” said the bard, sadly. “Chris Rea’s balls are bigger. Chris Rea has the bigger balls.”

Shakespeare released Sice and dropped to his knees. The knife fell from his hand and as he stared at the floor, a single tear hit the carpet.

Sice remained frozen. Shakespeare spoke again. “Chris Rea’s balls are bigger than mine,” he said and his silent crying suddenly became audible.

Huge sobs emanated from the deflated playwright. “Chris Rea’s balls are bigger than mine,” he wailed again.

As the miserable noise reached a crescendo, Sice felt he should speak. “I don’t even see how you can know that,” he said.

Shakespeare ignored him. He had reached the point at which the pain remained, but the tears had dried up. He tried to force out just a little more, the effort causing his torso to convulse.

Having failed, he looked up and staring straight into Sice’s eyes, he said: “His scrotum is tighter than mine too, Sice from the Boo Radleys.”

“Here are the keys, monsieur,” said the man. “It is parked in space B4.”

“Thanks very much,” said William Shakespeare, who then turned and addressed his travelling companion, ex-England left-arm seam bowler, Alan Mullally: “Come on. Let’s go.”

“What car is it?” asked Mullally as they descended the steps to the car hire company car park.

“It’s a Peugeot 206,” said William Shakespeare. “I hope it’s got air conditioning.”

The pair emerged into a small underground car park and made their way along the row of cars, looking for space B4. As they approached the car, they suddenly realised that it was surrounded by a pack of velociraptors.

“Oh no,” said Shakespeare. “This doesn’t look good.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mullally. “It’ll be fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. The velociraptors looked very menacing and it seemed they had been tampering with the car. The windows were wound down and there were distinctive claw marks on the doors.

“Excuse me,” said Shakespeare uncertainly. A velociraptor was blocking his path to the car. The late Cretaceous beast sulkily stepped aside, just far enough that Shakespeare and Mullally could squeeze past with some difficulty.

“Just get in the car,” ordered Shakespeare as Mullally went to put his bag in the boot. The English playwright was finding the situation very uncomfortable and just wanted to get away as quickly as possible.

Mullally examined the car’s interior. “This is shoddy,” he said. “Look at the state of the mats in the footwells. These raptors have filthied the place up something rotten.

“Shh,” urged Shakespeare with some agitation. “We can deal with that when we return the car. Let’s just get out of here for now.”

“We really should raise the issue now,” said Mullally. “How else can we prove that the car was in this state when we picked it up.”

“It doesn’t matter,” seethed Shakespeare through his teeth, turning the ignition.

“Well I disagree,” countered Mullally, opening the glove compartment. “I mean look at this.” He pointed at something fleshy. “Is that a gizzard?”

“It doesn’t matter,” repeated Shakespeare. “Let’s just go.”

The velociraptors were still milling around threateningly outside the car, occasionally peering in at the two holidaymakers. As Shakespeare tried to pull out of the space, they blocked his path.

“Oh God,” said Shakespeare. “They’re not moving.”

“They’ll move,” said Mullally, unconcerned.

The raptors stepped aside just far enough that the car could get by. In first gear, Shakespeare edged through the narrow gap, but as he started to turn the wheel, the car stalled.

“Shit,” said Shakespeare. “Shit.”

“Don’t get so riled up,” said Mullally. “Just ignore them. They aren’t going to do anything.”