My name’s David Dean. I work in the abat
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British (Wiltshire) accent. Davey Dean is a Flintock boy through and through. Born
My name’s David Dean. I work in the abattoir. Get there six in the morning — hungover, hazmat suit, goggles — and I stand there and I slay two hundred cows. Wham. Next contestant. What’s your name and where’d you come from? (Mimes killing a cow.) Wham! Have lunch. Pot Noodle. Come back. Slay two hundred more. End of the week, I walk out of there. I’ll tell you what I ain’t thinking. I ain’t thinking: “Perhaps I’ll change my name. Get a Celtic tattoo. See this on my arse? That symbolises the Harmony of Spheres. That’s Vishnu, God of Gayness.” I’ll tell you what I’m thinking: “Shag on. It’s the weekend. Pay me. Show me the paper, and shag on.” I wish you well on your quest, Frodo. But whatever you change your name to, you’re still fucking Lee Piper; and wherever you go in this world, when you get off the plane, boat, train, or crawl out of the jungle smeared in paint, the bloke waiting to meet you is also called Lee Piper. Make paper. Make more paper. Shag on.
Butterworth, Jez. Jerusalem NHB Modern Plays, 2009.