ACCOZZAGLIA

MARTIN: Will you bloody hurry up with that already? We’re 45 minutes late as it is, and it’s still 30 minutes to Baker Street!
BEN: Whoa, Mart. It’s ok. We’ll get there.
MARK: Ben, if I keep up this idling, we’ll suffocate on carbon monoxide before Tracey gets to her blotting.
BEN: Really. For someone I’ve known this long, I know it’s never a good idea to rush you, isn’t it, dear?
TRACEY: Hold up. I can’t finish if you want me to talk, eh?
MARTIN: For the love of Thatcher’s grave, this is bloody absurd. My own mother could put on her war paint — war surplus paint! — in 20 minutes, tops!
BEN: Mart, would you be up for a blunt in the meantime?
MARTIN: No Ben, I would not be up for a blunt in the meantime!
MARK: Just what I need: a bobby dragging me out of the coach here and busting me for your leisure!
TRACEY: Hold onto your trou, will you all? I’ll be done in a moment, and then you can have your bloody free happy hour of open bar at the Wayside!
BEN [whispering to Tracey]: Maybe we should have gone with Ferry and his bunch.
TRACEY [whispering to Ben]: He groped me after trying to serenade with his “Slave to Love”. How dare!
BEN: Mark, she’ll be right as rain in 15.
MARTIN: FIFTEEN?! DEAR GOD, FOR ALL THAT IS HOL . . .
TRACEY: SECONDS! Loosen your knickers, for fuck’s sake!
MARK [muttering quietly]: I swear, I swear, I swear I am never agreeing to do this ever again.