Hughton. Chris Hughton.

For some reason that brings to mind an image of his sacking. He knocks at the door, and goes in to find McNally sitting in his swivel chair, half turned away. He swings round to face Hughton, stroking a small poomer in his lap.

CH: The name's Hughton. Chris Hughton.
DM: Ahhhh Mr Houghton, I've been expecting you.
CH: Not Houghton. Hughton. Chris Hughton.
DM: Well, this could be awkward. I'm supposed to sack a bloke called Houghton. Have you seen him?
CH: I'll have a vodka Martini. Shaken, not stirred. Do you seriously expect me to go looking for whoever this Houghton chap is?
DM: No, Mr Houghton. Hughton. I expect you to die. Well, leave the club anyway.
CH: As long as we both know where we stand.
DM: And on your way out if you do bump into someone called Houghton can you tell him he's fired?
CH: No.
DM: You leave me no option but to introduce you to my little pets - poomers with lasers on their....hang on...wait...I haven't finished...pfft, some people. Delores? DELORES! See if you can find anyone called Houghton. My girls are getting peckish.

Posted By: Old Man, Sep 20, 11:08:13