Withnail And I -

Withnail, draped in a floor-length tweed coat that smelled of damp dog and desperation, didn't look up from the bottle of lighter fluid he was eyeing with dangerous curiosity. “It’s not sweat, it’s character,” he barked, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “We are actors, Marwood! We are meant to suffer. Though I admit, I’d prefer to suffer in a room that doesn't smell like a dead Irishman’s socks.” The Plan for Salvation

The rain in Camden didn’t just fall; it colonized. It seeped through the ceiling of the flat, turning the stacks of unwashed plates into a miniature, greasy archipelago. Marwood sat by the radiator—which provided about as much warmth as a drawing of a fire—clutching a copy of The Stage like a prayer book. Withnail and I

: Monty, a man who famously prefers vegetables to flowers—calling the latter "prostitutes for the bees"—is easily swayed by Withnail’s dramatic lies. Withnail, draped in a floor-length tweed coat that