Ron and Reg are sitting in the café moaning about the younger generation. ‘My son must be the laziest little bastard in Britain,’ Ron says, sipping his tea. ‘You’ve got no chance, mate,’ Reg answers. ‘My boy Gary is the laziest little **** I’ve ever seen.’ The two men continue to argue and decide to visit each other’s houses to witness the lazy lads first hand. First they go to Ron’s house, where his son is lying on the sofa watching This Morning. ‘Nip up the road and get me 20 Marlboro will you?’ Ron asks his lad. ‘Get them yourself,’ the boy says. ‘I’m watching television.’ ‘Go on, son,’ Ron says. ‘I’ll give you a tenner if you just go and get me some fags.’ ‘Bollocks,’ the boy says. ‘I’m not shifting.’ Ron and Reg then head over to Reg’s house. They walk into the living room where the curtains are shut and the telly is blaring out Oprah. Jimmy, Reg’s son, is sitting in front of the fire, the room is unbearably hot and the boy is weeping softly. The two men stare at the boy in disbelief: an 18-year-old lad sitting at home openly crying over a television show. Jimmy doesn’t even look up as the two men come into the room, he just sits in his chair, staring at the television screen, crying like a baby. Annoyed at his son’s apathy, Reg finally walks over and turns off the television. But it doesn’t do any good and Jimmy just carries on weeping, staring into space. ‘What’s the matter, son?’ Reg asks. ‘I’m burning,’ Jimmy replies