“Twenty? Who’ll give me twenty? Twenty anybody?
I have twenty! Twenty, I have. Lady at the back in the yellow top. Thank you, madam.
Do I hear nineteen? Nineteen? Is there a nineteen out there in the audience?
I have nineteen. Thank you to the gentleman in the second row. Yes, you sir, wearing the deerstalker and puffing on a pretend pipe. Very authentic.
So, eighteen? Will anybody give me eighteen – you know you want to. Come on ladies and gentlemen. Eighteen? Are we all finished at nineteen? I have eighteen. Online for eighteen. Marvellous.
So, we have eighteen, do we have- We do! Seventeen? Elderly gent in the front row. Thank you, sir.
Seventeen. Are we getting any more interest online? No, nothing there. Sixteen? Sixteen? Nobody? Sixteen, thank you, miss.
So, are there any further bids? Anything? No? All fair warned… – – fifteen!
It’s fifteen! Fifteen. Fifteen sixty-four in the mediaeval market town of Stratford-upon-Avon. The birthplace of England’s greatest dramatist, a Mr William Shakespeare.”