Welcome to the club, pet. Now get a brew down yer and tell us who you’re gonna chin today.
A low, guttural GROAN.
The Kitchen.
Wet wipes and empty bottles of CÎROC COCONUT WATER litter the floor.
(Finally standing up, wobbling) THAT’S THE SPIRIT! GEORDIE SHORE, BABY! WE DON’T DO HANGOVERS. WE DO TOP-UPS. Geordie Shore
RIGHT. WHO PUT A FIREWORK IN MY BEDROOM TOILET?
(Mumbling, not awake) Don’t… touch… me… lashes… Welcome to the club, pet
James picks up the traffic cone and hurls it across the room. It knocks over a lamp.
Suddenly, the front door SLAMS open.
THE SCENE OPENS. The living room looks like a bomb hit a fancy dress shop and a kebab shop at the same time. A single, sad high heel lies on its side. A traffic cone is inexplicably on the coffee table. Confetti is stuck to everything.