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Another diner on Route 66

Posted by Alex On July - 9 - 2012

“And that’s why whenever we see American spelling in Britain, we should take hostages and make some sort of stand,” finished William Shakespeare, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin.

“Mmm,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor absent-mindedly.

“What?” snapped Shakespeare. “Am I boring you?” He glared at Ellis-Bextor who didn’t return his look for a moment, choosing instead to gaze at something back and left of the bard.

“Well, it’s not massively interesting,” she said, bluntly. “I mean, I’m really not into all that English stuff. That’s your thing.”

Shakespeare straightened his jerkin. “Yes, well, your 2010 single ‘Off and On’ rather highlighted that fact. Tell me again why you used an ampersand.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ellis-Bextor dismissively. “Everyone knows what it means. What does it matter?”

Shakespeare closed his eyes and snorted theatrically. When he looked back at her, she was again looking over his shoulder. “What is it?” he muttered in irritation, craning his neck to look round.

“It’s Shovell from M-People,” said Ellis-Bextor. “We used to have a friend in common. Maybe I should go over and speak to him.”

“Why are you looking at him like that?” The bard’s voice was nervous and uncertain.

“Oh, you know. Just because it’s someone I know.”

“You never pay attention to me any more,” said Shakespeare. “You never properly pay me attention. You’re there in body, but your mind’s elsewhere. You’ve cut off all affection and all I get is this shell. I don’t want a shell.”

Ellis-Bextor was suddenly focused. “You like it when I’m lifeless and unemotional.”

“Not now,” wailed England’s greatest playwright. “Not here. Not like this.”

“You don’t know what you want,” said Ellis-Bextor as Shovell approached the table.

“Soph?” said Shovell.

William Shakespeare unbuckled his shoe and removed it. Looking Shovell in the eye, he brought it down with force onto the table, smashing a glass.

“Shit!” said Shovell from M-People.

“That’s how you smash a glass with a buckled shoe, you cunt,” said Shakespeare.

A Route 66 motel room

Posted by Alex On June - 20 - 2012

“This was fucking brilliant,” said William Shakespeare. “We had everything we could ever need. We had a table, two chairs, a fridge, a telly. It was absolutely fucking brilliant.”

“It was just a motel room,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

“Don’t ruin it,” said Shakespeare. “This was special.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to him. Ellis-Bextor rolled her eyes and came and sat next to him.

“Seriously,” he said. “It meant a lot to me. Sometimes I forget what you mean to me.”

“Oh?” said Ellis-Bextor, somewhat accusingly.

“No, not forget,” said Shakespeare. “Forget’s the wrong word. It’s more like some of my emotions slip into the background.”

He put his arm around Ellis-Bextor’s shoulders and continued. “They’ve not gone anywhere; they’ve just receded. They’re ready to be called upon at a moment’s notice and I guess that’s the point I’m trying to make. Sometimes it’s important to find time to bring those emotions to the fore and maybe that’s what happened here.”

“Oh William,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor.

“I’ll always remember this,” said Shakespeare. “And I hope you will too.”

Ellis-Bextor grabbed Shakespeare’s hand and gently squeezed it. Shakespeare looked in her moistening eyes and held her gaze. “If I take off my codpiece, will you reach through the opening in my hose?” he asked.

Staying at a motel on Route 66

Posted by Alex On June - 13 - 2012

“Look, this one’s got vacancies,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor, turning off the road and into a giant and largely empty car park.

“A motel,” spat William Shakespeare haughtily.

“There’s nothing wrong with motels,” said Ellis-Bextor, aiming for a wide parking space near the office.

“A motor hotel,” said Shakespeare. “Nothing that has a name that is a blend of two other words is ever worthwhile.”

“You’re telling me that’s your problem with motels?” said Ellis-Bextor. “That’s your only reason for hating them?”

“Sporks,” exclaimed Shakespeare. “They’re so crass.”

“You’re snobbish about the weirdest things.”

Ellis-Bextor switched off the engine and got out. Shakespeare remained seated. “I’ll go and get us a room then,” she said. Shakespeare didn’t answer; didn’t even look at her.

A few minutes later, Ellis-Bextor emerged from the office. As she approached the car, Shakespeare wound down the window and said: “Skyjack.”

“What?” said Ellis-Bextor, making her way round to the driver’s side.

“Telethon,” said Shakespeare.

They drove towards the main motel building in silence. As they parked outside room six, Shakespeare spoke again. “I can’t believe we’re staying in a scuzzy fucking motel room.”

Exiting the car, Ellis-Bextor asked: “Isn’t ‘scuzzy’ a blend?”

“No,” said the bard.

“It is,” she said. “It’s ‘scummy’ and ‘lousy’.”

“That’s bullshit,” said Shakespeare, uncertainly. “That’d be ‘scousy’ surely?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s scuzzy,” said Ellis-Bextor.

The two of them approached the door to the motel room. Ellis-Bextor unlocked the door and swung it open.

“Ah, it’s really nice,” said Shakespeare with genuine appreciation.

Eating in a diner on Route 66

Posted by Alex On May - 9 - 2012

Shakespeare gripped the laminated menu with both hands. “They put cheese on fucking everything,” he said.

“It’s not on everything,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“No, it’s not on the mozzarella sticks,” said Shakespeare. “Fuck me, no wonder they’re all so fucking obese. Look at that fat bastard over there.” He gestured at a giant man in a polo shirt and baseball cap, sitting on his own. “He must have about 60 per cent body fat. That’s more than a pork scratching.”

“Just choose something to eat,” said Sophie Ellis-Bextor. “I’m going to have a garden salad.”

“You can get that with cheese on,” said Shakespeare.

“No you can’t,” said Ellis-Bextor.

Shakespeare slammed the menu down on the table. “You fucking can. Wait until we order. I bet we can get cheese on it.”

“Oh, they’ll do it if we ask,” said Ellis-Bextor. “That’s just being accommodating. They’re not encouraging people to have cheese on a garden salad though.”

Shakespeare stared into the middle distance. “It’s always that same cheese as well. What is it? It’s so unnervingly neutral. Why is something so nondescript so unbelievably popular.”

“Just choose something to eat,” snapped Ellis-Bextor tetchily.

“Maybe I’ll have a cheese steak sandwich,” mumbled Shakespeare in a mongy voice. “Why do they say ‘cheese steak’ like that’s a thing; like it’s a steak made entirely out of cheese? Maybe it is.”

“Will you please just choose something to eat,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“Or maybe I’ll have a ‘patty melt’. Do you know what the ‘melt’ part of that is?”

“That’s enough,” said Ellis-Bextor, sounding like a prissy teacher. “Just what is the matter with you? What is this sudden antipathy towards cheese? You love cheese.”

Shakespeare unexpectedly burst into tears. “I do love cheese,” he blubbed, a snot bubble forming from his nostril and then bursting. “I’m homesick. I miss home cheese.”

Ellis-Bextor put her head in her hands.

“I want home cheese,” whined Shakespeare.

They sat in silence for a minute or so, Shakespeare drying his eyes and wiping his nose.

A waitress approached. “Hey, what can I get you guys?”

“Do you have any home cheese?” said William Shakespeare in a childish monotone.

“What?” said the girl.

“Home cheese,” repeated Shakespeare mournfully.


“Home cheese,” he said again, a little more insistently.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You want something with cheese?”

Shakespeare’s head tipped forward. He stared down at his lap. “Home cheese,” he said again.

“He means brie,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“What’s brie?” said the waitress.

Shakespeare started crying again.

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