tea, crumpets, and a cunning twist in the plot

Morning tea with theatre producer Paddy Melia in The Copper Kettle cafe on Kilcullen Main Street.
I congratulate him on the poster for his latest production.
"It was a piece of class Paddy," sez I. "A crucifix juxtaposed with a shotgun. Really sensitive. Elegiac. Life affirming. Most edifying. You are always very much in tune with the cultural and religious feelings of your audience. Restraint. That's what you've got. In an age of excess. You're the last of the poets. I'd say Quentin Tarantino was green with envy."
"Do you think so?" sez the Melia moghul mildly. "It was just something I came up with at the last minute."
Sarcasm has no effect on Paddy.
Due to a rare genetic disorder, he was born without any sense of shame.
My gentle attempts at a put down do not upset him in the slightest.
He is immune.
I try a different tack.
"The last time I talked to you," I muse, "I asked you what you thought about my plans to stage Charlie's Aunt as a teen sex comedy retitled Victorian Scandals. You said you didn't think it would work and that Charlie's Aunt was old hat. Totally irrelevant to a modern audience. Then barely a month later I drove past the Riverbank Theatre and there was this huge banner proclaiming: Paddy Melia presents Charlie's Aunt."
The Melia moghul chuckled.
"Ah James," sez he, "all that's in the past."
I nod bitterly.
"If I thought I could trust you," sez I, "I'd tell you about my new project."
Cecil B De Melia leans forward with signs of interest.
"What is it?" sez he seriously.
"It's a play about the effects of a UFO sighting on a small town," I tell him.
Yes folks, I positively blurt out this information without thinking of the possible consequences.
Plagiarism being the main one.
"What's it called?" raps the Melia meister.
"The Lights Of June," sez me, blurting again.
"What's the hook?" he barks.
"Effects of the extraordinary intruding into ordinary lives," answers me blurtier than ever.
He sat back.
"Not bad," he murmured.
"You're not thinking of stealing this one are you?" I charge severely.
A far away look comes into the old producer's eyes.
"No, no, no," sez he, "I can only do that when the play is already written. But let me see a script as soon as it's ready."
I'm telling you gentle readers of the internet.
No sense of shame.
Or subtlety.
"Yeah Paddy," sez me, "I'll be sure to send it on as soon as it's done."