Dead Writers in Rehab. Paul Bassett Davies

Let her what? You don’t realise how long this fucking performance can go on for, even without the sauce. Dr WH: I’m going to suggest we take a break— FJ: You’re an arsehole, you know that? A real arsehole. EH: An ‘arsehole’? Jesus, you fucking Brits can’t even deliver a good insult. FJ: Can’t you see you’re being very unkind to her? EH: Oh, she’ll fuck you now for sure. A real knight in shining armour. FJ: Why don’t you shut up? EH: Why don’t you make me shut up? DP: All right, boys, I’m very flattered, but break it up at the back of the class. Dr WH: Yes, sit down please, Ernest. WC: Indeed, perhaps we should all pause for a moment’s reflection. May I pr— PW: Hey, sit down, Jim. He’s not worth it. Well, he is worth it, I suppose, given that he’s Ernest Hemingway but— Dr WH: Yes, please sit down, both of you. FJ: Fuck off, I’m not going to sit down and let this dickhead hit me. Dr WH: Sit down both of you! EH: I’m a dickhead? FJ: Yes, a dickhead. God, to think I used to like your stuff. STC: But Mr Hemingway’s pugnacious posture is congruent with the attitudes expressed in his literary efforts, which you profess to so admire. EH: You want some too? FJ: Leave him alone, you moron! He’s not even insulting you! EH: You want to call me a moron? Put them up. Come on. Dr WH: Stop it! FJ: Fuck that Queensbury rules shit. Dr WH: No, I really must-- EH: Owww! Ahh, ahh, ahh – he kicked me in the balls! FJ: Damn right I did. Not a bad shot, was it, Paddy? PW: Look out! FJ: Wha— Ah! Ah. Ahhhhhh. DP: That was a low trick, Ernie! EH: At least I didn’t go for his balls! Your hero can still fuck you, unless he’s a queer like most of these Brits! PW: You shit, Hemingway, he wasn’t even looking! EH: You want some too? Come here! Dr WH: No, no, I can’t let you— EH: Let go of me you fucking quack! (Sounds of a general fracas, then Dr Bassett enters the room.) Dr EB: What is the meaning of this! Oh my God, Wallace, are you all right? PW: He’s fine, it’s Jim who got punched in the face! EH: He kicked me in the balls! Dr EB: Mr Hemingway, let go of Dr Hatchjaw! EH: If you look carefully, sister, you’ll find that he’s the one who’s holding on to me. Dr EB: Wallace, what are you doing? Dr WH: Preventing further violence. Dr EB: I see. Yes, very good. I believe you may release Mr Hemingway now. Dr WH: Mr Hemingway, I am merely attempting to prevent you, as clearly the most skilled pugilist present, from inflicting any further damage. May I release you without further danger to anyone? EH: Okay, Doc, it’s all over. Dr WH: Very well. EH: Thanks. Dr EB: Will you all please leave? No! One at a time. That’s better. We’ll look into this later when tempers have cooled. Foster, perhaps someone should look at that eye. FJ: It’s okay. PW: Don’t worry. I’ve seen him take a few punches. He’ll live. Dr EB: But perhaps you’ll take him to his room? PW: No problem. Come on, Jim. Dr WH: Ernest, I hope I didn’t— EH: No, no. But that’s quite a grip you have there, Doc. Do you use weights? Dr WH: Well, I— Dr EB: Mr Hemingway, will you kindly leave now? EH: Sure. We’ll talk about it later, Doc. Dr EB: You, too, Hunter. Dr WH: I think he’s still … Hunter? (Very loud) Mr Thompson! HST: (quietly) Back off, man. I’m awake.

      TRANSCRIPT ENDS.

      Patient FJ

       Recovery Diary 5 (let’s just say it’s 5 anyway, and stop splitting hairs)

      I was staring into the mirror and admiring the black eye that Ernest Hemingway gave me when I realised something very strange.

      Wait, I’ve got to do the bit about how I’m feeling first. In all the lively confusion as the therapy session broke up, Hatchjaw still managed to remind me about the discipline I have to follow in this diary: before writing anything else, express your