Four men in a pub. Jack has a big domineering Richard Burton voice and personality to match. He is most definitely the Daddy, writes Kilian Doyle.
Then there's Keith, who looks like David Beckham's younger, hairdresser brother and Bruce, who's a noughties version of Freddie Mercury - all attitude, leathers and pints of Campari and soda. And lastly, there's Jeremy, curled up in the corner with a mineral water, observing them with some amusement. They're (work with me on this one) a crack team of car designers.
"Did you see what those Swedish women did with that Volvo?" asks Jack, clearly miffed. A bonnetless car with pockets for mascara and grooves for pony tails! They'll be wanting the bloody vote next. What we need is a car designed for men, by men.
"Hate to be a spoiler here, but aren't practically all cars already designed for men, by men?" pipes up Jeremy, a gentleman who always makes a point of holding the door open for his secretary in the morning. "Surely that's the point the ladies were trying to make?"
"Jaysus, will you ever get over it? Your New Man lark isn't fooling anyone - we know that you know that we all know there's nothing you'd like better than getting rid of your sensible Rover and heaving yourself behind the wheel of a souped-up Honda Civic with that foxy secretary of yours beside you. Am I wrong?"
A silent Jeremy shuffles in his seat uncomfortably. The truth hurts.
"Right. We'll show them - we'll build a real car, a man's motor. Choice One - sleek sports convertible or off-road muscle machine?"
"I'm not too into driving a little red rocket," says Keith. "People will just point and say I must be poorly endowed. But then again, there's nothing like leaving rubber at the traffic lights . . ."
"Personally, I like it rough and rugged," says Bruce, warming to the topic. "I want to bang and bump through the bushes, getting as filthy as I can. That said, I've been known to leave rubber all over the place myself. So I don't know either."
"OK, so it's neither speed nor muscle," says Jack. "We'll have to do both. The front is a Ferrari Testarossa, and the back is a Humvee. We can call it the Mullet - business at the front, party at the back. And in the middle is? Gentlemen?" "The sound system's got to be utterly huge," yelps Keith. "Loud as a Metallica concert and be so complicated you need a six-week stint in night-school to learn to use it."
"I want 12 exhaust pipes, spitting fury like a row of crack-smoking Tourettes sufferers!" says Bruce. He's feeling pretty damn butch.
"And I want a load of Cuban cigars and Irish whiskey and Belgian beers!" screams Jeremy, feeling something of a macho loin-stirring himself.
The scene degenerates. All four begin hollering over each other. Eventually Jack has enough and shushes the gang before they get flung out.
"This, dear gentlemen, is a great moment for mankind. Behold our masterpiece!" He holds up the sketch he's done on a beer mat.
It's 37-feet long, with 18 wheels and engines front and rear providing 1,230 horsepower and four miles per gallon. Inside, it's got a jacuzzi, a dartboard, a pool table, four TVs, a DVD player, a stack of movies, a thousand CDs, a Playstation 2, three hammocks, a rack of hunting rifles, a humidor full of Cuba's finest, a fully-stocked cocktail bar, a fridge crammed with beer, another fridge full of junk food, a hookah and a roof rack with enough room for six surfboards, a couch, and a dead moose.
"It's . . . perfect," whisper all four quavering voices, overcome by the magnificence of their sublime creation. "It's absolutely perfect . . ."