Sandy stammered and swallowed half his drink, he looked at the glass, and panicked by the size of his gulp he immediately looked around for the waiter. He couldn’t see him. There were only a handful of people about, not bad for a Tuesday night, he thought, it seemed everywhere was busier than his show. And with that thought, and no other, Sandy swallowed the other half the drink, cleared his throat and opened his mouth once more.
…But things are different now. The audience used to give you a little back, have some balls about them, give ya a good show, ya know? Now they can’t seem to take it, like all their skin’s thinned or something.
It’s everywhere, mate, the whole world’s gone soft.
It bloody has, hasn’t it?
Sandy groaned .
Yeah, sure has, mate.
The old friends agreed. Sandy instinctively brought his glass to his lips and despaired when he remembered he’d finished what was left, and again looked for the waiter. Still not seeing him, Sandy rekindled his rant.
And, they’re all fucken’ critics. And they’ve all got a fucken’ cause. They can’t wait to leave and tell everyone how you said something inappropriate – and – and that’s if they wait till the end, they don’t even wait that long, they don’t appreciate the whole bloody thing, now they’re on their fucken’… ah, ya know, them…
Sandy fumbled with his hands, and mimed the rectangle outline of a machine he couldn’t recall.
Them bloody screen thingies.