Monologues/Duologues
(all work Paul Richards © 2006-2008 )
Chirpy
Set: An empty stage.
Chirpy is waiting, anxiously
CHIRPY:
(to the audience) Dear outside world, I know you're not really listening to me, and if you do it's probably all just noise anyway, but I just can't contain my excitement so if you don't mind I'm going to squawk like a mad, crazy thing. For today, I will no longer be lonely. I know you think positioning me near the television is a sure-fire way to keep me happy, but to be honest until you dumb-arses actually discover some sense of culture I won't be happy and I fully intend to squawk over your precious soap operas until you realise you can't keep a budgie happy with that shit. I mean, for crying out loud, I sit here all day watching you guys live your pathetic, pointless monotonous lives, why then should I be interested in watching the same thing only badly acted on television? 'Ah bless him, he's making lots of noise, he's probably happy' that dippy one, the adult woman character, says pointing at me. I'm not happy, I'm protesting! But today is a happy day, and for once, Barton Family, I am very grateful. As I know full well where you're going today, and that's to buy me a new flatmate. I do appreciate it, honestly I do. Because finally, after three weeks of fully enjoying my own space but equally being bored shitless I may actually have the opportunity to have a civilised conversation again. I just hope he isn't a tosser.
Chirpy edges forwards and looks around.
CHIRPY:
They're coming, they're coming!
Chirpy stands back and stands with his best posture.
Ricky is placed into the cage, and stands completely still.
Chirpy 'flies' over to the other side of the cage and stands next to him.
CHIRPY:
Hi!
Silence.
CHIRPY:
The name's Chirpy! Which is rather ironic because I can be a miserable git sometimes!
Chirpy laughs, but still doesn't get a reaction from Ricky.
CHIRPY:
I heard the outsiders say you're called Ricky. That's a wicked name, better than Chirpy. Chirpy is just a childish name, I'm not some toy. Ricky is cool.
No reaction.
CHIRPY:
It's okay you know, I understand. It's tough isn't it? One day you're in the comfort of your birthplace, probably Pat's Pets on
Head drops.
CHIRPY:
Sorry, I don't get down very often. It's just you know...we spent a long time together in here, Chickie was a one-off. Everyone has their time though I guess.
Brief pause for memory.
Eventually, Chirpy looks up and smiles.
CHIRPY:
But still, new beginning. I've been looking forward to your arrival for a good few days now, ever since I overheard the outsiders talking about bringing me in some new company. I do appreciate you being here, and although this may seem intimidating at first don't forget, this is your cage as well as mine. I do appreciate a certain level of cleanliness if possible, but (starts laughing) sometimes I just like to shit everywhere.
Pause. Chirpy looks Ricky up and down.
CHIRPY:
Not in the mood to chat yet?
Pause.
CHIRPY:
That's cool, I understand. Now let me see, what else can I tell you about this place. Ah yes, we get cleaned on Sunday evenings, usually after
Silence/no reaction.
CHIRPY:
I really like Radiohead. The daughter girl used to play it a lot, then she moved out to go to University. Now we're stuck with David Essex and Donny Osmond for musical entertainment.
Chirpy looks out.
CHIRPY:
Ah, here we comes. The father character. A great, boring pile of Financial Advisor, wrapped up in a mismatched suit and a tie which tries to express personality but clashes with the shirt and makes him look like a dickhead.
The father, Nigel, walks over and stands at the side of the stage, looking in.
NIGEL:
Tweet, tweet. Tweet, tweet.
Nigel smiles a bit and giggles to himself.
NIGEL:
Tweet, tweet. Tweet, tweet.
Nigel pokes his finger through the cage, Chirpy 'flies' over and tries to peck/bite him. Nigel quickly removes his finger and laughs.
NIGEL:
Little rascal.
CHIRPY:
Don't patronise me.
NIGEL:
Tweet, tweet. Tweet, tweet.
Nigel laughs again, before leaving.
CHIRPY:
(turns to Ricky) You get a lot of that. It says more about them than it does about us, you know? But it doesn't harm to have a bit of respect sometimes. That's another one I blame television for, and the media. Just because they can't understand us there's no reason why they have to be so condensing, stupid bastards. Tweet fucking tweet. Here's a tip for you though, Ricks, mind me calling you that? One syllable is just easier you know. When the gawpy one comes over sticking his finger in he usually buggers off when you go for him, but sometimes, usually when Cambridge United win and he's feeling more adventurous and he's had a couple tins to celebrate, he'll start teasing you and start wiggling his fingers in and out, he thinks it's funny you see. What you've got to do is wiggle your arse at him. He'll find it oddly amusing at first, then get freaked out by it, human beings you see...they don't get it.
Long pause. Chirpy looks Ricky up and down.
CHIRPY:
Still not keen on talking yet, Ricks? Ricky? I can call you Ricky if you like, sorry to be so forward with the name thing.
Chirpy stares at him for a long while. Something dawns on him.
CHIRPY:
Oh no.
Chirpy flies over to him, and nudges him with his head. Ricky wobbles, but otherwise doesn't react. He repeats the action, same consequence.
He head bangs several times, getting more and more frustrated with each nod.
CHIRPY:
You...you...how could you? I can't believe you...
Chirpy turns directly to the audience.
CHIRPY:
(angry/shouting) What do you think I am, stupid? Oh here's Chirpy, he doesn't have his own mind, he's just a fat tennis ball with claws in the corner that keeps us occupied in times of social awkwardness. He won't notice when we replace his best friend with a plastic fucking toy, he won't notice, he's just a budgie. It will be company for him, look at him, he's been talking to him for the last ten minutes. Bless him, in his harmless cage in the corner that we can ignore if we want to. Well I've got news for you, Barton Family, this isn't a fucking cage, it's a prison, and I'm out of here.
Chirpy starts banging his head towards the audience.
CHIRPY:
(whilst banging) Come on, I know it's Emmerdale but after a few minutes you will notice that the furry toy in the corner is smashing his little beak and eyes against the bars. Come on, fucking look at me, and let me out. I want out. I want to be out there, I can't do this anymore.
After a while Chirpy slows down, sighs, and flies back.
He considers, for a moment, and turns to Ricky.
CHIRPY:
I wonder if they've realised your plastic? Maybe they'll give us food for two?
Suggested ending music: Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead.
***
Love, Awkwardly
I pull away from the nightclub having just dropped my girlfriend off. Outside, the staring gets to me. The staring from the ogling men, the men who, in perhaps an hours time, will be making the move on my precious loved one. You know the types, the men who wear short trousers, the men who show a quarter of their adolescent little chests thinking its attractive to ladies. It’s wrong to call them men, actually, boys is a fair assessment. Because, the difference between men and boys, as I’ve discovered myself in that difficult period of life known as growing up, is naivety. Or is that just optimism? Whatever it was, I didn’t like the looks they were giving me, stepping into the road slightly, jokingly, knowing full well it wouldn’t be just the price of a hub-cab that it would cost me to knock them down.
They’re going to make a move on my girlfriend tonight, I can feel it. She’s decent, and above all of this, merely out on a girls night with her friends, but that doesn’t stop these men, they’ll be persistent, and ruthless, and even convincing in their attacks. “Come on love…I’ve seen your fella, he won’t mind,” that kind of thing.
I drive a nice car, I’m playing music these people wouldn’t understand; modern chamber pop anthems, big glorious orchestras, human emotions, real musicians. I’m playing it loud. “Nice music!” one of them sarcastically belches in the direction of my car, his friends laugh. I take the compliment and only irritate them by smiling. They look threatening, but at the risk of being spotted by the bouncer refrain from smashing my window. I bet they go for my girlfriend instead. Not in a violent way, you understand, she’s just too nice to even consider being rough with, but in a way which would hurt me far more. A way, which, perhaps demonstrates real masculinity.
Perhaps, she’d fall for the quarter of a pubescent chest? The smell of daddy’s best aftershave? That bit of bum-fluff on his top lip? The fact that he promises her a real good time? All of these things that perhaps I don’t do enough. Well, my chest leaves nothing to be desired but hey, I wear nice shirts, who needs a chest when you’ve got a pattern? Aftershave? It only gives me a rash. No girl, unless she’s particularly odd, likes a guy with red blotches on his face. Bum fluff? Well, nothing ever grows there anyway. I’ve always wanted to have a beard, fat chance of that. I reckon my skin doesn’t let the hair through, it’s just stubborn. I’ve got this horrible image in my head of the hairs fighting within my chin to break free, at this moment, obviously the chin is winning. No! You will not grow on me you hairy bastard! I’m staying clean shaven and smart so people think more of me. But where to the hairs go if they don’t grow on your face? Well, they build, inside, and your face starts to get slightly podgy. People comment on it, behind your back, but don’t dare say to your face that you’re looking a bit fat around the head these days, too many of those pork pies from the local butchers at lunch. This has nothing to do with the butchers, or pork pies even, it’s the bloody hairs. It’s only matter of time before the hairs on your chin get revenge. They’ll fight their corner, multiply, and multiply, and get tighter and tighter within your chin, before it spreads to your cheeks, and then your brains. Eventually, possibly at some really unhelpful moment, your face will just explode and gone are the good looks of a maturing artist and here is the new you; a hairy monkey of a man. But anyway, that’s a different fear for another monologue, I’m digressing.
Its the promises of a good time that they offer that scares me. I give her a good time, yeah? Well, I have a good time, and I’m a clever guy with standards. She’s a clever girl with standards, and she smiles a lot, I guess that means she’s enjoying herself as well. But is it a good time? Do women really mind when they are stood, awkwardly, at the pub as I’m chatting to an old friend over a pint? Do they really enjoy themselves when I’m sat, in her lounge, watching Only Fools and Horses repeats? Do they really enjoy KFC? How can they argue about KFC? It arrives quickly, hence the whole fast-food tag, it’s chicken…everyone loves chicken, it’s wholesome, well, bloaty, the same thing. No, I’m safe with the KFC one I think. Am I good in bed? Yeah, I must be. She would have told me by now.
I’m beeped at by a car behind me. It has those awful lines painted on the side, you know the type? The ‘speed’ lines, right down the side. One day somebody will tell them, if they can get through the baseball cap they are wearing, that it won’t make the car go any quicker, it’s just a lick of paint. I can paint ‘Paul is the greatest guy on earth’ on the side of my car if I wished. It wouldn’t make me the greatest guy on earth, it would make me a tosser. Anyway, I’m digressing again. The car was beeping because I have been parked in the middle of the road thinking about what makes a real man and facial hair explosion for about five minutes now and nobody could get past. I look back at the club.
She’s now out of sight. She’s in there, enjoying herself I imagine. Being looked at by real men. I slowly pull away, wondering if she’d want to see me ever again.
Now, my relationship, I tell myself at least, is great. It’s one of trust, and with a big healthy dosage of hope for a long future together. So why, when I drop her off for a girly night, do I feel so terrible? It’s only human after all. I’m sure she doesn’t feel like this when she drops me off down the pub. But then again, we’re men. We chat about engine sizes, and rugby. None of us like rugby, and a car is a car, but we’re men. No, she has no need to feel insecure. And besides, she doesn’t drop me off in nightclubs; the human cattle market, the display window for those looking for cheap love with deceiving lighting, she drops me off down the pub where the only person looking for love is Dirty Les the barman who frankly, can’t even buy love. So the rumour goes anyway.
Being concerned for possibly no reason whatsoever is a strange sensation. It’s neither depressed, happy, really sad, it’s just like a dull headache. I don’t know whether or not to drive like an angry man. You know when you’re angry it’s only natural to drive just that extra five miles an hour quicker, but you rev your engine so loud it makes you sound like you are about to explode? And the person who made you angry looks from their window and feels ashamed that they’ve just done this to you? But I’m not angry. She’s just having a girls night out, she doesn’t mean any harm. And I drive an automatic, it won’t rev loudly anyway. Which gets me angry, and confused, and I get a headache just thinking about it. Instead, I just drive well within the legal speed limit, whilst she’s having a great time, and I feel like a mug.
I hope she doesn’t fall for somebody wonderful in there. It’s a big place, there’s over four hundred people in there. They say that the chances of finding your true ‘one’ is one a million. Well, I say that because I’m a cynic. But what if its one in four hundred? Shit! She’s gonna meet him tonight. And I’m on the road, listening to live radio commentary of
On my ipod, which is attached to my car cassette player, ‘Nothing Hurts’ by Catatonia is playing. It’s a beautiful song; really beautiful. Really delicate, and then it breaks out, and lead singer Cerys Mathews lunges for the note, and her voice cracks ever so slightly, but she just about makes it. Not fully – but it’s the heart, the soul, her pouring out for us - the fickle buying music public. “And if you call I’ll follow after all...” she screams as the song reaches the climax. If this was a pop record they would have replaced this vocal line with an affect of some kind, so it’s perfect, so she hits the note. But that’s not perfect, this is perfect, it’s genuine. My legs quiver at the raw emotion on display, somebody has lent you their soul for a three minute song, its there, on a tiny piece of electronic equipment, it’s so personal, yet so public. As my legs quiver, so do my arms, ever so slightly, and I narrowly avoid running over a badger.
Next up is Wake Me Up Before You Go Go by Wham, I’m reminded of the holiday camps I used to go to as a child with my parents and sister. Dad would always get nominated by us to get a custard pie in his face by a crap comedian, and then my mum would get agitated when he refused to go on stage for his public degrading ceremony. Eventually he would, and everybody would laugh, and he would he in a mood for the rest of the holiday. Happy days. I sing-along, and avoid another badger. I don’t understand why there are so many badgers on the A14 tonight; but to be honest with you it’s dark, and I’m singing, and I don’t have enough capacity in my brain to work out it. They could have been aliens for all I cared. Right now, for a split moment, or the remaining forty-five seconds of this song at least, I’m at a crappy holiday camp in
‘You’re Beautiful’ by James Blunt finds it’s way onto my stereo. Since it’s popularity spread like the plague it’s entrance onto my ipod has been a regretful decision, but it’s one of our songs. We danced to this song ironically. It became our song, one of our many songs. It’s not something I shout about to be honest. I mean, he’s a man with a high voice, that just isn’t right. I sing along.
I hope she doesn’t find someone else tonight. But I’ve got this feeling she will. She looks lovely, she’s wearing the dress that she usually saves for me. I know her other favourite was in the wash, but still, she’s a magnet for attention. If she starts smiling after a couple of drinks hearts will be melting on that dance floor. And she’ll just laugh to her friends, and discuss make up, and possibly tell them what a great boyfriend I am.
And then they’ll tell her she can do better.
And then she’ll deny it.
And then her dream guy will enter the room.
And she’ll get over me in a couple weeks, and live happily ever after with this perfect man she stumbled into. Who smells of nice aftershave, and has a perfect beard. I bet you, I just bet you he’s actually a bastard. You know these men…they’re just all fake. And they’ll claim they’re urban all because they listen to…urban commercial music. But they’re not, they live in nice houses. And have a degree in accounting. You people make me sick. But its just the right level for a girl. He’ll be interesting, but safe, he’d be good looking, but not looking elsewhere. He’d be gentle, but not camp, he’d be manly but never get drunk to the extent it becomes regular. She’ll love him.
Me? I’ll just fall apart I guess. Probably fall in love in about six years time, to a minger. Pretend that I’m happy, just because when you get to early thirties you’re supposed to be happy by now.
We’d have ugly children.
I feel physically sick about my future, its going to happen you know? I’m the type. I thought she understood me, but maybe, after two bottles of ‘Blue Wicked’ she’ll understand other men as well, with beards.
‘Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me,’ by The Smiths. I flick tracks.
I feel so lonely! I start to think about my friends. Who, out of all of them, is going to comfort me in my hour of need? Maybe I’ve talked too much about her, it’s always “oh and then she did this, and then she did that…” perhaps they’re fed up with me? Perhaps in the time that I’ve been spending with her going to the cinema and restaurants and bowling they’ve found other friends? I can see it now, I’d walk in and they’d be like, “Who the hell are you, did we used to go to school with you or something?”
I’ll be left with nothing.
I’m not far off home now, I’m fed up with my ipod as every song makes me feel emotional. I switch to the radio, Swindon v
‘Holding back the years’ by Simply Red. Turn off the ipod.
I’ve lost her. I know I have.
I’m pulling into my driveway when I receive a text message. I had been gone an hour by now, this was the text I had been dreading. The one that would read, ‘My friends are right, it’s not working. And I’ve just met a perfect guy called
I switch off my engine, fetch a tissue and read the text. She’s having an awful time! I’m so happy! Her friends haven’t shown up, she feels a little lost without them. She wants me to pick her up.
I switch on my engine, turn around and break the legal speed limit. I’m going to be her knight in shining armour, be a romantic, awkwardly stumbling into that cattle market and picking her up and taking her away from this dross.
An hour later I’m outside, nervously, anxiously, waiting. I call her. No response. I call her again. Maybe she can’t hear my phone because of the loud music?
I take the scary, and rather stupid step of paying five pounds to enter the club myself in my bid to rescue her from this dross. I’ve already wasted two hours on the road tonight, and now five pounds, all to be a good boyfriend and to save her.
The women at the club are amazing. I’m breathless. I’m shocked, and disgraced with myself for even looking. Sod ‘chamber pop’, have you seen these women? I really, really, can’t breathe.
She finds me, having been waiting on the other side of the car park for the last fifteen minutes. She sees me looking at the other girls, and we argue all the way home. We grab a KFC. We’ll be fine.
***
The Artist
It’s a cold November evening and I’ve just sobered up and fought the rain for about half an hour. It’s just gone midnight, it’s not late for a Saturday night but it’s late enough to help some people go crazy under the influence of cheap beverages, get pissed quick bottles of blue liquid and the booming sound of a failed Ibiza DJ in the local playing his recently purchased Dance Megamix Heavy Hardcore Wicked Special Volume 4 CD in the corner and having the nerve to call himself an artist. My friends have walked home, we all live reasonably close but I’ve been promised a cab in ten minutes from the cab office half an hour ago and I spent a further twenty minutes living in the hope it may actually arrive. I could wait inside the cab office but it’s littered with tracksuit wearing 16 year olds who recently smashed up the local off-licence, they’ve all had three cans each of supermarket cider and are under the illusion they can take on the world. They shout words like bum face at me in the hope I’d be offended and threaten to get violent when I respond with some proper swearing. As much as I’d like to make it clear I am 8 years older than these lightweight kids I realise there is about nine of them and it’s probably best not to start anything. Degraded, I eat soggy chicken from a takeaway box outside served to me buy a guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth as the rain gets heavier and my suede jacket starts to lose it’s texture. But it’s amazing how a little rain can sober a man up, suddenly my mind feels active again after four hours and as many pints with as many mates chatting about how tedious modern living can be, tomorrows big football matches and the size of the barmaids breasts. But suddenly, in the rain, as the chavs laugh at me from the warm inside, and as my chips become a sludgy mess and as the cardboard weakens under the pressure of the intense conditions eventually causing me to drop my second piece of chicken onto the floor, I feel inspired. I feel above the world, lyrics and melodies flow around my brain like a pinball, I’m tired, I’m cold, it’s been a long week but as my mind switches off creative glory pours out of my imagination like thick, glorious custard. Inside one chav is trying to pull another, she says ‘no, I’m not cheap’ and then pulls his best mate. I laugh, I feel above it. My cab arrives.
The journey home was torturous. I’m trying to lock the ideas inside my brain, preserve them for the 7 minute journey home, but it doesn’t seem to be working. They’re just dripping out…ideas of a sitcom about the takeaway chicken seller, ideas about a musical set in the taxi office and all the many faces who come in looking for a lift home. My over analytical brain targets the cab driver, who’s a harmless character, playing blind to the reality that he has a guy in his car with pieces of soggy chicken seemingly melted into his coat, a guy who’s eyes are struggling to stay awake yet his hands and legs are fidgeting like he’s having an epileptic fit. He smiles, somewhat nervously, as I accidentally stare at him for a split second too much. I turn away, I’ve been rumbled but I’ve built up a character profile in my head, this could be worth it. I imagine he’s divorced, with a kid he never sees, and he works as a cab driver just so he can chose his hours and pick up his little boy from school. And because he knows very little else. That’s what I reckon anyway, but as the trip home heads closer to my street I feel like I need to build up a stronger profile so I ask him, rushed and hastily, “So, is this all you do then?” He doesn’t understand, but is polite, he asks me what I mean, I pretend I’m just drunk and give him a tip that warrants my apparent stupidity.
After having typical trouble with my key in the front door, I head into the house, up the stairs and into my bedroom at top speed, stumbling on the top step and giving my chicken to the dog so she doesn’t bark at me and wake up the whole street. I’m still soaking wet, but I can feel a gritty British drama coming on, about a small time cab driver with a double life and how us little drunk fools look down on him but secretly he has the power to change all of our lives. Well aware that this morning, or now, yesterday morning, I have received a further four script rejections, I painfully try to soak up their advice: Paul, you’re writing too quickly, you need to slow down…..Paul, I like this piece, you have a real sense of dialogue but with the exception of your central character the other roles are too two dimensional…Paul, I need to know what drives this character on, what makes him tick…Paul, your subplots are too predictable. I fix myself a caffeine drink and begin writing that masterpiece, it will have depth, and with amazingly unpredictable subplots, with characters with eight dimensions or something crazy like that and they’ll tick along nicely. I look at the clock, it’s nearly 1am and I have a busy weekend, but I can’t stop now, I’m on fire. I switch on my laptop, and stare at the blank screen for about three quarters of an hour.
The next day I am awoken rudely by a headache, throbbing at the bare bones of my skull. One eye opens, followed, about a minute later by the other one. My laptop is on the floor, my chicken-drenched coat is hanging off the door handle. Word is still open on my machine, I get excited for a moment when I can see vaguely from my bed that I did write last night after all, there’s words on the screen. Maybe this is the new way of working? Maybe I am an unconscious genius? Maybe I am that fabulous writer I always knew I was after all? Perhaps getting drunk, standing in the rain for half an hour after four pints and very little sleep is the method I have been searching for all my life? I fall out of bed and crawl over to my laptop and read, heart beating. I realise it’s the biggest load of rubbish I have ever written. I sigh. I go to the bathroom, attempt to throw up. I fail. I go back to bed.
***
An Ambulance Stuck In Traffic.
On stage; Bella and Morgan, both in their twenties. Bella is lying down, Morgan is sat opposite her.
MORGAN:
Shouldn't be too long now.
BELLA:
I hope not. What's the delay?
MORGAN:
Rush hour.
BELLA:
But this is an ambulance. Shouldn’t an ambulance be able to get through?
MORGAN:
Have you seen it out there? There's hundreds of cars. This is an ambulance, not a tank.
BELLA:
But surely?
She clutches her leg.
BELLA:
I'm in such pain.
MORGAN:
(sighs) Oh don't say that. I've only been doing this job for a week. It'll be easy, they said. Wait till I have a word with Mary.
BELLA:
Who's Mary?
MORGAN:
That's another story.
BELLA:
But what if I'm dying? What if I have a blood clot in my leg?
MORGAN:
What good is telling me going to do? I don't know anything. Mary said all I'd have to do is help lift people onto the ambulance and keep chatting to them if it looks like they're in danger.
BELLA:
So you're not qualified then?
MORGAN:
I got a badge.
BELLA:
A badge for what?
MORGAN:
Something or another.
BELLA:
But surely...surely this isn't right?
MORGAN:
They're understaffed. I'm a porter by day, but there's a flu bug going around, they had no choice but to make me do this.
BELLA:
But what if I die?
MORGAN:
Would you stop being so negative please? It's not easy being me you know.
BELLA:
Oh god, what a mess. I blame the NHS...or Tony Blair.
MORGAN:
Fat lot of good that's gonna do right now, isn't it? Go on then, write him a letter. Think he'll actually read it?
BELLA:
What about the driver?
MORGAN:
What about him?
BELLA:
Is he a qualified paramedic?
MORGAN:
Of course he is, he's Steven, of course he's qualified. They wouldn't let us out if neither of us were qualified, that's probably illegal.
BELLA:
Well why isn't he back here with me?
MORGAN:
Because he's driving.
BELLA:
Well couldn't you drive?
MORGAN:
No, they won't let me. I'm just a porter, if I crashed an ambulance there would be all hell to pay.
BELLA:
Couldn’t you at least ask him to have a look at me quickly? What if I'm dying?
MORGAN:
He's driving!
BELLA:
But we're stuck in traffic?
MORGAN:
He's still behind the wheel! Look, it's okay, we're not far away now.
BELLA:
Maybe I'm not far away from my death.
MORGAN:
No need to be so dramatic.
BELLA:
But I...
MORGAN:
...you shouldn't have jumped out of a window, should you?
BELLA:
I was jumping from a fire!
MORGAN:
(unimpressed) That old one.
Long pause.
MORGAN:
Look, it'll be okay. Perhaps we should play a game or something?
BELLA:
A game?
MORGAN:
To take your mind off things?
BELLA:
How about hide and seek?
MORGAN:
Oh, so you're a comedian now, are you?
BELLA:
Just trying to lighten the mood. You're being pretty rude to me, I could report you for this.
MORGAN:
If you live to tell the tale.
BELLA:
Don't say that!
MORGAN:
Well...you've got a grazed knee or something, you're not knocking on deaths door just yet.
BELLA:
So suddenly you're a doctor are you?
MORGAN:
I saw you fall. Wasn't much of a drop.
BELLA:
Well it fucking hurts.
MORGAN:
Don't swear in my ambulance!
Morgan chuckles to himself.
MORGAN:
My ambulance, that sounds good actually.
BELLA:
Are you always like this?
MORGAN:
Like what?
BELLA:
An irritating arsehole.
MORGAN:
As a matter of fact I am. It's my way of getting through the day.
BELLA:
Have you ever heard of sympathy?
MORGAN:
I do sympathy. The other day I had to wheel old Mrs. Randle to have her eye operation, she was in a wheelchair and everything. Her husband had died last year, she'd lost the life in pretty much all of her lower limbs, and some sod had run over her cat that morning. That's the kind of people that deserve sympathy. You hop out of a window because you set fire to your kitchen by being stupid, it wasn't much of a drop, I feel sorry for you because you've probably ruined your cooker and they're not cheap but don't push it.
BELLA:
You're one of the most insensitive people I've ever encountered.
Pause.
MORGAN:
It's only cause I love you.
BELLA:
(horrified) What?
MORGAN:
I said I love you.
BELLA:
You don't know me.
MORGAN:
I do.
BELLA:
Oh my god, you're a weirdo. I'm stuck in the back of an ambulance with a weirdo.
MORGAN:
I do know you. You're Bella Palmer, aren't you?
BELLA:
How do you know my name? Have you been looking at my medical records?
MORGAN:
I'm not allowed to do that. The last time I...actually, best not to tell you that story or else you might not fancy me back.
BELLA:
How do you know me? Have we met before?
MORGAN:
You're on myspace, aren't you?
BELLA:
Yes but...
MORGAN:
...you're friends with a...now, let me think. You're friends with a chap called Lee, aren't you?
BELLA:
Yes, I know Lee, but...
MORGAN:
...he's friends with an unsigned band called The Ruthless Nazis, and my mate Sam is in their top eight friends, so that's how I found you.
BELLA:
That's really scary.
MORGAN:
It's so addictive. I mean...I love people, I love just looking at people's profiles. I'm a people person! I'm interested in other people and their lives. I found your profile in four moves, in the family tree of myspace you're probably a cousin of mine.
BELLA:
Oh my god.
MORGAN:
Can I tell you a secret?
BELLA:
Look, I'm not sure if I should talk to you anymore.
Long pause.
BELLA:
Oh go on then.
MORGAN:
When I saw your profile I pissed myself.
BELLA:
What?
MORGAN:
Because you're so perfect for me.
BELLA:
No I'm bloody not!
MORGAN:
You are, I got so excited. You're within my age range, you like The Red Hot Chilli Peppers. You're local.
BELLA:
The Chilli's are a very popular band.
MORGAN:
But...you seem sweeter than most girls. When I saw your profile I nearly cried with happiness, instead I just wet myself. I always hoped that one day perhaps you'd stumble into my profile and fall in love with me. Have you ever seen it? I'm 'pyjama-kid69'?
BELLA:
I can't say I have.
MORGAN:
That's a shame but I understand, myspace is a pretty big place. Maybe someday?
BELLA:
I don't have that much time.
MORGAN:
How can you not have time for love?
BELLA:
Love? Either you're deluded or just desperate.
MORGAN:
Whatever I am, I know what you are. You're special. I've been watching you online for the past three months. You're virtually perfect. When you started getting comments from ‘Charlie’ I was really paranoid, I thought you'd found a lover, I nearly messaged you but considering we hadn't met in person that wouldn't perhaps have been right. But neither you or this ‘Charlie’ character put kisses on the end of your comments so I guessed you were just friends, yes?
BELLA:
That's none of your business.
MORGAN:
I er...particularly liked that picture of you as a wolf.
She smiles.
BELLA:
Thanks. That was fancy dress.
MORGAN:
It was really nice. It was cheeky. Look, Bella, I was wondering...would you consider being my girlfriend please?
BELLA:
I'll be okay, thanks. I'm not really available.
MORGAN:
Yes you are, it says on your profile that you're single.
BELLA:
But this is not how I do relationships. I'd rather meet the guy first rather than him stalk me on a website.
MORGAN:
But you've met me now and I'm a lovely lad.
BELLA:
Lovely lad? You've been horrible to me the whole journey.
MORGAN:
Only because I love you.
BELLA:
You can't love me! You don't know me.
MORGAN:
I do, I really do. I stare at your profile every night. Desperately, hoping, praying for the day you find me. And when I saw you jump out of that first floor window, and when I realised it would be me sat in the back of this ambulance with you, I knew it was fate.
BELLA:
Or maybe just a kitchen fire?
MORGAN:
But you must admit that was more than coincidence?
BELLA:
No, I'm pretty sure it's just a coincidence. Well, that's one word for it anyway. Another would be just 'bloody unlucky'.
MORGAN:
That’s two words. It's fate, I tell you. Please go out with me? We'll be brilliant together, we can go to dinner like couples do, and throw bread at the ducks in the park.
BELLA:
No. I'm sorry but it's a definite no.
Pause.
MORGAN:
Please?
BELLA:
No.
Longer pause. He stands and prods her leg. She screams in pain. He remains standing.
MORGAN:
(deeply upset, shouting) You're ugly anyway.
BELLA:
My leg! My leg!
MORGAN:
(looks at it) It's swelling up I think.
BELLA:
Is it? Oh my god!
MORGAN:
Actually no it's not. It's just fat.
She moans in more pain.
MORGAN:
You had no right to reject me.
BELLA:
(still struggling) I had every right.
He sits down and considers.
MORGAN:
I'm sorry. You're not that ugly.
BELLA:
Thanks.
MORGAN:
No problem.
Pause.
MORGAN:
You don't know what its like, do you?
BELLA:
Don't know what what's like?
MORGAN:
Being me. My parents have emigrated to
BELLA:
I never asked for any of this.
MORGAN:
You bitch.
BELLA:
Please, there's no need to react like this...
He stands.
MORGAN:
...you're just the same as every other girl, aren't you?
BELLA:
Probably yes, if you act like this to them.
MORGAN:
You're special.
BELLA:
Thanks but...but...
She clutches her leg again and is clearly in pain. Morgan panics, realising it's for real.
MORGAN:
Bella? Bella?
BELLA:
(fighting to get the words out) Just do something...
Morgan turns to his right.
MORGAN:
(shouting) Steven. Turn on the siren and get us out of here, I think we're losing her.
She passes out.
***
Letters To Sparkle.
Sparkle, 20’s, artistic and charming, stands in one corner of the room.
At the other end, Kevin, 20’s, scruffy, stands.
In the middle of the room there is a chair, and a blanket.
KEVIN:
January 15th 2005, lunchtime. Hi Sparkle, how are you? Just thought I’d say hi, I know it’s been a while but you know, just wanted to see how you are, how’s life at University treating you? I trust all is well. Let me know how you’re doing. (pause) Please. All is okay here, now working for a national administration company doing all sorts of boring paper work stuff, guess it pays the bills. Anyway, won’t ramble too much as it’s lunch and I’ve got a lovely pork pie to eat. With a bag of crisps. And a can of lemonade. And some dips. Got to go, hope to hear from you soon, your friend, Kevin.
SPARKLE:
January 22nd 2005, a week later, evening. Kevin! Hi! Hey ho, it’s been too long! Lovely to hear from you (Kevin wriggles with excitement), how’s things with the job? Hope you enjoyed your lunch. All is brilliant here thanks, having a crazy time, such lovely people, can’t stress how much I’m enjoying myself here. Working a bit too hard but that’s art for you I guess. Looks like I’m going to be an art teacher! Well, that’s the plan at least. Anyway, keep in touch, regards to your family and hope to hear a full update from the world of Kevin very soon. Love, Sparkle.
KEVIN:
January 22nd 2005, ten minutes later. Hey! Always nice to hear your voice. Even if it’s just in an email. You know I can just kind of tell that this is you, you know. If you even sent letters to me in the post I’d bet they’d smell of perfume. Alas, when letters are sent via the electronic form you can’t really smell them. Well, you could, but my parents would be a bit concerned with me if I started smelling the PC monitor. And if I printed them out I’d get ink on my face because I’ve got cheap cartridges brought 3 for twelve pounds. I guess I could print them out, leave them in a hot room for an hour, then squirt something nice, like deodorant, over them. And then smell it, and read it, as if we were war-time lovers, sending letters to each other to keep our spirits up. (pause) I’m still single. But hey, you know, plenty of fish in the sea and one of these days I may even learn to swim so I can get right in there and go for it without the fear of drowning. How are you anyway? Sorry to ramble all along about me, me, me.
SPARKLE:
February 11th 2005, evening. Hey! Howdy! Sorry for the late reply, been so busy here, it’s been like a party a night since I joined. Drinking lots of black coffee! Wow, where was your exhibition? That’s brilliant news, hope it all went well? I’m not sure I understand your thing about the smelly letters, but I’m sure it all makes perfect sense in Kevin-land so I don’t mind. Nice to know you’re keeping well after everything that happened on your birthday last year. (long pause) Anyway, Eastenders about to start and you know how much I love my Eastenders! Hope to hear from you soon, love, Sparkle.
KEVIN:
February 11th 2005, seven minutes later. Hey, as always a pleasure to hear from you. The exhibition wasn’t a huge success actually, I held it in my garage and we opened it to the general public. Only two people turned up to look at my paintings; our next door neighbour who said it looked like I just shat at the wall from a great height, and some guy who stole my dad’s tools. Still, it’s on the CV at least. (pause) I’m still single. I think I’ll be single forever. But mustn’t grumble. I’m sorry once again for what happened at my birthday last year, I probably didn’t apologise enough for what happened but, well I’m sorry. And I’ll do my best to apologise to your friends as well if I’m ever lucky enough to have the opportunity to meet them again. Anyway, let’s brush that one under the carpet if at all possible. I really hope it is, I mean, it was just alcohol, and some 70’s music. And an unwanted and perhaps unwarranted romantic gesture involving a pink cow. And those magic words, ‘what do you reckon?’. It wasn’t a proposal of marriage, I promise! I know that’s what it might have looked like but ‘what do you reckon’ could have been relating to anything, not just the two people on top of a wedding cake that was in the picture. I can see how this would have looked but…surely we can all forget about this and pretend it never happened? I’ve forgotten all about it already! Although I am very sorry, but I meant it, but…sorry, I won’t ever embarrass you again. All gone! Let’s not mention that sorry night in April ever again! All is okay here, went to a speed dating session the other night but all of the women there looked like elephants. None of them are a patch on you. (Sparkle’s head drops) Look, I was wondering, Sparkle. Would you like to be my guest at my work’s Christmas party this year? I know it’s only February but still, if you could let me know I’ll reserve your place. Full dinner, wine, the works. Anyway, off now to grow a beard, apparently that makes me look like a proper artist. Yesterday when I told a lady I like to paint she offered me twenty quid to paint her fence. I tried to retain my artistic integrity by painting a lovely picture of a sparrow of it, then she started crying, then her husband threatened me with a knife until I pained it all white. So yeah, a beard might give people the right impression to what kind of painter I actually am. Take great care and sorry again about my birthday, Kevin.
SPARKLE:
Late April 19th 2005, early evening. Hey Kevin, how are you? Sorry for the late reply, been so busy here. Just thought I’d say hi, so much to tell you but so little time! Just checking you’re okay, that’s all. Speak soon, Sparkle.
KEVIN:
Late April 19th 2005, three and a half minutes later. Hey Sparkle. Lovely, lovely, lovely as always to hear from you! What’s been keeping you so busy then? I’m intrigued. Look, I don’t mean to hassle but would you be interested in being my guest at my Christmas party? I know it’s a long way off yet but it’s not really when you think about it, 8 months is nothing in the high-speed world of filing legal documents. I’d really love it if you could join me? All exciting here, although I can’t specifically think why. Perhaps it’s because I just got an email from you! Only joking. (pause) I’m still single. Anyway, you sound busy so I’ll be a decent friend to you and let you get on with whatever it is that is making you so busy. Hope to hear from you soon, Kevin.
Long pause.
KEVIN:
May 11th 2005, late afternoon. Hi Sparkle, it’s Kevin. How’s you? Hope all is well. Not going to mention it again but I’m now on the committee meeting for the Christmas Ball, we’re looking to put on a band, and there’s even talk of it being themed, like James Bond, or something. Sounds fun. I suggested it should be skateboard stars of the late nineties, but nobody voted for that idea. People just don’t understand me. I think you understand me, don’t you? Even though we’ve not actually met for over a year. But I can just tell, by the tone of your emails that you understand me. You’re one of my only hopes in this horrid, culture-starved society, no pressure or anything but you really are! But seriously, no pressure. Anyway, I guess you’re busy, so won’t keep you. As much as I’d like to keep you, perhaps in a little cupboard or something. I’m not strange, or anything, that was just a joke. A bad joke, that must have looked weird. It wasn’t, I’m not. Shit, perhaps I should just start typing this again. But you know, I write as I talk, and I feel that’s the most natural way of doing things. I mean, Christ, if we could go back and delete everything that’s wrong that we say just after we said it and somehow have the ability to make sure the person you’ve just said it to has no recollection of it, then I’d probably never talk at all. I’m rambling now. Best get back to the beard growing. Really hope to see you soon, take care, Kevin.
Long pause.
KEVIN:
July 6th, 2005, early evening. Hi Sparkle, it’s Kevin. Guess what, I’ve just got MSN! Fancy seeing you here, how are you?
SPARKLE:
July 6th 2005. Within ten minutes. Kevin! MSN’s such a small world. I’m okay thanks, how are you?
KEVIN:
July 6th 2005. Straight away. I’m brilliant thanks. Well, not much happening but you know…keep on keeping I guess. I hate that phrase actually. I thought you were ignoring me, you’d not replied for ages to my emails. Are you okay?
SPARKLE:
July 6th 2005. Ten minutes later. Hi Kevin. Of course I’ve not been ignoring you, silly! It’s just I’ve been really busy. Been on teacher training, been fun, kids are fun! (Kevin smiles proudly) In my spare time, whenever I do get any, I’ve been seeing my boyfriend Andy in Hampshire (Kevin is distraught). Anyway, must dash, have to be up early in the morning, going to try and master the underground for the first time in like…years! Have an appointment with my mentor at Kings Cross at 10am as well so thought I’d get a few hours in going around on trains and stuff, crazy I know! Sleep well, we can talk properly soon.
KEVIN:
July 6th 2005. Literally seconds later. Sparkle. Please don’t go offline, please, not yet. I need to talk to you.
SPARKLE:
July 6th 2005. Three minutes later. Look, Kevin, we can talk soon. I’m really sorry, just got such an early start in the morning.
KEVIN:
July 6th 2005. Instantly. But Sparkle, you’ve got a boyfriend.
SPARKLE:
July 6th 2005. Instantly. And?
KEVIN:
July 6th 2005. Instantly. And I…never mind. I just thought, well, for what it’s worth. I love you, I have done ever since I first set eyes on you in that dreadful excuse for a nightclub. I guess this Andy that you’ve met is your everything but… I’d just thought I’d let you know.
Brief pause.
KEVIN:
July 6th 2005. Ten minutes later. That’s goodbye then I guess. Thanks anyway, you kept me going for a long time. Take care.
Very long pause.
KEVIN:
July 7th 2005, 11am. Sparkle. I promise you I’m not stalking you or anything. Please just let me know you’re safe. You said you were going on the train this morning, I saw on the news about the terrorist attacks. You don’t have to talk to me ever again, just let me know you weren’t one of the…well, please just let me know you’re okay. Thank you. Kevin.
***
Sparkle sits down on the chair. She is sat upright, she puts the blanket over her legs.
Kevin walks in, confident.
KEVIN:
Hi, darling.
He perches next to her.
KEVIN:
How’s your day been?
SPARKLE:
You ask me that everyday.
KEVIN:
It’s what couples do isn’t it? And I’m still so happy that I’m half of the afore mentioned couple.
SPARKLE:
But we’re not like a normal couple, are we?
Kevin considers and sighs.
KEVIN:
But you could argue I’m not strictly a normal guy. I don’t drink beer, I don’t look at other women’s breasts…
SPARKLE:
…you bloody do!
KEVIN:
I don’t.
SPARKLE:
Look, its fine if you do. You’re human.
KEVIN:
(smiles) Thanks.
Pause.
SPARKLE:
But don’t you just wish…sometimes, we did things normally?
KEVIN:
What fun would that have been?
SPARKLE:
Look, Kevin, is this right?
KEVIN:
Are you having one of your guilty moments again?
SPARKLE:
Don’t put it like that, Kevin. I’m being serious.
KEVIN:
Look, I’m serious. Serious about you. I love you.
SPARKLE:
And I love you too. But don’t you ever wish that sometimes we…sometimes we did things the normal way?
KEVIN:
We did…kind of. We met in a club, I fell in love with you. That’s pretty typical, isn’t it?
SPARKLE:
But I didn’t fall for you until you…well. Until you became my carer.
KEVIN:
I’m a caring kind of guy!
SPARKLE:
You know what I mean.
He sighs.
KEVIN:
Look, why did you feel the need to bring this up now?
SPARKLE:
Because I feel guilt, Kevin, proper guilt.
KEVIN:
Guilt for what? You’ve got nothing to be guilty for, it’s those fucking terrorists that should be feeling guilty.
SPARKLE:
Maybe guilt isn’t the right word. Look, when Michelle was wheeling me around
KEVIN:
…hey look, that’s fine. Cards don’t really mean anything as long as…
SPARKLE:
…there was loads of cards, Kevin. But just nothing that could possibly ever say what I feel for you. Michelle was like ‘just get him that one, it’s romantic’ but she didn’t get it, clearly. There isn’t a card in that store that describes what I feel for you. You were the only one, Kevin, the only one that stuck by me when I…when things became different. I love you, I’ve grown to love you. But the guilt is the way I played you along for the first two years, knowing you were a nice lad, a bit strange, but…nobody deserves to be treated the way I treated you.
Long pause.
KEVIN:
Did you go to Woolworths instead then?
SPARKLE:
Sorry?
KEVIN:
For the card? They sometimes have a good selection, maybe they…
SPARKLE:
…they didn’t have what I wanted. And when I described to the girl in ‘Cards Zone’ what I wanted, she just didn’t understand.
She smiles widely.
SPARKLE:
So we went back to Woolworths, got some paper, and I drew it for you myself.
KEVIN:
What’s this?
SPARKLE:
Happy birthday.
He opens the envelope and takes out a piece of paper. He smiles ecstatically.
KEVIN:
A pink cow! With a completely random romantic gesture inside!
SPARKLE:
Well, what do you reckon?
Number 12 And Her Amazing Sheep Revolution
Baa, baa, baa. This is easy. Baa, baa, baa. In fact, if I may, baa, baa, baa. I love it! I’m not gonna eat any grass though, that would just be going one step too far. Listen, don’t tell anyone, but I’m gonna sneak off in a minute and buy a Snickers. Hope they don’t notice. In the meantime, I’m just gonna baa for a bit. This is great, baa. Look at me…baa. And can you smell the air? Isn’t it lovely? It’s a lovely sunny day, this just feels right. And of course I’ve got my friends here too, I don’t know their names but they have numbers painted on their backs which I think is a pretty good way of living actually. You know how people can sometimes judge you just by your name? Like…she’s called Victoria Barren-Smith, that’s a double barrelled name, she must be posh. Or, she’s called
I’m bored. I want to watch Eastenders. No! What’s up with me? How could I say that? Going to wash my mouth out with fresh grass. What’s got in to me? You bastards…how dare you inject all these media fads into my brain. I don’t want to care about this. I only have limited brain space you know? Why should I waste it with domestic ramblings that don’t actually exist? It’s crazy. Yet I do. And there’s this horrible magnetic side of me that is trying to suck me back into it, and my brain is saying no, don’t do it number 12, my heart is just confused and somehow I’m edging back. To the Queen Vic, to the Rovers Return. They say it’s therapeutic you know, it’s a break from the stress of our normal lives. It’s like watching reality television shows, you can just switch off from your own issues that are dominating your soul and watch a bunch of attention seeking morons satisfy their attention seeking moronic desires in front of millions.
So, let’s get this straight, your head is cluttered from sales figures and car insurance and mother-in-law digs at the way you cook for your husband. “He doesn’t like his potatoes too hot you know, how about putting some grated cheese over his beans? Oh and he rang me the other day saying he’s not had one his favourite beef pies for over three months now…” and so you clutter your head with somebody else’s rubbish? It’s like intending to clear your flat out for a fresh start but instead going to a car boot sale and buying everyone else’s crap. And health farms? You’re paying to relax! Just go and stand in a field like me, it’s great, it’s free, you make friends like number 3 and number 17. They won’t let you down.
Baaa, baaa. Baaaaaaaa. I’m learning you know, it’s going to be a perfect baaa in a couple of days. From the heart. That’s therapeutic. Letting it all out…baaa. So many people question the meaning of our existence, it’s only natural, but so little people actually do anything about it. These sheep, right, they’ve got the right idea. Nobody, and I mean, nobody, is gonna make them sit in a stuffy office at 30 degrees, praying that 5pm comes sooner, wishing their lives away. Working heartlessly for weeks, and weeks, only to earn the money to pay for a week in the sun, and then back to the dross again. Christmas comes, you get pressured to buy relatives you don’t like presents, they get pressured to buy you presents you don’t like, you don’t get pissed for the fun of it you get pissed to forget about it. And then you’re back in the office, it’s January and you’re already looking at holiday brochures for August. I’m not having this any more, I want fun now, and I want to be happy now, I want to know how to relax properly. There’s no one hassling me here, come on join the revolution! What are they going to do? They can’t kill us can they? Air conditioning in a car isn’t real air, desk fans aren’t real air. This is real air, and it’s free. Gym fees are so expensive, it’s like they’re trying to put us off fitness or something. Don’t do it! Come out here with me and jump on the spot with me, I’m free!
My other name is Sarah. I’m 33 and I’ve been standing in this field for four days now. I love it. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Okay, so I want chocolate but you know, I’ve had 33 years of wanting chocolate, I’ll get over that, I’ll go all natural on you soon. I’m breathing well, I’m happy. Come and join my amazing sheep revolution soon. Please. Please. I’m tired of only saying baaa all day.
