Old joke, original script - (and apologies to all who see the punchline a mile off)
(Some adult language)

(GLASGOW. INTERIOR. ROBBIE AND CRAIG ARE TWO WELL-BUILT, SHAVEN-HEADED NED-LIKE CREATURES IN BLACK SUITS WHO KNOW EACH OTHER AND MEET IN A QUEUE IN A TRAVEL AGENT’S)

CRAIG: So when did you get out o’ prison, then?

ROBBIE: Few months back, now. Keepin’ ma nose clean, man. Got myself a job in a bar. Music’s bloody loud, but it pays good money.

CRAIG: You’re lookin’ well, pal. Still seeing that lassie from the brewery? With the pierced tits and the randy rottweiler. What was it? Kerry?

ROBBIE: Seein’ her? I’m marrying her next week. Best thing that ever happened to me.

CRAIG: Oh aye? So she’s got no problems with that wee temper o’ yours, eh?

ROBBIE: All under control these days, man. They give you counselling in prison, you know. It’s all about slowing down, takin’ the stress out o’ your life, deep breaths from the diaphragm, calm assertive responses. No, nothing winds me up anymore.

CRAIG: Must have a taken a bit o’ time, no? I mean, it’s not exactly something you get rid of overnight.

ROBBIE: Aye, it was tough at the beginning. My first counsellor was full of all that psycho crap. Go back to your childhood, “how did you feel the first time you knifed your brother”, an’ all that. Showed me fucking pictures of coloured blobs and asked me what they reminded me of.

CRAIG: Oh aye?

ROBBIE: I used to sit there looking at her sometimes, thinking “give me one good reason, darling, why I shouldn’t rip out your liver and barbecue it on that electric heater over there”.

CRAIG: Fair enough. Some people you just don’t get on with, eh.

ROBBIE: I mean she’s the type o’ person that gets ma anger juices pumpin’. It’s not the crazy, abusive people that are a problem. The guy jaywalking through the traffic with a can o’ Special Brew telling everyone to go fuck ‘emselves. I can deal with them easily.

CRAIG: Aye.

ROBBIE: It’s the quiet, reserved, polite, diplomatic wankers that make my blood boil, the ones who make banal bloody weather conversation, but at the same time, you can tell they’re judging you.

CRAIG: Like the English, you mean?

ROBBIE: It’s those people who sit in banks behind their computers with their little gold name-tags pinned to their chests, and make smart-arsed provocative comments like “You appear to have exceeded you overdraft limit, Mr. Docherty” and “We do operate a queuing system here, by the way”, guys who work in car parks, post offices. garden centres, supermarkets, those kind o’ bastards…

CRAIG: Oh, right. But that’s all behind you now, eh?

ROBBIE: Absolutely. Barely a frown has crossed my forehead in months, man. I can deal with it all now. Self-control, that’s the key.

(THEY ARRIVE AT THE FRONT OF THE QUEUE TO BE GREETED BY A SMILING YOUNG MALE ASSISTANT (WITH A NAME-TAG))

ASSISTANT: Good morning, Sir. How can I help you?

ROBBIE: Well, I was wondering if you could suggest something for ma honeymoon…

(ASSISTANT REACHES OUT TO ONE OF THE NEARBY BROCHURES)

ASSISTANT: What about Niagara?

(ROBBIE LOOKS AT THE ASSISTANT, GRABS HIM BY THE LAPELS AND WITH ONE FIERCE HEAD-BUTT, THE ASSISTANT HAS BEEN RENDERED UNCONSCIOUS AND HAS DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE COUNTER. ROBBIE PICKS UP THE BROCHURE, TURNS TO LEAVE THE SHOP AND THEN EXAMINES THE FRONT OF THE BROCHURE. HE TURNS BACK TO THE NOW UNMANNED COUNTER)

ROBBIE: Oh, sorry, pal. My hearing’s a bit dodgy at the moment. See you around, Craigie boy.

(ROBBIE LEAVES)