MEAN MR MUSTARD TELLS SLEAZY OLD WORM ABOUT THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INCONTINENCE

Mustard and Worm at the bar. Mustard is standing bent-forward impersonating someone who is leaking from various body orifices. Worm is sitting on a barstool and collapsing with laughter.

WORM (still laughing): Knock it off, Mustard, knock it off! I’m… (gasps and looks at his trousers) Oh no, ye bleeding yamp, I’m…! Ye done it again, man! (slides down from his barstool and hobbles off to the loo, giggling) Gotta take a leak.

MUSTARD (to himself): Smelly, half-soaked old bugger.

He takes a sip of his “San Miguel” and looks around. His neighbour to the left smiles at him.

NEIGHBOUR: You heff a talent for se impersonation.

MUSTARD: And you’re Mister Fritz in person, am I right or am I right?

NEIGHBOUR: (lifts his short brimmed Fedora) Se name is Frank.

MUSTARD: (raises his glass) Cheers Frank.

FRANK: (does likewise) Cheers… er…

MUSTARD: Bull. John Bull. Shaken, not stirred.

FRANK (with a puzzled look): Cheers… er, Mr Bull.

MUSTARD: (sips at his “San Miguel”) Say, Frank. You don’t insist on a handshake before we enter into bilateral negotiations?

FRANK: Pardon?

MUSTARD: Because I won’t shake your hand unless you pay your bill first.

FRANK: (smiles helplessly) My… bill?

MUSTARD: Yes. The Coventry Blitz bill.

FRANK: (shakes his head, finishes his beer and leaves, muttering to himself) Noch so’n chauvinistisches Arschloch.

MUSTARD: (cat-calls at him) Forgive’n forget, ey? Over my dead towel!

WORM: (comes hobbling back from the loo) What’s going on, John?

MUSTARD: Driving me barmy, these Krauts. Where were we. Ah yes. The FBI, the Federal Bureau of Incontinence. Leaking from head to toe. Did you know the Yankees have got this so-called “intel committee”?

WORM: Huh? Tell committee? (awkwardly climbs on his barstool, finishes his “San Miguel” and belches) What tell committee?

MUSTARD: No, Worm! Not a… Well okay (giggles), let’s call it a TELL committee. A bunch of… of parliamentary Yankee blokes who the FBI snoops TELL things to that they’re not supposed to TELL to the press. See?

WORM: Things? What things?

MUSTARD: Secret things. Well, SO-CALLED secret things. In fact, it’s things they already leaked to their buddies in the media and on Wall Street and abroad and so on.

WORM: (gives the barman a signal to refill his glass) So?

MUSTARD: Well. This TELL committee they have been, for some time now, investigating (mimics quotation marks), “investigating” Trump’s contacts with his buddy Putin during the election campaign. The chairman of that committee is a Trump bloke. When one of the FBI snoops told him something about Trump and the Russians he didn’t tell it to the other committee blokes. He ran to the White House instead and told it to Trump. Only to find out that Trump already knew about it because he himself had sent the spy to the committee to tell it to…

WORM: (interrupts him) Wait, wait, wait. WHAT did the spy tell him?

MUSTARD: No one knows.

WORMS: What?

MUSTARD: No one knows. Only Trump and the committee bloke. And it doesn’t matter one wet fart, any road up.

WORM: (gets his new glass of “San Miguel”) Ah, skill! (drinks, belches, wipes foam from his nose and frowns at Mustard) No one knows? What was it all about then? I mean, why did Trump… Or that bloke…?”

MUSTARD: It’s because Trump needed a red herring. Some leaked shit. ANY leaked shit. To prove that Obama had spied on him. You heard about that, didn’t you?

WORM: About what?

MUSTARD: About the wire-tapping crap.

WORM: (drinks from his glass and belches, then looks at Mustard, innocently) Wire-tapping crap?

MUSTARD: (rolls his eyes) Oh, Worm. When will you ever learn about the political ways of the world?

WORM: (smiles) When?

BOTH (in chorus): Never in a rain of pigs pudding.