password Tom
POTEEN by Tom O’Brien
I was weaned on country music, Elvis and large dollops of raw West-of-Ireland poteen. The indiscriminate lighting of matches in the vicinity of
Hickeystown could have had a disastrous effect on the population had anybody
but known it. Fortunately, no one gave it a second thought.
Poteen is the elixir that drives men mad and makes greyhounds run faster.
It is also useful for easing rheumy joints in cattle, horses and other beasts of
burden. Its madness- inducing properties were confirmed many years ago when
my grandfather had a vision. In the vision he saw gold; large quantities of it, on
top of Tory hill, an ugly limestone carbuncle that did its best to hide
Hickeystown from the rest of civilization.
Two days of feverish digging – aided and abetted by most of the ablebodied men in the village – produced nothing except two rusty bicycle wheels,
a dead sheep and a dozen bottles of poteen. Long afterwards it emerged that the
poteen was grandfather’s. He had forgotten where he had buried it and dreamed
up the scheme in an effort to locate it.
However, by that time the harm was done; madmen and poteen were
synonymous.
That it made greyhounds run faster was undoubtedly true. I witnessed it
many times with my own eyes. My uncle Jack kept a couple of them for a
pastime, and when he wanted them to run faster at the flapping tracks he
frequented, he always laced their water with a drop beforehand. This worked
well for a long time before someone figured out his secret. In the end every
dog was running so fast that- as he himself put it – they were meeting
themselves coming back before they got there. He settled for a couple of Jack
Russells after that.
Being illegal, it fell to the Gardai to discourage its manufacture. They
knew who was making it of course – indeed they were occasional customers
17
themselves – and periodically they would make a sweep of the outlying areas.
When you saw them heading for the hills, wellies slung over their shoulders, an
axe in their hands, you knew the hunt was on. This mode of dressing was
particularly noticeable in the weeks leading up to Christmas
Uncle Jack and my father chopped down trees for a living, and if they
supplemented their wages with the manufacture of a little ‘moonshine’, sure what
was the harm? Like all good traditions it had been handed down through the
generations; making it was just as natural as going to Mass on Sunday. The back
of Tory hill was the ideal location for their activities; a forestry plantation,
remote, and with plenty of spring water gurgling its way downwards from a
spring on the top.
Many is the day I spent there, reducing the trees to manageable sizes with
the aid of a chainsaw, hauling the logs down to the roadside with the aid of a
horse. Here, they were removed to the nearby chipboard factory by more horsepower – a lorry mounted with a hydraulic grab. In time I learned how to operate
the grab – and how to make poteen.
I am not going to reveal how it is made – some rituals are sacred –
suffice to say that it involves the use of a propane burner, a worm (a copper
tube coiled in a certain way), running water, and , of course, the ingredients.
When the concoction is bubbling merrily it has to be watched and nurtured,
and regularly monitored as to the timing and the proportions of the ingredients
added. (Uncle Jack once got his calculations wrong and several bottles
concealed in the saddlebag on his bicycle exploded as he was passing the
Garda station. Luckily it was closed at the time).
However, finding spots inaccessible to the Gardai became more difficult
as time went by. There were only a finite number of places that could be
utilized, and they would eventually run out. The use of decoy stills was
successful for a while, but as well as the extra costs involved it was a timeconsuming diversion. Eventually the day arrived when the Gardai marched past
the decoys. The days of poteen-making on Tory hill were over.
Which brings me to the music. (ah, I hear you say, I wondered when he’d
18
get round to the music). Country music, rock-n-roll and poteen, a potent mix
when ‘played’ by dad and uncle Jack in their band ‘The Moonshiners’.
The band, too, was a tradition. The brainchild of my grandfather, it
originally comprised of a fiddler, an accordionist and a bodhran player, and
was guaranteed to liven up wakes, weddings and other social diversions.
It still did that, but had added a guitarist and drummer to its ranks, and
had become electric instead of acoustic. This new ensemble needed a place to
practice, and when the parish priest offered them the now-defunct Temperance
Hall they were delighted. Afterwards they discovered that it wasn’t entirely
generosity that had prompted the offer; the church was the only building in the
village with walls thick enough to keep out the sound and practice
night saw a big attendance at evening devotions. The hall was also only four
doors away from the Garda station and that, too, tended to close early on
rehearsal nights.
It was the discovery of an underground stream beneath the cellars of the
hall that gave uncle Jack the idea. Now that Tory hill was redundant a new
venue was needed for making the poteen – and where better than right under
the noses of the Gardai? They could search the countryside high and low and
they would find nothing. They did too, but for the next five years all their
efforts were in vain.
Practice nights were still rigidly adhered to, but now the music that blared
from behind the locked doors was usually pre-recorded, while my father and
uncle were busy in the cellars. Their activities would probably still be
undiscovered to this day if it wasn’t for the fire. The cause of the fire is still a
mystery; a foraging wild animal knocking over the burner perhaps? but it
gutted the hall, destroying everything inside. What hadn’t burnt melted in the
intense heat generated by the potent mixtures in the cellar. A heady alcoholic
cloud hung over the village for the best part of a day, leaving nobody in any
doubt as to what had been going on.
19
The Garda Sergeant took it in good spirit (I know, a pun) considering
everything, but there wasn’t much else he could do when all the evidence had
been destroyed. Still, nobody was surprised when he was moved to a new post
shortly afterwards.
Father and Uncle Jack decided to quit while they were ahead, and they
put what money they had saved into a fish farm. They are cleaning up these
days selling fresh mussels to the best restaurants in Dublin and Cork.
And me? These days I front the band. We are still called ‘The
Moonshiners’, though I guess our brand of heavy rock would have grandfather
rolling in his grave if he could hear us. Still, it’s a living.
And I still make the poteen. Oh, not the illegal sort, but a carefully
blended, beautifully bottled concoction that is made under license in the now
re-built Temperance Hall.
The next time you stop off at Shannon Airport pop into the duty-free and
buy a bottle.
It is called Uisce Beatha – Water Of Life.
END.
THE HOMECOMING by Tom O’Brien
Did you ever see a hill shrink? I mean get physically smaller bit by bit until there was nothing left. To an occasional observer like myself it was probably more of a culture shock than if I had been present throughout its gradual disintegration. But then, I only saw it every few years or so – when I came home on holidays from New York. And every time there was another big chunk of it gone. Things like that tend to stick in your mind.
It’s hard to describe how I felt about that hill. It was like one of the family. I grew up with it. In the morning when I woke it would be there, looking down into our haggard. A Jekyl and Hyde character; in the winter dark and foreboding, the mists clinging to its girth; in the summer smiling down on us children, beckoning us up into its warm embrace.
It never had a name, just The Hill. Mornings, before we left for school, mother would shout at one of us to run to the Hill and fetch some milk from Nellie. Nellie was our goat, and I think she liked The Hill better than our haggard. The grazing wasn’t any sweeter up there, she just like the view.
She wasn’t the only one. In summer we couldn’t wait to get home from school, divest ourselves of our school clothes, and climb up there. There were five of us; my brother Seamus and myself, Frances and her two brothers, Billy and Josie. We called our gang the Red Devils, which had Fr Dunphy sucking on his teeth when he first heard mention of the name. Frances was always kissing me, which I didn’t care much for at the time.
The Hill was our territory. Nobody could play there unless we invited them. Once, we fought a running battle with some other kids who tried to muscle in. We soon scattered them with a hail of stones. That battle established it as our kingdom. My father said we almost owned it anyway; the big farmer to whom it really belonged letting him have the use of it for ten shillings a year.
Clustered round its bottom were whitewashed cottages, the occasional bungalow, the pub, the creamery, and a galvanised shack occupied by a witch. Behind the hill ran the railway line, and the level crossing, which was manned by Frances’ father. Their house was part of the railway, and their front room was a mass of levers and cables.
We had a secret place on the Hill, a cave beneath an outcrop near its top. You had to crawl on your belly to gain entrance because its mouth was guarded by several scraggy furze bushes. We could have cut them down of course, but then we could have hidden inside and watched the goings-on below us.
The pub was the centre of the social activity. On summers evenings there was open-air dancing on a makeshift stage in the field adjacent to the pub. Old time waltzes and set dances were the favourites. The accordion player sat on a chair playing his tunes, polishing off large bottles of porter as fast as they were put in front of him. If playing was thirsty work then dancing was thirstier, and there was a constant stream of revellers shunting between pub and dance area. From our vantage point we watched the dancers fling back their heads and swing their partners round and round, their shoes pounding on the timber, their shouts of joys ripping through the warm summer’s evening.
In the winter, the travelling shows came and pitched their tents in the same field, and entertained us for a few weeks with a mixture of comedy, drama and music. Badly-acted plays and out-of-key singers warmed us up on many a cold night at the foot of the Hill.
My cousin, Nora, took a fancy to one of the travelling showmen and began taking him up to our hiding place when the show was over. We didn’t think much of that. One summer’s evening we heard her screaming up on the Hill. We found her in the cave, surrounded by a pool of blood. When the doctor came he took away something in a bag, and later on I saw my father heading across the fields with a shovel on his shoulder. The show never came by again.
As we grew older I began returning Francis’s kisses. Now it was our turn to use the cave late at night!
I had just turned seventeen when the bulldozers moved in. Shortly afterwards explosive experts began blowing up bits of the Hill, and the quarrying began in earnest. Soon there was a sprawling complex of dust-shrouded buildings, machines eating away at the Hill, and convoys of trucks bumping across the stony ground. Before long, the trees had turned grey, and the trains had stopped running.
My father cried as he watched the Hill disappear before his eyes. The big farmer was sympathetic, but merely shrugged his shoulders; times were hard, and anyway, what use was a lump of rock to a farmer? Father sold his smallholding, his sheep and his goats, and took a job in the quarry. Very soon Seamus and myself followed. Seamus was installed at the weighbridge, assisting with the dockets because he had a head for figures. Somebody must have reckoned I had a head for heights – because I was given the task of carrying the equipment for the men who set the charges. Every evening, just before six, the birds rose from the Hill like dust from a carpet, and shortly afterwards the silence was shattered by a series of thunderclaps. Another bit of the Hill gone west.
It was shortly after my eighteenth birthday that Frances and Seamus died. To the jaws of New York I ran; my solitary suitcase filled with the rags of my youth, a bottle of holy water, and a pile of Kit Carson and Johnny Mac Brown comics. Away from the grief choking my lungs, and the red staining the grey rocks brown. Away from the haunted thing staring at me from every reflective surface, and from the silent screams riding every breeze that tugged at the Hill’s battered face. Away to Uncle Willie.
I saw many sights in New York, dreamed a thousand dreams, and knew real loneliness for a time. The icy mistrals that periodically sweep down the great canyons of Broadway and the Bronx were warm compared to me. I was a rock. I was an island. My days were spent constructing fashionable patios around stucco-ed buildings with ornate entrances and moneyed owners, my nights in Uncle Willie’s counting house. In time, his small building firm became my large construction company. Occasionally, when time permitted, I would come and watch the Hill grow smaller.
………………
All quiet here now. The bulldozers and bedlam-makers have gone. And so too has the Hill. Erased from the skyline in thirty short years. A covering of topsoil hides some of the scars; here and there conifers and shrubs attempt to breathe new life into the pock-marked, lunar-like surroundings. In the centre a square of green, vivid against the drab background, seems strangely out of place. Even more incongruous is the white building, rising like a Phoenix from the embers, its five fluted columns standing like sentinels beneath its awning, its flanks guarded by a colonnade of progressively-sloping evergreens.
The pub still stands at the crossroads, grown larger and more prosperous over the years, and the creamery has expanded to become a cheese-making factory. Of the level crossing and the railway there is no visible sign, although a cursory search would reveal the tracks still intact beneath the undergrowth. Most of the cottages have gone; replaced by new houses – many more of them – and the city, once more than five miles away, is now within spitting distance.
I look around me and shiver suddenly. The ghosts of yesterday clamouring for attention once more. The Red Devils scampering up that ungainly lump of granite. Voices drifting in the wind; “look what I found, look what I found!”. Dogs, rabbits, burrows, names etched in flint. Soft hair, silky thighs, music and laughter aloft on the breeze. Then another excursion. This time two people heading for the secret place, and another figure – hidden – watching. An explosion. The evening turning crimson. Two coffins submerged beneath a garden of flowers. A funeral cortege stretching further than the eye could see…Oh Frances, why? You and Seamus…Oh God! I never meant for it to end like that…
A voice at my elbow brings me back to the present.
“I found the keys in my briefcase. Everything alright?”
I look at the man wearing the thick horn-rimmed glasses. Was this tubby little estate agent really the boy I had played cowboys and indians with all those years ago? Staked out on a warm rock as the rest of us chanted and danced around him?
“Yes”, I smile, “Everything is fine now Josie”.
He hands me the bunch of jangling keys. “The keys to the Hill, Bernie. Welcome home”
end
STREET CORNER
By
Tom O’Brien
Characters
Shirl….teens
Jan…..teens
Al……teens
Kev…teens
NWM ….40’s
Period 1980’s
A street somewhere in London. ( Location can be changed if desired) Empty shop with FOR SALE sign. Garage attached to end of shop with door missing. Strewn with rubbish inside. Pavement – and presumably road – runs away to right of stage.. Another road runs at right angles to left of stage. The actors are free to stand, sit, or move within the setting as the action progresses. SHIRL, JAN and AL are on stage at curtain rise.
SHIRL: You go.
AL: No, you go.
SHIRL: No-o, you go.
AL: You go.
JAN: Bleedin’ hell! I’ll go
SHIRL: Alright. Get me a coke. Diet.
AL: Yeah. The same.
JAN: (not moving) Well Then?
AL: Well what?
JAN: Money like. It costs ya know.
AL: (hands her a fiver) Get ‘em out of that.
SHIRL: ‘Ere! Where’d you get a fiver? You was skint earlier
AL: Sold a computer game, didn’t I?
SHIRL: (suspicious) ‘Oo to?
AL: Fat Annie
SHIRL: She closes early Thursdays
AL: She didn’t today. Ask Kev.
Jan has moved away at this point. Shirl shouts after her.
SHIRL: Jan! Make mine a lilt instead (To Al) Where is Kev anyway? We said six.
AL: He’ll be here.
SHIRL: Is it true he fancies Nadine?
AL: Nadine who?
SHIRL: The Nadine. The one who told you to sod off at the party.
AL: She never.
SHIRL: She wouldn’t be seen dead with him anyway. She likes a good time.
AL: What are you doing here then?
SHIRL: Who says I’m goin’ with Kev?
AL: Aren’t you?
KEV saunters up at this point.
KEV: Alright?
AL: Alright.
SHIRL: You’re late.
KEV: Me mum’s sick. I had to do the housework.
SHIRL: That’s a laugh!
KEV: Okay, I was robbing a bank.
SHIRL: They’re closed, stupid.
KEV: A launderette then. Will that do?
Jan returns with the drinks at this point.
JAN: You’re late.
KEV: She already said that.
JAN: Well, you are.
Kev watches her handing out the drinks.
KEV: Where’s mine?
JAN: You weren’t here.
KEV: I’m here now.
SHIRL: Come on, Jan, we’ll get another.
After they go, Kev gets out his cigarettes out and they light up. Al offers his coke.
AL: You get it?
KEV: Yeah. Fifteen squids. You already got a fiver, so if I give you another that makes us quits. Right? ( he hands over a fiver)
AL: (trying to work it out) Yeah, yeah. (pause) And she called you a thicko!
KEV: Who did?
AL: Her. That Nadine.
KEV: (laughs) Plankton head
AL: Plankton?
KEV: That’s what they called her at school. Plankton head. Y’know… seaweed? Her hair?
AL: (vague) Oh, right
Shirl and Jan return. Shirl hands a coke to Kev
SHIRL: Don’t say I never give you nuffing.
She shoves the change in Kev’s pocket. He takes it out and counts it.
SHIRL: It’s all there.
JAN: Guess what?
KEV: You’re pregnant.
JAN: Don’t be stupid. Someone nicked all the lead of the church hall roof last night.
SHIRL: Yeah. Old what’s-is-name, the neighbourhood watch bloke, was sayin’ in the shop…
JAN: I thought roofs was all slates?
KEV: Flashing.
JAN: You what?
KEV: The flashing. The bits that go round the edges. They’re lead.
SHIRL: Clever, ain’t ya!
JAN: What’s anyone want to nick that for?
AL: Scrap metal. There’s money in scrap metal.
SHIRL: Yeah? Anyway, he reckons they’re bound to catch whoever done it. They found a knife up there…
Al drops his coke.
AL: Shit! (he picks it up) Sod this. Who wants a beer?
JAN: I thought we was goin’ to the pictures?
KEV: Plenty of time yet. (pause) Comin’ Al?
They move away. Jan takes a mirror from her purse and studies her face.
JAN: Which on d’ya fancy then, Shirl?
SHIRL: Which one d’you fancy?
JAN: You first.
SHIRL: No, you.
JAN: Kev’s nice.
SHIRL: You fancy him?
JAN: Yeah.
SHIRL: I know. Let’s toss (searches her bag) You got ten pee?
Jan hands her ten pee.
SHIRL: Best of three, right? (she tosses)
JAN: Heads.
Jan gives a squeal of delight when she wins. She loses the next two and makes a face.
JAN: Your hair is nice. Where’d you get it done?
SHIRL: Me sister’s. I nearly died. I’m stiin’ there with all this gunk on my head and he comes in. You know, TONY, her fella? And she goes ‘you’re drunk’, and he goes’ you’re ugly but I’ll be sober later’. Then she goes, ‘you pig’., and he goes…
JAN: And was he?
SHIRL: Was he what?
JAN: Drunk.
SHIRL: I s’pose so. He kissed me when she was out of the room.
JAN: He never! You want to be careful. Married men only want one thing.
SHIRL: They ain’t married, are they. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind. He’s kinda hunky…
Shirl pauses as someone comes in their direction. It’s the Neighbourhood Watch man
SHIRL: Oh-oh. It’s old what’s-is-name
NWM: Well, if it ain’t the terrible twins. Like hanging around empty properties, do you?
JAN: That’s our business.
NWM: And mine. Got to make sure nothing goes on inside, see? No drinking or smoking. No raves.
SHIRL: Raves around this dump! You gott’a be joking!
JAN: What’cha want anyway?
NWM: I’m looking for Al Massey. You know him?
SHIRL: Yeah, we know him.
NWM: Seen him lately? (both shake their heads) If you do see him tell him I want a word. Before the cops do.
JAN: What’s ‘e done, then?
NWM: Why should he have done anything?
JAN: You said….
NWM: Never assume, young lady. Only an ass assumes. I would merely like to know why a knife with the initials AM should be laying on the roof of the church hall. Maybe he can tell me before I mention it to the law.
SHIRL: Don’t they know?
NWM: Not about the knife. Yet.
JAN: Why haven’t you told them?
NWM: His dad and me, we go back a long way. I just can’t believe…(pause) So if you see him tell him I want a word. ( he moves away)
JAN: Wot you reckon. Shirl?
SHIRL: About what?
JAN: Al, was it him on the roof?
SHIRL: Him and Kev, you mean. All for one and one for all, that’s their motto, innit?
JAN: Not with me it ain’t! I’m not sharing…
At this point Kev and Al can be seen returning
SHIRL: They’re coming back. Quick….!
The two girls move up the alley way and disappear behind the garage.
KEV: Where’ve they got to then?
AL: The bog probably. Girls are always in the bog doin’ things to themselves.
They sit beside the garage and open two cans of beer
KEV: We goin’ to the pictures or what?
AL: Or what. Yeah.
KEV: How are we, like, goin’ to pair off?
AL: I don’t know. Wot’cha think?
KEV: Jan’s okay.
AL: Yeah. I know. Let’s toss. ( he produces a coin)
KEV: Heads. (he loses) Oh well…
Al looks down the road. He sees someone in the distance.
AL: What? (listens) Yeah. We got it. Thanks. (to Kev) That was Tony
KEV: I heard. That Shirl’s sister, she gives him a hard time.
AL: Yeah.
KEV: It’s not his fault he can’t get a job.
AL: No.
KEV: Fifty sovs, that’s all he needed.
AL: Yeah. Well, he’s got it now, ain’t he.
KEV: Yeah.
AL: D’you reckon it’s true what Shirl said about the knife?
KEV: I reckon. I s’pose the old bill will be around.
AL: Yeah. What ya think they’ll do?
KEV: (shrugs) A knife is just a knife. They can’t prove anything.
AL: What about fingerprints?
Shirl and Jan have heard enough by now. They come running out.
JAN: And initials. It had your initials on it, stupid. Old what’s-is-name has been round. He said so.
KEV: (hands them beers) Have a beer. All that listening must be thirsty work.
SHIRL: We wasn’t listening.
KEV: What were you doin’ back there – sunbathing?
SHIRL: Very funny! It was only a game. We couldn’t help hearing
AL: A stupid game.
JAN: Not half as stupid as nicking that lead.
AL: We didn’t.
JAN: Pull the other one.
AL: We Didn’t!
JAN: He found your knife.
AL: Not mine.
JAN: It’s got your initials on…
AL: Not my initials. (he takes a knife from his pocket and hands it ot her) That’s my knife
SHIRL: Whose then?
KEV: Maybe it was Tony’s
SHIRL: Don’t be stupid, Kev!
JAN: Shirl. Tony?…Anthony…
SHIRL: Oh shit!
JAN: Wot’s ‘is surname.
SHIRL: I don’t know, do I? ( pause) I think it’s Moran. Stupid…stupid… You knew? (to Kev)
KEV: He told us earlier on. He hid the lead last night and got rid of most of it this morning. What bits were left he said we could have. (he holds up his beer) Cheers Tony!
They are all silent, finishing their drinks.
SHIRL: What will happen now? To Tony, I mean?
AL: He might be lucky. Then again he might not.
KEV: (to Shirl) And all because your sister wanted an expensive birthday present.
Kev finishes his beer and tosses it into the pile in the garage.
KEV: Picture time.
Kev and Al begin to move away.
AL: You comin’ or what?
Shirl and Jan look at each other for a moment, then shrug and follow.
Curtain.
(To Hilda)
Unless you come
I shall die in a ditch,
Poet dead in a ditch.
There will be no bluebells there,
Only the vetch
Smelling of death
Weeds around me,
The mud of hooves
That prance there
Falling over my eyes.
Rags of beggars that passed
Will clothe my soul.
The winter will come through the bushes,
Rain will fall
Making puddles in my face,
The snow will come
And cover me up
Like the Babes in the Wood.
Then no one will stop
To examine the heap,
No one will know where a poet's asleep.
I shall die in a ditch
Like a dog or bum,
Poet dead in a ditch
Unless you come.
My new play - DEAD IN A DITCH - Is now available in paperback on Amazon
Scene 4
Lionels grubby flat.
LIONEL: People ask why I never married. Well, I’m married to dozens of people. I am not married to a lady, and I have no children. But I loved one lady very much, but alas she died. Maybe I should’a married her. (pause) I am a gypsy; I am also an Arab. Know what I mean? I lived in Morrocco for over three years, and to me sex and love are two different things. And gender too. There’s love for a man, love for a boy, love for a woman and love for a girl. (pause and laughs) So am I bisexual? (laughs) Maybe I’m trisexual! I don’t know. Whatever! I’m spontaneous.
Pause to pour and drink some vodka. He dozes for a little while, sitting on a settee with a big Teddy Bear. For company
LIONEL: I woke up one day to realise I was my own audience. No one else was looking.
(he waves the drink and pats the Teddy)
Then I found Lionel (hugs the Teddy) I couldn’t hold a pen long enough to stop my hands shaking. (laughs) And my drying out sessions lasted as long as Elisabeth Taylor’s diets!
We hear knocking
I used to kick my day off with a bottle of vodka, and finish it off with two more by the end of it. (laughs) You know, I never really liked the taste of alcohol, but I soon discovered it was the quickest route to oblivion
We can hear knocking again but Lionel ignores it.
LIONEL: I was lonely y’know? (pause) Apart from Alma in 1966 my greatest personal loss came in 1977 when my lifelong friend and drinking partner, Sean Kenny, died. He was only in his early forties. (pause) I wasn’t completely friendless though: John – John Gorman – kept me from losing it completely…
We can hear more loud knocking and a voice shouting.
VOICE: LIONEL! IT’S JOHN. ARE YOU IN THERE? OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR
LIONEL: It’s not bloody locked. There just a table behind it. Give it a good push!
We can hear some noise, then John comes storming in and notices the bear
JOHN:
What the bloody hell…? (points at the bear) Is that the effing bear from the opening night?
LIONEL: That’s Lionel. My new friend. You’re right, he was at the opening night of ‘Lionel’ with me. (pause) What a bloody disaster.
JOHN: I didn’t see the show myself. Thank God. But I read the reviews. They were, well…desperate.
LIONEL: The whole show was a pile of crap. It struggled on for a few weeks then closed. They say it lost a quarter of a million. (laughs) At least it wasn’t my dough this time. (he pats the Teddy) We could have fixed it, couldn’t we, Lionel? but they barred us from the rehearsals.
JOHN: (seeing him talking to the Teddy) Lionel, are you sure you are okay? I mean, talking to…that. Maybe you should see a psychiatrist.
LIONEL: You’d want to be mad to see a psychiatrist! (pats the bear) What do you think Lionel?
John loses his temper, grabs the bear, and throws it out the door. He starts cleaning up, tossing bottles into the bin. He takes the drink from Lionel and shakes him.)
JOHN:
Snap out of it, Lionel! This isn’t you.
(Lionel looks at him, a mix of defiance and vulnerability in his eyes.)
LIONEL:
Isn’t it?
(Blackout)
Scene 5
(John is talking to the audience. Lionel is in the background, sitting at a table, writing. The lighting is dim, with a spotlight on John. As the scene progresses, the lighting shifts to create a dreamlike atmosphere when Alma appears.)
JOHN: (looking at Lionel)
Look at him. He’s been like that for the best part of twenty years. Ever since Twang! went belly up, to be honest. (shakes his head) It’s hard to calculate how much that disaster cost him. (pause) Well, no. It isn’t. It cost him everything. Maybe even his sanity.
(John walks closer to Lionel’s table, glancing at the papers scattered there.)
I read somewhere that his old place, The Fun Palace, sold recently for one point five million pounds. Bart was forced to sell it for half what he paid for it when you add up all the improvements he made to it. I know, ‘cos I’ve been doing his books more or less since the Twang! fiasco.
(John sighs, then looks back at the audience.)
He doesn’t talk much these days. Just sits there, scribbling away. Songs, mostly. Songs no one will ever hear.
(As John speaks, the lights on Lionel begin to soften, and a faint, ethereal glow appears stage left. Alma steps into the light, dressed as she was in her prime, radiant and smiling. Lionel doesn’t notice her at first, but the audience does. John continues, unaware of Alma’s presence.)
JOHN:
They say you can’t kill a dream, but I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen it happen to him.
(Lionel looks up from his writing, sensing something. He sees Alma. The music begins softly, a haunting piano melody. Lionel stands, slowly, as if in a trance.)
LIONEL: (whispering)
Alma?
ALMA: (smiling)
Hello, Lionel.
(John freezes, as if time has stopped for him. The spotlight on him dims, leaving only Lionel and Alma illuminated. Alma begins to sing the first verse of “The Man I Used to Be.” Her voice is soft, nostalgic, and filled with warmth.)
ALMA: (singing)
I once held the world in my hands,
A kingdom built on melodies and dreams.
But the notes turned to dust, and the stage grew cold,
And nothing’s quite as it seems.
(Lionel joins in, his voice trembling at first but growing stronger as he sings with her. Their voices blend in harmony, creating a poignant, bittersweet duet.)
LIONEL & ALMA: (singing together)
I chased the light, I caught the flame,
But the fire burned too bright to tame.
Now I sit here, pen in hand,
Trying to rewrite what I don’t understand.
(As they reach the chorus, Alma steps closer to Lionel, placing a hand on his shoulder. The lighting shifts to a warm, golden hue, suggesting a moment of connection and healing.)
LIONEL & ALMA: (singing together)
Where is the man I used to be?
The one who danced with destiny.
The songs I wrote, the love I knew,
Are echoes now, but still ring true.
(After the chorus, Alma speaks, her voice gentle but firm.)
ALMA:
You’re still that man, Lionel. The music never left you. It’s still there, inside.
(Lionel looks at her, tears in his eyes.)
LIONEL:
I lost it all, Alma. The money, the fame, the… the Fun Palace. Even you.
ALMA: (smiling softly)
You didn’t lose me. I’ve always been here, in your songs, in your heart.
(She begins to sing the bridge, her voice filled with reassurance. Lionel joins her, their voices intertwining once more.)
ALMA & LIONEL: (singing together)
Maybe the music never dies,
It lives on in the tears we cry.
And though the world has moved along,
The heart still sings its timeless song.
(As they finish the song, Alma steps back, the light around her beginning to fade.)
ALMA:
Keep writing, Lionel. The world still needs your songs.
(She disappears into the shadows. The spotlight returns to John, who unfreezes, unaware of what just transpired. Lionel sits back down, picking up his pen with a renewed sense of purpose. John looks at him, puzzled but relieved.)
JOHN:
Well, I’ll be damned. He’s smiling.
(The lights fade as Lionel begins to write again, the faint sound of a piano melody lingering in the air.)
BLACKOUT.
THE END.
Scene 3
Lionel’s grubby room. Empty bottle, papers, rubbish etc scattered everywhere. An older Lionel is seated in a grubby chair, smoking a weed, a drink in his hand.
LIONEL: (to audience)
When you think about it, I only had six or seven years of real success. The rest of my life was one long struggle.
.Between 1959 and 1966, I made – and spent – more money than any reasonable human being could count. And I mean literally spent millions. Bloody millions!
What did I do with it all? I don’t really know. I knew I was earning a lot of money – and I let other people get on with taking care of it. I signed whatever I was asked to sign. If I wanted something – a piano, a new car, a holiday abroad, I just signed for it.
Pause
The last show I was involved in was COSTA PACKET – another Joan Littlewood production in 1972. Another disaster.
Pause
I have created nothing for the stage in the last 15 years. What was I doing? I hear you ask. To be honest, I don’t remember much – apart from attending bloody bankruptcy meetings every other bloody day!
He jumps up and rages at the audience
LIONEL:
Look at me! You see before you a 57 year old loser. A has-been. I’m deader than the deadest dodo
We hear music in the background. Maybe the lights change and a couple of musicians appear. Lional sings
“Life Ain’t Wot It Used T’Be”
(To the tune of “Fings Ain’t Wot They Used T’Be”)
I sold all my rights to Ollie,
Now I feel like a right old Wally,
Cos life ain’t wot it used to be—
The money’s gone, and I’m skint, you see!
The royalties dried up, it’s a proper shame,
Now I’m stuck in the rain with no one to blame.
I thought I’d be rich, livin’ life so free,
But life ain’t wot it used to be!
(Spoken interlude, cheeky tone)
Oi, Lionel, mate, what’ve I done?
I signed it all away for a bit of fun!
Now I’m skint, I’m broke, I’m up the creek,
And all I’ve got’s this bleedin’ sheet… music!
(Back to singing)
The pubs are shut, the booze is gone,
I’m singin’ the blues from dusk till dawn.
I thought I’d be smilin’, livin’ carefree,
But life ain’t wot it used to be!
Scene 4
Lionel’s flat, 1966. The room is dimly lit, and Lionel is sitting alone, staring at a photo of Alma. There’s a knock at the door, and John enters.
JOHN:
(softly)
Lionel, I’ve got some bad news.
LIONEL:
(looking up)
What is it, John?
JOHN:
(taking a deep breath)
It’s Alma. She’s… she’s gone.
LIONEL:
(stunned)
Gone? What do you mean, gone?
JOHN:
(softly)
She passed away last night. Cancer.
LIONEL:
(breaking down)
No… no, it can’t be.
JOHN:
(placing a hand on Lionel’s shoulder)
I’m sorry, Lionel.
LIONEL:
(to the audience)
Alma was my muse, my friend, my confidante. And now she’s gone.
(He picks up the photo of Alma and holds it close.)
LIONEL:
(softly)
I should have been there for her. I should have…
JOHN:
(interrupting)
Don’t do this to yourself, Lionel. Alma wouldn’t want that.
LIONEL:
(sighing)
You’re right, John. But it doesn’t make it any easier. (pause) You know, she asked me to marry her once. And do you know what I said? I’d think about it. What was there to think about? I loved her – and she loved me. Maybe if we had got married she would be still alive.
JOHN: That’s stupid talk, Lionel. The cancer was too far gone. Terminal.
LIONEL: I know she’d been feeling unwell for months. Do you think she knew?
JOHN: I don ‘t think so. I think she just put it down to some stomach problems. (pause)
Lionel, you’ve got to get help. You can’t keep living like this.
LIONEL:
(bitterly)
What’s the point, John? I’ve lost everything
They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of Alma’s death hanging in the air. They sing the song ALMA MY STAR
“Alma, My Star”
(A bittersweet ballad for Alma Cogan)
Verse 1
Alma, my star, you burned so bright,
A melody in the quiet night.
Your laughter danced, your voice would soar,
But now the stage is dark once more.
Pre-Chorus
I held your hand, but not your heart,
Too scared to play my part.
A question asked, a moment missed,
Now all I have is this…
Chorus
Alma, my love, my shining light,
Gone too soon, like a song in the night.
I hear your echo, soft and low,
In every note I’ll never let go.
Verse 2
You asked me once, “Will you stay?”
I hesitated, turned away.
Now all I have are memories,
Of what could’ve been, and what will never be.
Pre-Chorus
The world still hums your sweet refrain,
But I’m left here in the rain.
A melody I can’t complete,
Without your heart to beat.
Chorus
Alma, my love, my shining light,
Gone too soon, like a song in the night.
I hear your echo, soft and low,
In every note I’ll never let go.
Bridge
If I could turn back time, my dear,
I’d hold you close, I’d make it clear.
But now you’re gone, and all I see,
Is a world that’s lost its harmony.
Chorus
Alma, my love, my shining light,
Gone too soon, like a song in the night.
I hear your echo, soft and low,
In every note I’ll never let go.
Outro
Alma, my star, you’ll always shine,
A timeless tune, a love divine.
Though you’re gone, you’ll never fade,
Forever here, in every song I’ve made.
LIGHTS FADE, end of scene
Scene 2
Lionel’s new place. He is calling it THE FUN PALACE. It has lots of trendy touches; cushion everywhere, coffee tables, drinks, food, lots of pictures on the walls. Lionel is smoking (it could be weed) with a glass of drink in his hand.
LIONEL: The life of…Lionel eh! I’ve got money coming out of me…out of every orifice
John and Alma are wandering about, admiring the lavishness of the place.
JOHN: By the looks of things you’re getting rid of it as fast as you’re getting it in. (looks around) How much did this kip set you back?
LIONEL: There was not much left out of a hundred K. And another hundred to get it up to the standard I have in mind.
JOHN: HUH! It’s far from the life of…Lionel you were reared. Where was it again? Whitechapel?
LIONEL: I’ll have you know we were almost middle class. Dad was a tailor. He had his own business.
JOHN OhYeah!. That broken shed at the bottom of your garden, wasn’t it?
LIONEL: We got by. (sees Alma studying some paintings) What do you think Alma?
ALMA:
(looking at a painting) This is very good. Why has this one got your name on the bottom?
LIONEL:
That’s because I painted it.
JOHN&ALMA (amazed) WHAT?
LIONEL: grinning)
(I was an artist long before any of this…(pause) At the age of thirteen I won a scholarship to St Martins School of Art on the Charing Cross Road. Imagine, at that age catapulted in to the weird world of beardie bohemians and naked art. One of the first models I had to draw was Quentin Crisp, who later became famous for writing The Naked Civil Servant. And when I drew him he was naked too! Anyway, by the time I was sixteen I mounted my first exhibition at the College, mostly paintings of pregnant women. I was pretty good apparently. But then, when I left home, my mother had a clear-out of my room. Everything, including most of my paintings wound up in a skip. Mind you, by then I had given up painting anyway
ALMA: Why? Why did you pack it in?
LIONEL: because it’s too lonely an occupation, Alma. And I like plenty of people around me -as you know!
ALMA:
(smiling)
I didn’t know you had it in you, Lionel. You’re full of surprises.
JOHN:
(teasing)
Yeah, full of something.
LIONEL:
(laughing)
Cheeky bastard.
ALMA:
(pointing at another painting)
Is that supposed to be you, Lionel? It looks… abstract.
LIONEL:
(grinning)
It’s modern art, Alma. You wouldn’t understand.
JOHN:
(concerned)
Lionel, you’re spending money like it’s going out of fashion. What happens when the well runs dry?
LIONEL:
(defiant)
It won’t, John. The money will keep coming.
ALMA:
(softly)
Just be careful, Lionel. Success can be a double-edged sword.
LIONEL:
(smiling)
Don’t worry about me, Alma. I’ve got everything under control.
(He takes a long drink from his glass, then sets it down with a shaky hand. The lights dim slightly, focusing on Lionel as the others fade into the background.)
LIONEL:
(to the audience)
But the truth was, I didn’t have everything under control. The money, the fame, the pressure… it was all starting to take its toll.
(looks around as if fearful somebody might be listening)
To be honest, I have already sold the rights to Oliver to Donald Albery. Well, I didn’t know it was going to be so successful, did I? And worse still, I have already sold the film rights to Max Bygraves! Well gave them away more or less, for the price of a packet of fags and a few beers! Well, five hundred smackers – and now I hear tell he’s already been offered a quarter of a million for them!
(The lights dim further as the scene transitions to the next part of the story.)
Lionel sitting at a table. John comes in and throws some papers on the Table
JOHN: We need to talk about TWANG!!
LIONEL: (sweeps the papers of the table) No, we fucking don’t
JOHN: (picking the papers up) Yes, we bloody do. You’re broke. Stoney broke.
LIONEL: Think I don’t bloody know that! Okay. I admit it was a turkey. I thought it was the golden goose, but it turned out to be a bloody turkey. The biggest turkey I ever wrote.
JOHN: What went wrong, Lionel? (shows him the papers) Everything’s in the red.
LIONEL: What could I do, John? When my other backers pulled out, I was left with only that American outfit – and they wanted guarantees. So, I had to cough up myself when the shit hit the you-know-what. (pause) I could have walked away I suppose. But I thought – I genuinely thought -I had a big hit on my hands. I believed in it, John. Really believed. I even thought it could be bigger than OLIVER! (pause) What went wrong? I don’t really know. Too many chiefs, maybe. (pause) I knew we were in trouble when Joan Greenwood walked out two nights before the opening. It was supposed to be a comedy, but in the end, I don’t know what it became. (laughs) Robin turned out to be more of an East End wide boy than anything else.
JOHN (laughing) A bit like yourself, eh! Robin Hood and his Merry Men a comedy!
LIONEL: Yeah. The critics killed it off even before we opened. After a month of desperation I’d had enough and called it a day. (shakes his head) Y’know, OLIVER! was still running in the West End on the night we closed.
Another pause as he pulls a piece of paper from his pocket
LIONEL: I wrote a song about it the other night. Wanna hear it? (sings)
Twang! Goes My Heart
(A playful, upbeat tune with a touch of melancholy)
Verse 1:
Oh, the stage was set, the lights were bright,
We dreamed of glory, we dreamed of night.
But the jokes fell flat, the set fell down,
And the critics laughed as they tore us down.
Chorus:
Twang! Goes my heart,
When the curtains part,
And the world can see my art.
Twang! Goes my soul,
When the reviews roll,
And they say I’ve lost control.
Verse 2:
I wrote the songs, I wrote the lines,
I thought they’d sparkle, I thought they’d shine.
But the audience groaned, the actors cried,
And my dreams of fame went up in smoke and died.
Chorus:
Twang! Goes my heart,
When the show falls apart,
And the crowd just wants to depart.
Twang! Goes my pride,
When I’m left inside,
With nowhere left to hide.
Bridge:
Oh, the spotlight fades, the laughter dies,
But I’ll keep on singing beneath these skies.
For every flop, there’s a spark of gold,
And a story that’s waiting to be told.
Final Chorus:
Twang! Goes my heart,
But I’ll make a new start,
With a song and a dream and a part.
Twang! Goes my soul,
But I’ll reach my goal,
And I’ll never let them take my role.
Outro:
Twang! Goes my heart,
But the show’s just the start,
And I’ll keep on playing my part.
Twang! Goes my heart…
End of scene
ACT 2
Scene 1
Scene: A Dream of Lionel-Land
The stage is dark. A soft spotlight appears on Alma, sitting at her dressing room mirror, looking tired. She hums softly, then drifts off to sleep. The lights shift, and the stage transforms into a whimsical, colourful dreamscape—Lionel-Land!
Lionel Bart enters, dressed in a flamboyant suit, leading a lively ensemble of dancers and musicians. They perform “I WISH I WAS IN LIONEL-[LAND” with Alma joining in, her spirits lifted by the fantasy.
Alma: (singing)
I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray! Where the nights are bright and the skies are gay! Hooray!
“I Wish I Was in Lionel-Land”
(In the style of Lionel Bart – to the air of I Wish I Was In Dixie- Land)
(Verse 1)
Oh, I’ve seen the lights of London town,
Where the rain falls down and the world spins ‘round.
But I dream of a place, oh, so grand,
Where the streets are paved with melody, in Lionel-Land!
(Chorus)
I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray!
Where the trumpets play and the dancers sway.
With a song in my heart and a skip in my hand,
I’d be oh so happy in Lionel-Land!
(Verse 2)
There’s a pub on the corner, the tunes never end,
With a piano man and a jolly old friend.
We’ll sing “Consider Yourself” with the band,
And the whole world’s a stage in Lionel-Land!
(Chorus)
I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray!
Where the nights are bright and the skies are gay.
With a wink and a nod, and a jolly good band,
I’d be oh so merry in Lionel-Land!
(Bridge)
Oh, the rivers would flow with a musical stream,
And the stars would all dance to a ragtime dream.
Every cobblestone hums, every lamppost can sing,
In the land where the melodies ring!
(Verse 3)
So I’ll pack up my troubles, my hat, and my cane,
And I’ll hop on a train to that sweet refrain.
For the world’s full of wonder, but I understand,
That my heart belongs in Lionel-Land!
(Final Chorus)
I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray!
Where the music’s grand and the laughs never end.
With a song in my soul and a smile so grand,
I’ll be oh so happy in Lionel-Land!
(Outro)
Oh, Lionel-Land, my sweet, sweet home,
Where the melodies wander and the stories roam.
With a tune in my pocket and a dream in my hand,
I’ll be forever in Lionel-Land!
The song ends with a flourish, and the dream fades. Alma wakes up, back in her dressing room, smiling wistfully.
Later, in Lionel’s flat. Lionel at the piano trying to compose. Alma helps.
ALMA: I had a dream last night. Well, in my dressing room. I nodded off for a little while, and I remember you were singing a song you had just written. It was called ‘I wish I was in Lionel-Land’ or something like that. It sounded like the air to ‘I wish I was in Dixie’, but the words were different. Then I woke up.
Lionel laughs then plays a few notes and sings.
LIONEL: I know that tune. It’s an old American Civil War song. I think someone recorded it recently. (sings a few bars). ‘I wish I was in Dixie/ Look away, look away/ In dixie land I will make my stand. Look away… something like that. Do you remember the words from last night?
John enters with some drinks etc
ALMA:
Ha! I was dreaming! (pause/sings) I think the chorus went something like this; I wish I was in Lionel-Land, hooray! Hooray!/ Where the nights are bright and the skies are gay! Hooray!
LIONEL: Hmmm. It might have possibilities. Maybe I will work on something later on. (to John, taking a drink) I wrote a new song last night – apparently
JOHN: In your dreams!
ALMA: No. In my dreams. (smiles) Oh, don’t ask, John (to Lionel) I think it has your whimsical style Li; full of charm…with a touch of nostalgia.
LIONEL: Oh, I’m nostalgic now , am I! All my songs are merry, I’ll have you know.
AMMA: You sound like Sean Kenny now. I remember him saying once ‘All our wars are merry, and all our songs are sad’. Or was it the other way round?
LIONEL: Yeah, well, Sean’s Irish, so he should know. ‘for the great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad/ all their wars are merry and all their songs are sad’. Chesterton.
JOHN: Hark at him! A poet and we don’t know it!
LIONEL: As Sean himself might say, ‘If I didn’t go to school itself, I met the scholars’ on the way home’
JOHN: Yeah that sounds like Sean. Full of Blarney! A bit like yourself, come to think of it! You’ll be telling me next you read Chesterton at school!
LIONEL: All I read at school was the Dandy. Desperate Dan and Korky the Cat were my introduction to literature. As for Chesterton, I sometimes found that the poets of the past were often good for tuning up my own lyrics.
JOHN: You mean you nicked some of their words!
LIONEL: Why not? Everyone does it, in my view. There’s nothing new under the sun. I bet even Shakespeare did it!
JOHN: Comparing yourself to Shakespeare now eh! (to Alma) What do you think Alma
LIONEL: Hah! I’m more popular than Shakespeare ever was in his day. I bet he didn’t have two plays running at the same time in the West End. Both playing to full houses every night!
ALMA: Don’t get too cocky Li. You know the old saying? The bigger they are, the harder they fall. What’s next on your agenda?
LIONEL: Oh, I have got big plans for the next three or four years. First will be Blitz, then Maggie May, and then my piece de resistance – Twang.
JOHN: And what’s going to pay for all this extravagance?
LIONEL: Well, Oliver’s doing well isn’t it? And it’s only got started. They say it will run for years.
JOHN: Do you remember what Noel Coward said to you a little while ago. ‘Dear boy, never put your own money in any of your own plays’
LIONEL: Ah! Coward. What does he know? He’s a has-been – and has been for the last twenty years or more. Come on, Let’s celebrate.
Drinking, laughing, singing, dancing etc (Lionel slyly swallow s couple of tablets on the qt) They sing/play a couple of songs from Blitz & Maggie May
CONSIDER YOURSELF
(From Oliver!, music and lyrics by Lionel Bart)
Consider yourself at home,
Consider yourself one of the family.
We’ve taken to you so strong,
It’s clear we’re going to get along.
Consider yourself well in,
Consider yourself part of the furniture.
There isn’t a lot to spare,
Who cares? Whatever we’ve got, we share!
Chorus:
If it should chance to be
We should see some harder days,
Empty larder days,
Why grouse? Always a-chance we’ll meet
Somebody to foot the bill,
Then the drinks are on the house!
Chorus:
Consider yourself our mate,
We don’t want to have no fuss,
For after some consideration,
We can consider…
Yourself one of us!
Consider yourself at home,
Consider yourself one of the family.
We’ve taken to you so strong,
It’s clear we’re going to get along.
Consider yourself our friend,
Consider this a ’and up, if you please, sir!
We’re very ’appy to give
You our ’umble company.
We’re ’appy to ’ave with us
Cheerfulness, charm and innocence,
All the ingredients
For ’appiness.
We now hear the sounds of guns and bombs, people screaming etc And the voice of Winston Churchill on radio;
WC: (voice)
I would say to the House… that I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. You ask, what is our policy? I will say: it is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy. You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: it is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.
Lights change and they sing the song MAGGIE MAY, from the musical of the same name.
MAGGIE MAE
ow gather round you sailor boys, and listen to my plea And when you’ve heard my tale you’ll pity me For I was a real damned fool in the port of Liverpool The first time that I came home from the sea I was paid off at the Home, from a voyage to Sierra Leone Two pounds ten and sixpence was my pay When I drew the tin I grinned, but I very soon got skinned By a girl by the name of Maggie May
Oh, Maggie, Maggie May, they’ve taken you away They’ve sent you to Van Diemen’s cruel shore For you robbed so many a sailor, and skinned so many a whaler And you’ll never shine in Paradise Street no more
I shan’t forget the day when I first met Maggie May She was cruising up and down on Canning Place With a figure so divine, like a frigate of the line So, being a sailor, I gave chase Oh, Maggie, Maggie May, they’ve taken you away They’ve sent you to Van Diemen’s cruel shore For you robbed so many a sailor, and skinned so many a whaler
Scene 7
Lionel’s grubby flat.
LIONEL:
I had become enchanted with the story Well, the film version anyway. The first song I wrote was WHERE IS LOVE. 1 was in my car, returning from somewhere, and I had to pull over and write it down while it was still fresh in my mind.
You know somethin’? I have never spent more than an hour on any tune. A song should be like a sneeze – spontaneous.
Anyway, 1fled with a mate to a little fishing village near Torremolinos in Spain and rented a little place there, with a maid, for two pounds a week and wrote OLIVER! there.
That little fishing village near Torremolinos… it was like another world. The sun, the sea, the quiet… it all came together, and the songs just poured out of me.
When I came back I hawked it around about a dozen managements and they all turned it down. They said, with it full of orphans and set in a workhouse, it sounded too depressing.
Eventually, Donald Albery, owner of four West End theatres, took a chance on it. The rest is history…
Lighting changes and we see Lionel, John, Alma, and a few musicians sing/play a medley of songs: WHERE IS LOVE…GOT TO PICK A POCKET OR TWO…REVIEWING THE SITUATION
(add a verse or two of each song)
ALMA:
(singing along)
You’ve outdone yourself this time, Lionel. This is magic.
JOHN:
(grinning)
I told you it would be a hit.
End of scene
Scene 8
Lionel sitting at a table drinking from a glass of whiskey. He looks at the almost empty whiskey bottle. John and Alma are close by.
LIONEL:
(to John) You drinkin’ all my whiskey?
JOHN:
Your whiskey! Who bought and paid for it? Come on, Lionel, you’ve had enough for now.
ALMA:
Yes Lionel. You’ve got a premiere in a few hours. You need to sober up.
LIONEL: Who’s drunk? It would take more than this gnats piss (waves his glass) to get me high (waves about) You got anything stronger? (this to John) You know…the old wacky baccky…or somethin’ stronger…
JOHN:
I don’t do any of that stuff. You know that. Why don’t you ask your other so-called mates.
ALMA:
Lionel! You’re supposed to be escorting me to the show. You need to pull yourself together.
JOHN:
Something’s bothering you. I can see it In your eyes. What is it?
LIONEL:
I’ll tell you what it is, mate. If anything goes wrong on that stage tonight I am going to walk out of the theatre and wander round Trafalgar Square until it’s all over. That’s how wound up I feel.
ALMA:
What can go wrong? That last rehearsal was flawless. Everybody said so.
LIONEL:
I’m a believer that if something can go wrong it will.
JOHN:
A pessimist!
LIONEL:
Yeah. A glass half-empty kinda’ guy…(looks at his empty glass) which reminds me…
Lights dim. Lionel on his own.
LIONEL:
Something did go wrong. (pause) I’m sitting in the stalls in my ‘escape hatch’ when it does. At the start of scene two, one of the scenery bits is supposed to move away a bit to reveal a domestic scene but it doesn’t move far enough, and in my state I saw doom and disaster. I don’t suppose anybody noticed except my self and Sean Kenny the set designer. But I panicked and took off for Trafalgar Square and walked around in a daze until I guessed the show was over. As I got back I could hear this rumbling noise and all this activity outside the theatre. My first thought was ‘my God, they think it was awful’. Then Donald Albery, the owner, spotted me, and grabbed my arm, shouting ‘you have got to go in. They are shouting for you in there. They won’t leave until you go in. There have already been something like twenty five curtain calls. We have a hit. A big hit’
And we had. The biggest hit in the history of the West End musical. It was to run for 2618 performances, more than seven years. And during that time it had also run for more than three years on Broadway….
Many people run on stage shouting ‘it’s a hit…we have a hit’ etc. Lionel is laughing and dancing with everybody. We hear a version of FOOD. GLORIOUS FOOD… ETC,
Lights dim, end of scene
END OF ACT 1
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