“I can’t BLEEP believe this!” Stewart Gibbons, celebrity chef, ran his hands down his craggy face. “A BLEEP rat! In the kitchen!”
The restaurateur squirmed. “It is a little unconventional—”
“It’s BLEEP unhygienic!” Gibbons roared. “I’m appalled. Never in all my years have I come across something so BLEEP disgusting!”
“Actually,” the head waiter piped up. “Rats are rather clean animals.”
The restaurateur nodded. “Intelligent too. They get a bad rap.”
“Because they live in the BLEEP sewers,” Gibbons shook his head. “Get that rat the BLEEP out of here, give this place a deep clean, and then we’ll talk about what’s wrong with your BLEEP menu.”
“Er,” the restaurateur demurred. “That’s not going to be possible, I’m afraid.”
Gibbons couldn’t believe it. “Oh, this is the part of the show where you’re still a bit stubborn, a bit bold? Trust me, as soon as I make a couple of changes, you’re going to change your tune. Now, get that rat out of here or I’m calling the BLEEP exterminator my BLEEP self.”
“Mr Gibbons,” the restaurateur wrung his hands. “There is something you don’t understand.”
“I don’t give a flying BLEEP. I understand the restaurant business and that’s all I need to know.”
“The rat stays, Mr Gibbons. That’s all there is to it. Change the napkins, rearrange the tables, if you must. But the rat stays.”
“Then we’re done here. My show has a formula we stick to every episode. I come along, get appalled, shout a bit, throw my weight around. You stand up to me (or try to) but I eventually win you around, the customers are delighted, business is booming, fade to black.”
“I have seen your show, Mr Gibbons. I applied to have my restaurant featured on it.”
“So, do what I BLEEP tell you and we’re good as gold.”
“No, Mr Gibbons, it is you who must do as he is told.” The restaurateur nodded. The head chef stole up behind the TV presenter and whacked him across the back of his head with a rolling pin. Gibbons’s eyes rolled back and he crumpled in a heap.
The chef lifted off his toque, revealing a bright-eyed rat with an ironic expression twitching its whiskers.
“Oh, dear,” said the rat, surveying the scene. “Well, at least with him out of the way, we can see about realising my dream of having a chain of rat-chef restaurants all over the world. Now,” he rubbed his little pink paws, “we can’t have bodies lying around in my kitchen. It’s BLEEP unhygienic.”
Everyone laughed—or at least the rats under their hats and toupees did.
Fade to black.