Scene: A couple sitting inside a bar. The music is low, low enough for them to be able to hear what the other is saying.
They are finding conversation difficult to come by (retrospectively, the bridge of their relationship had long since crumbled into its constituents) until the woman picks up a recent copy of Celeb! newspaper.
Woman: Have you read about that Paul Nogomet?
Man: What's he been doing this time - the bloody idiot?
W: Fighting with a photographer outside a nightclub, by the looks of things. The photographer's put a complaint in to the police. Ha ha!
M: They'll find him dead in a gutter one morning. Not that it makes any difference to me, of course. He can live or die for all I care.
W: I only wish I had his talent. If I had, I'd not waste it like him. Do you know I read that he once routed three sites in three hours? That's why they pay him £22,000 a year, I suppose!
M: Problem with earning that amount of money is that he's got more than he knows what to do with. So of course he's going to piss it away.
W: It's strange. I feel as though I know him. He's never out of the papers. I only wish Genericelectricretailer would sell tickets to watch him routing. I'd pay good money for that. Besides, when you work as hard as he does, you deserve to go out for a drink - or two.
M: You shouldn't become attached to these cretinous sods. They're no more real to you than the contents of a dream. The papers could write that Paul bloody Nogomet landed on earth in an alien craft, and you'd probably believe it.
W: You know, I remember when it was footballers and musicians whom we'd all watch chasing their tails. People like Nogga seem so much more accessible. There's actually not a great deal of distance between he and I.
M: Reg Lightwriter? What a stupid name for a photographer!
