New version down below. Struck-through version retained for posterity.
1. INT. Cabaret-style nightclub, like the Windmill but without the filth. A stage with lampshaded tables scattered around a dancefloor.
A group of fey-looking male dancers in top hats (think Lionel Blair, but camp) tap across the stage to "Putting On The Ritz."
CUT TO:
2. INT. One of the tables. Around it are half a dozen suicidally bored-looking men in their mid to late-20s, in Saturday night gear, including TEZ and DEAF PETE.
TEZ
This is shite. This has got to be the worst stag do I've ever been to. And it's my own. Ninety miles we've come for this. What the bloody hell were you thinking of, Deaf Pete? Some best man you are.
DEAF PETE
You're an ungrateful sod, Tez. I spend ages finding this place ... and all you can do is sit there with a gob like Ann Widdecombe's gynaecologist on smear day. (beat) It was your bloody idea, anyway.
TEZ
What? What do you mean?
DEAF PETE
Weeks I spent tracking this place down, Tez. Three months ago, you're all "Oh, let's all go to the hottest tap dancing bar in England." Wish I hadn't bothered now.
TEZ
I hate you, Deaf Pete.
END.