Ave yow bin usin me arse brush agen, Derek?
Arrrrh bab, me dentures needed a clean.
Scene: The Gomes household. We can see immediately that these are refined, respectable people. The sections of a Sunday broadsheet are folded at one end of the kitchen table, next to a vase of freshly cut flowers. The children are happily drawing at the other end of the table; Joćo and wife are concluding a tender embrace.
Mrs Gomes: I'm so happy for you Joćo. For us. That club ... I didn't like to say anything at the time ...
(Her voice trails off, delicately. We understand that she was sure in her feelings, but sought to spare her husband).
Joćo: (Burdened by memories) I know, I ... felt the same way. It was a weird, gruesome place.
Mrs Gomes: (Brightly) It will all be better now. You never have to go back.
Joćo: (Casting a weight from his shoulders) No. No, that's right. (Warming to the theme, with a growing enthusiasm and momentum) I've heard the Aston Villa supporter base are much more our sort of people, darling. I wonder what they're saying about me.
(Joćo sits at the counter, opens a laptop and navigates to H&V)
Look - they have a long thread about me, my dear.
Mrs Gomes: (She wanders over) How lovely. What are they saying?
Joćo: (Emotions chase each other across his face. Excitement. Curiosity. Puzzlement. Shock. Finally, disgust) Good grief.
(Scene. Curtain falls)
