Hall is dipping a little brown biscuit into his tea, smiling, thinking, 'yes, yes, here we are, very civilised'; Oates' mouth gapes wide like a fucking carp as he tries to get a whole onion bhaji in past his moustache. He (once again, like a carp) thinks nothing.
'There's a knife and fork in the drawer if you'd like... Oates?'
Oates half turns to face Hall. There is some glimmer of comprehension, but quickly it fades. His eyes widen terribly, his mouth opens to its full extent. He inserts the onion bhaji with a look of minor discomfort, then closes slowly down on it. A portion of onion bhaji is immediately forced back out through his puckered lips, falls onto the table, the carpet, his shoes. Other smaller fragments cling to his moustache. It's a sorry sight.
Hall gets up with the intention of fetching a dustpan and brush:
'… and there are plates in the cupboard.'
Something about '...and there are plates in the cupboard,' tickles Hall. Face still full of onion bhaji, he begins to shudder with internal laughter. He feels a smile sprouting, broadening. It is becoming impossible for him to keep his mouth closed. The realisation of what's to come only makes him want to laugh more. He must laugh. He laughs. A dense yellow and brown bolus flops out of his mouth, rolls down his pink sleeveless shirt and lands ungracefully upon the floor.
Hall watches the whole ugly display from the... Hall, dustpan and brush in hand.
Oates notices him: 'Whoa-oh here she comes,' he remarks, affecting what he understands to be the voice of a homosexual.Not laughing himself, Hall cleans up the mess.
'Dustpan and Brush... Hall, if we were Dustpan and Brush and not Hall and Oates, who would be Dustpan and who would be Brush?'
'You'd be brush,' snaps Hall.
Neither of them know what this means, only that it is true.