Mark: [voiceover] A new boiler. Surely the least enjoyable way to spend £1000. At least throwing the money out of the window you’d see the scrabbling mass, the hate-filled faces. I have spent a cool grand on acquiring the resumption of an equitable temperature.
Jeremy: Yeah, too right, I’m freezing. Let’s whack it up to 29.
Mark: 29 degrees, are you insane?
Jeremy: I don’t actually want it to be 29, but you’ve got to give it something to aim for. It’ll get hotter quicker.
Mark: No, it won’t, it’s either on or off. You set it, it achieves the correct temperature, it switches off.
Jeremy: Oh sure, you set it to 23, it’ll be pootering along, “Oh yeah, 23, easy. Yeah, nearly there.” Wouldn’t you rather “F***! 29? Christ, let’s get cracking, gotta generate some serious heat!” Then when it hits 23, we’re suddenly all like “Click. Sorry. Already there.” And the boiler will be like “What the f***?”
Dave can’t bear the idea that Nessa and Smithy might have done “the stuff that we do”. “I know we didn’t do any of that stuff,” whispers Nessa, darkly, “because I didn’t have my bag, my tools, my cloak. And anyway there’s no way he could take that level of … ”
A man may fight for many things. His country, his principles, his friends. The glistening tear on the cheek of a golden child. But personally, I’d mud-wrestle my own mother for a ton of cash, an amusing clock and a sack of French porn.
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