It is 1960s New York in legendary bohemian bolt hole, The Chelsea Hotel. Arthur Miller is just across the hall and the symphony of 24th Street is rising up and in through the open window of Brendan Behan's room. He is broke, hung over and way past the delivery date of his latest book, the first line of which he is yet to write. He was told to stop drinking or he'd be dead in six months – that was two years ago. Today is not going well. His mistress keeps ringing, the bills aren't paid and a wire arrives from Dublin with the kind of news that's guaranteed to put his blood pressure through the roof…