OR...
1. INT. NORTH YORKSHIRE COUNTRY PUB. NIGHT.
A BUSY NORTH YORKSHIRE MOORS PUB WITH ROUGH-LOOKING REGULARS - A LOT LIKE "AMERICAN WEREWOLF'S" SLAUGHTERED LAMB. TWO AMERICAN BACKPACKERS ENTER AND APPROACH THE BAR.
A STERN-LOOKING BARMAID ADDRESSES THEM.
BARMAID:
Reet lads, what can I get you?
BACKPACKER 1:
Ummm, I'll have a pint please.
BACKPACKER 2:
Yeah, that sounds good. Same for me, thanks.
BARMAID:
Reet, two Carlingsberg lagers, would you like chilled, extra chilled, or new Super Penguin's Arse Chilled ?
BACKPACKER 2:
Ummm actually...do you have any Real Ale?
SUDDENLY, ALL FALLS SILENT. THE JUKEBOX STOPS PLAYING. A MAN PLAYING DARTS MISSES HIS SHOT. ALL EYES ARE ON THE BACKPACKERS. A BALD MAN STEPS FORWARD AND POINTS AT THEM ACCUSINGLY.
BALD MAN:
What did you say?
BACKPACKER 1:
(NERVOUSLY) Umm...real ale? We heard...it's popular in Northern England, didn't we?
BACKPACKER 2:
Yeah.
BALD MAN:
We don't sup that muck round here, lad. Nay, not any more. We've moved on. We're sophisticated now, aren't we Bob?
HIS FRIEND BOB RAISES HIS PINT OF LAGER AND ADJUSTS HIS PINKIE FINGER SO IT'S STICKING OUT.
BOB:
Aye. Susfisticated.
BARMAID:
Leave 'em be Harry. They're just bairns. They know no better. Here lads. (PUTS TWO PINTS OF LAGER ON THE BAR)Two pints of extra chilled. Now will there be anything else?
BACKPACKER 1:
Ummm...do you do pork scratchings?
SUDDENLY ALL FALLS SILENT AGAIN. THE DARTS PLAYER MISSES AGAIN, BUT THIS TIME THE DART STICKS IN THE HEAD OF ONE OF THE REGULARS. HE DOESN'T NOTICE.
BALD MAN:
(INCREDULOUSLY) Pork scratchings? What do you take us for, eh? There's not been a scratchin' of swine that's passed our lips these last 5 years. It's canapes now, lad. Canapes and...erm...
BOB:
Twiglets?
BALD MAN:
Nay, not Twiglets. They're in't same social class as scratchings. Lower even.
ANOTHER REGULAR (ELY):
Pickled eggs?
BALD MAN:
Wash thy gob out, Ely!
ELY:
But I like pickled eggs.
BOB:
Aye, and them peanuts where you have to keep buyin' 'em to uncover the ladies' tits.
EVERYONE IS IN AGREEMENT, EXCEPT THE BALD MAN.
BALD MAN:
Silence! (TO THE BACKPACKERS, QUIETLY FURIOUS) Now look what you've done. You've set us back years. We were reet fookin' posh until you came. Go on, get out. There's nowt for you here.
THE BACKPACKERS LOOK AT THE BARMAID FOR SUPPORT.
BARMAID:
I'm sorry lads. Best you go.
THEY GET UP AND WALK TOWARDS THE DOOR. WE HEAR EERIE HOWLS FROM OUTSIDE.
BACKPACKER 1:
Was that...a werewolf?
BALD GUY:
Nay lad. Just the corgis.
END SKETCH