Scene: A large posh office.  Two clients, well-dressed city gents, sit

       facing a large table at which stands Mr. Tid, the account manager

       of the architectural firm.



Mr. Tid: Well, gentlemen, we have two architectural designs for this new

         residential block of yours and I thought it best if the architects

         themselves explained the particular advantages of their designs.



There is a knock at the door.



Mr. Tid: Ah! That's probably the first architect now. Come in.



Mr. Wiggin enters.



Mr. Wiggin: Good morning, gentlemen.



Clients: Good morning.



Mr. Wiggin: This is a 12-story block combining classical neo-Georgian features

            with the efficiency of modern techniques.  The tenants arrive here

            and are carried along the corridor on a conveyor belt in extreme

            comfort, past murals depicting Mediterranean scenes, towards the

            rotating knives.  The last twenty feet of the corridor are heavily

            soundproofed.  The blood pours down these chutes and the mangled

            flesh slurps into these...



Client 1: Excuse me.



Mr. Wiggin: Yes?



Client 1: Did you say 'knives'?



Mr. Wiggin: Rotating knives, yes.



Client 2: Do I take it that you are proposing to slaughter our tenants?



Mr. Wiggin: ...Does that not fit in with your plans?



Client 1: Not really. We asked for a simple block of flats.



Mr. Wiggin: Oh. I hadn't fully divined your attitude towards the tenants. You

            see I mainly design slaughter houses.



Clients: Ah.



Mr. Wiggin: Pity.



Clients: Yes.



Mr. Wiggin: (indicating points of the model) Mind you, this is a real beaut.

            None of your blood caked on the walls and flesh flying out of the

            windows incommoding the passers-by with this one.  (confidentially)

            My life has been leading up to this.



Client 2: Yes, and well done, but we wanted an apartment block.



Mr. Wiggin: May I ask you to reconsider.



Clients: Well...



Mr. Wiggin: You wouldn't regret this. Think of the tourist trade.



Client 1: I'm sorry. We want a block of flats, not an abattoir.



Mr. Wiggin: ...I see.  Well, of course, this is just the sort of blinkered

           philistine pig-ignorance I've come to expect from you non-creative

           garbage.  You sit there on your loathsome spotty behinds squeezing

           blackheads, not caring a tinker's cuss for the struggling artist.

           You excrement, you whining hypocritical toadies with your colour TV

           sets and your Tony Jacklin golf clubs and your bleeding masonic

           secret handshakes. You wouldn't let me join, would you, you

           blackballing bastards.  Well I wouldn't become a Freemason now if

           you went down on your lousy stinking knees and begged me.



Client 2: We're sorry you feel that way, but we did want a block of flats,

         nice though the abattoir is.