INT: Peckham. Flat.
Del: Oi! Rodney! RODDERS YOU PLONKER! I’ve got a little job for you RODDERS.
Rodney: Cosmic. Cos bloody MIC. What is it?
Del: I want you to get down the Nag’s ‘ead and see if you can sell these mobile phones. In a predictable premise, I intend to try and sell several thousand faulty and out of date phones to a reluctant crowd of people, with the resultant effect that we do not succeed, and indeed, have no real chance of becoming millionaires.
Rodney: Del…..stop. Stop it.
Rodney: This isn’t going to work. You know it’s not going to work. We haven’t eaten for two weeks. Albert is dead. Grandad is dead. You’re old now, you’re seventy. I am not young either. Everything we love is gone, and the flat stinks of shit.
Del: DO YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT?
(Both start to sob uncontrollably. Del smashes his head with a fist in hopelessnes, Rodney tries to hug him. Del pushes him away, Rodney falls into a wall, smashing his head, lying on the floor and screaming. Fade to a silent credit.)