First shown at the Old Red Lion, Islington, on 12/07/10.
Blank, empty room. Chair. Person on chair, an Interviewee. Interviewee looks vacant… as though they’d be agitated or upset about something if only they could remember what it was. Has a Londonish accent, with a tendency to drop the Rs slightly. Speaks very slowly.
INTERVIEWEE: …but then things really started to come to a head when the Thorax in my vegetable crisper began to require salt in industrial quantities. I had to do something, because when the cravings really get going it just stays up all night… laughing. I reckon it finds the spinach ironic.
Fortunately I heard that the local Salt Factory was currently hiring, so I thought I could get a job there and smuggle salt out for the Thorax. I managed to get myself a job interview but I was very nervous because I’m not very good at those. Eventually though I came up with an Interview Plan after reading in a pamphlet that job interview people are more likely to give you a job if they pity you. My plan went off without a hitch… after some light sobbing, a man dressed as Prince Philip ran in, shouted “Penge!” and shot me in the elbows. I think the job man had a… a pity overload or something because he just wouldn’t stop screaming as I lay there, wallowing in my own slippy red success.
I think I must have done a brief snooze at some point because the next thing I knew I was in hospital and it was a month later. I took this to mean that I hadn’t got the job, so I resolved to try another approach. I didn’t think any more that the Pity Plan was a very good one, and my faith in pamphlets had been irreversibly damaged. I thought I should get in more on my own merits and I had a great anecdote ready about some spores. I wore a false mustache because I didn’t want my last attempt to bias my interview panel. That was good because it was the same man as last time. He didn’t seem that interested in my story though. He was detached, like he was haunted by some kind of great trauma. He didn’t even notice when my mustache fell off. I think that worked in my favour, because I got the job.
I began smuggling salt out in my pockets immediately, but after a while that wasn’t enough any more. I had to get some bags out. There was quite a sturdy ventilation systems and I was able to get the bags right out to my car. I think I weakened them though because one day I fell out. Fortunately something soft broke my fall. Unfortunately the soft thing was the Foreman’s young grandson. Things suddenly got a lot worse for me… all screaming tears, blue sirens and white crystal recriminations. I grabbed my salty sacks and ran. I don’t remember the next bit very well but somehow I managed to get into a small room. It was only after I sat down and looked around me that I realised that the room didn’t have any windows… or doors.
I’m still here now actually…
Muffled laughter. Lights out.