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Sophie Ellis-Bextor sipped her wine and admired her surroundings. If the food was as good as the ambience, this meal was going to be even better than that lost vocal she’d done for Murder on the Dancefloor.

At that moment, a shabby figure in large sunglasses shambled into view. The man bounced off a table and made towards her. It was Rick Witter from Shed 7.

“Fucking Bextor,” said Witter.

“It’s Ellis-Bextor, actually. How are you, Richard?”

“I’m fucking not bad at all, Bextor. Not bad at all. Had a bit of a run-in with some fucking shitbag this afternoon, but other than that all’s fucking banging.”

“What happened?” asked Ellis-Bextor. “Was it one of those awful beach bums?”

“Aye, yeah,” said Witter. He sniffed forcefully and looked around. “It was this fucking book-weirdo. Started getting all up in my face and shit.”

“What, for just no reason?” spluttered Ellis-Bextor, outraged.

“Yeah, just no fucking reason. Look what he did to me eye.” Witter removed his sunglasses, revealing a giant, tender looking bruise.

“Golly,” said Ellis-Bextor. “That’s terrible.”

“Oh that ain’t bad,” said Witter. “Not compared to the other place that he got me. He came off worse though and no mistake. He won’t be fucking with me again. You should see the state of him.”

“I hope you weren’t too brutal with him, Richard. Where else did he get you?”

Witter looked shifty. “Well, it was, er… He kind of… Did you see how I was walking before?”

“Yes,” said Ellis-Bextor. “You were most unstable.”

“Yeah, he kind of got me…” Witter trailed off, but his hands involuntarily moved to protect his genitals.

“Richard! He didn’t!” Ellis-Bextor’s hands shot to her mouth.

It was at this moment that William Shakespeare reappeared having been to the toilet. He was approaching from behind Witter and from his vantage point, all he could see was a gasping Ellis-Bextor, eyes trained on the Shed 7 frontman’s groin.

“This better not be what I think it is,” said Shakespeare.

Witter whirled round. “You!” he cried, cowering slightly, before the conspicuously unscathed playwright.

“First Chris Rea and now this cunt,” said the bard, addressing Ellis-Bextor.

“It’s not what you think,” cried the whey-faced popstrel.

“Perhaps I should have beaten you with greater ferocity,” said Shakespeare to Witter.

“There was sufficient ferocity,” pleaded Witter.

“I’ll give you sufficient ferocity,” replied Shakespeare.

“No!” screamed Ellis-Bextor.

“Yes,” drawled Shakespeare, unfastening the belt that was pinching in his doublet.

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Posted by Alex On October - 18 - 2011

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