Cyril: (about Geoffrey) He's doing the rounds. He saw the Chekov on Tuesday. He was at the Dream last night. Frank: No! Cyril: Yeah. There he was. Third raw from the back. Head burried in his hands like he lost a brother in the war. Frank: Crikey. He wouldn't recast, would he? Cyril: Not the Dream, no. But God knows what he'll do with Oliver's Hamlet. Play the lead himself. Frank: You think? Cyril: Oh, why not? It was the play that drow him mad. Seven years ago. I saw it all with me own eyes. Halfway through the gravedigger scene he suddenly went all quiet and pale. Frank: He went off? Cyril: Off his nut. Then he leaped. Frank: Leaped? Cyril: Into the grave, Ducky. Into Ophelia's bloody grave. Leaving Horatio and Laertes staring down into the hole as if they just made a wish. Frank: Crikey. Cyril: Crikey indeed. Then he went screaming out into the night, mad as a hatter. Frank: Well, he's been to hospital. Had treatments. Maybe he's better. Cyril: Or maybe he's worse. Hey up. Here she comes. Geoffrey Tennant: Carlsberg. (looks at Oliver's skull) Geoffrey Tennant: Two Carlsberg. Frank: Crikey. Cyril: Bloody hell.