[HORSE walks into a bar]
BARMAN: Hey, why the long face?
HORSE: I'm a horse.
BARMAN: Oh. Yeah. Right.
HORSE: Yeah, we tend to look like this. It's genetic. So mind your own sodding business.
BARMAN: Sorry.
HORSE: Yeah, well, if an African guy came in you wouldn't say "Hey, why the wide nose", would you? Or you'd get a kick in the sweetmeats. And I can kick harder than anyone round here, so watch it, right?
BARMAN: No offence meant.
HORSE: Fine, we'll let it go. So what are the guests today?
BARMAN: [Beat] Anyway, it's more deep than long, isn't it? And it's your head, not your face.
HORSE: Oh for f**k's - do me a favour.
BARMAN: Your skull is extremely elongated, but only along the depth axis; if anything your actual face is quite squashed up, when considered on the perpendicular.
HORSE: Jesus, will you let it go? There's no call for these personal remarks. It's come to something when a horse can't walk into a bar without the staff making some facile comment. You're crusing for a hoofed sac, son.
BARMAN: Sorry, sorry - tell you what, how's about some free beer? I'll give you as many pints as you can drink, on the house.
HORSE: Now that sounds fair.
[BARMAN pours a pint and puts it on the bar. HORSE lifts a leg to pick it up. Stares at shoed hoof and smooth pint glass for a second or two, before lowering his leg and sighing deflatedly]
BARMAN: Ha ha! Now, move up depth-head, the regulars sit there.
[Enter a MORRIS DANCER, LEPRECHAUN and DRUNK KILT WEARER, who stare evilly at the HORSE]
HORSE: Alright, I'll move. Is it OK if I sit in the corner?
KILT WEARER: Nay f**kin way, pal! That's Shakespeare's usual seat, ye ken?
BARMAN: [Darkly] Not any more.
LEPRECHAUN: Ah, to be sure, I'd forgotten. Dat was a terr'ble ting he did here last night. A terr'ble terr'ble ting.
