Sausage and Mash

With our kidnapped speaker in the pub, waiting for our plates of Cumberland sausage and mash. – 'You know they hate you', W. says. 'They hate us, God knows, and they hate you, too'. – 'I don't think they hate me', the speaker says. – 'They do!, they really hate you', W. says. 'And they hate us. Especially him', pointing at me. 'But who wouldn't?' And then, 'Seriously, though, why do you bother? Why do you come here?' And then, 'Why do we bother? Why do we come here?' We ought to run our conferences, W. says, just for our friends. Why don't we do that?

Our sausages and mash arrive on oval plates. It looks disgusting, we agree. Then a second set of sausages and mash arrive. We have two vast plates each of sausages and mash.

'I didn't order sausage and mash', the speaker says. It must be a mix-up, we agree. – 'Go on, order some more sausage and mash', W. says, when the speaker disappears to the loo. I place an order at the bar. Soon, there's no space at our table but for plates of sausage and mash. They'll have to pile them on top of each another, W. says. He finds this very funny.