Second City Gent: Are you proposing to slaughter our tenants?
Mr. Wiggin: Does that not fit in with your plans?
First City Gent: No, no, we wanted a simple block of flats.
Mr. Wiggin: Ah, I see. I hadn't fully divined your attitude towards your tenants. You see, I mainly design slaughterhouses, yes, pity. Mind you, this is a real beaut, none of your blood caked on the walls and flesh flying out of the windows incommoding the passers-by with this one, I mean my life has been leading up to this one.
Second City Gent: Yes, and well done. But we did want a block of flats.
Mr. Wiggin: Well, may I ask you to reconsider? You wouldn't regret it, think of that tourist trade.
First City Gent: No, no, it's just we wanted a block of flats and not an abattoir.
Mr. Wiggin: Yes, that's just the sort of blinkered, philistine, pig-ignorance I've come to expect from you non-creative garbage, you sit there on your loathsome, spotty behinds, squeezing blackheads, not caring a tinker's cuss about the struggling artist. You excrement! You lousy, hypocritical, whining toadies! With your lousy color T.V sets and your Tony Jacklin golf clubs! And your bleeding masonic handshakes! You wouldn't let me join, would you, ya black-balling bastards! Well, I wouldn't become a Freemason now, if you went down on your lousy, stinking, purulent knees and begged me!
Second City Gent: Well, we're sorry you feel like that, but we did want a block of flats. Nice though, the abattoir is.
Mr. Wiggin: Oh
[Scoffs]
Mr. Wiggin: the abattoir, but, if any of you could put in a word for me I'd love to be a mason. Freemasonry opens doors, I'd be very quiet, I was a bit on edge just now, but if I was a mason I'd just sit at the back and not get in anyone's way.
First City Gent: Thank you.
Mr. Wiggin: I've got a second-hand apron.
First City Gent: Thank you.
Mr. Wiggin: [Heads for the door] I nearly got in at Hendon.
First City Gent: Thank you.
