book-review

NO BLACKS, NO DOGS, NO POLES

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NO BLACKS, NO DOGS, NO POLES was first performed at Pentameters Theatre, Hampstead, London NW3 6TE on 13th May2014. It was produced by Leonie Scott-Matthews and directed by Jesse Cooper.

NO BLACKS, NO DOGS, NO IRISH POLES

By

Tom O’Brien

Characters

JIMMY………swarthy, dark complexion, 30yrs                   

CON…………..Irish, a bull of a man, mid 50’s                       

MARION……poised, slightly matronly, mid 50’s                

JJ……………….Anglo-Irish, well groomed, late 40’s                          

MICHAEL….athletic, interesting, 30yrs                              

CATHY………aborigine, 30yrs approx.                                 

Time…………….recently

Length………..90mins approx.

Synopsis

The dysfunctional Kennedy clan are having a re-union. There’s the father, Con, a successful building contractor in London who has had to relocate back in Ireland because of tax irregularities in the UK.  Con is secretly bisexual, although not-so-secret from his wife, Marion, who has known it all along and kept quiet about it. His estranged son, Michael, turns up after five years in Australia with Cathy, his new aborigine wife.  To say his parents are surprised would be putting it mildly. His nephew, Jimmy, also turns up and it is soon apparent that his racist, bigoted views haven’t mellowed any as he has got older. We learn that he is there at Con’s invitation; his real reason being to spy on Marion, who Con suspects of having an affair. Jimmy also has his own agenda, selling crack/cocaine to the local drug users – a plan which backfires when the drugs, which he has buried in the back garden, are discovered by Michael, heightening the already tense atmosphere in the house. Add in JJ, construction manager for Con, whose attraction to Marion must be obvious to everyone except Con.

                                                            ACT ONE

scene one

A well-presented living room.  Armchairs, coffee table, lamp-stand, bookcase etc. An old mantel clock is on a shelf.  French doors leading to the garden. The garden is part-visible; grass, shrubs, a tree right at the back.  A door leads to the stairs. We hear a voice singing, loudly and badly, in the garden.

            VOICE:                      We will take him up the Arse…

                                                We will take him up the Arse…

                                                We will take him up the Arse…n…al

CON DWYER appears from within the house, shaking his head.  He is in mid/late fifties, a bull of a man.  He moves to the French doors and looks out.

            CON:              Jimmy, would you mind moderating your vocal delivery…you prat.

His reply is a ball kicked in the direction of the doors.

            CON:              Oi! It’s not Saturday down the North Bank with the rest of the morons.

JIMMY DWYER appears from the garden.  He is in around thirty, swarthy, dark complexion. His head may be shaven. He wears an Arsenal jersey, and is carrying a can of lager.

            JIMMY:         What was that, Con?

            CON:              Put a sock in it.  You’re among civilised people now.

            JIMMY:         No, before. The intellectual bit.

            CON:              I asked you to moderate your vocal delivery.

            JIMMY:         That’s good, that. (drinks) Where’d you pick that up?

            CON:              Some literary magazine

            JIMMY:         The Sun?  Hey Psycho, could you moderate your vocal delivery.

            CON:              And if he didn’t?

            JIMMY:         We’d kick his head in.

            CON:              You’d do that anyway.

            JIMMY:         Yeah. But not with such style.  (beat) Must remember that. Use it the next

                                    time.

            CON:              And when are you likely to see a game again?

JIMMY:         Yeah, well…(brightens)  I can watch the highlights tonight.

            CON:              Not on my telly, you can’t.

            JIMMY:         Aw Con.  Just because you support the Jewboys…

            CON:              It’s the reception.  We can’t get BBC here.

            JIMMY:         I forgot I’m back in the fucking bog again.

            CON:              Better than being back in the nick.

            JIMMY:         Yeah, you’re right.  Look…thanks again for putting me up. I’ll get out of

                                    your hair in a few days.

            CON:              Aren’t you forgetting something?

JIMMY:         I ain’t forgetting.  I’ll be out’a your hair soon as I finish that little job.

            CON:              Don’t take too long about it. (pause) Nothing too drastic, mind.

            JIMMY:         Gotchya. (finishes the beer) Think I’ll take a stroll. You know, stretch the

                                    legs. 

He heads back into the garden, and we hear singing.

            JIMMY:         We’ll take ‘em up the Arse…………Take ‘em up the Arse…

Con watches Jimmy depart, unaware that MARION, his wife, has been watching the last few exchanges. Marion is early fifties, good-looking in a matronly sort of way.

            MARION:      A few days! I can’t stand five minutes more of that…that sort of vulgarity.

                                    He’d better go.

            CON:              How long have you been there?

            MARION:      Long enough.  There’s no excuse for that kind of language.  It belongs in

                                    the gutter.  And so does he.  What little job?

            CON:              I don’t know.

            MARION:      Sounded to me like you did.

CON:              Someone owes him money I think. Ah… you know Jimmy.

MARION:      That’s what worries me.  Get rid of him.

            CON:              I can’t do that.

            MARION:      I’ll do it then.

          CON:              He’s my sister’s son for God sake!

            MARION:      And that gives him the right to be foul-mouthed?  Though maybe that’s

                                    where he gets it from.

            CON:              Josephine?  Bad language?

            MARION:      She could swear for Ireland, England and Europe when she had a mind to.

                                    How would you know anyway? You’ve hardly seen her in twenty years.

            CON:              Neither have you.

            MARION:      I’m not her brother. Anyway, I spent enough years sharing a room with

                                    her.  So don’t tell me what language she could or couldn’t use.

            CON:              Oh yes.  I remember now.  Harlesden Gardens.  Round the corner from St

                                    Marys Church.  Mrs McGinty was your landlady.  Ex- Gestapo, wasn’t

                                    she?

            MARION:      There was nothing wrong with Mrs McGinty.

            CON:              Nothing that a firing squad couldn’t cure.

            MARION:      You never liked her.

            CON:              She never liked me!

            MARION:      And whose fault was that? You terrified that poor woman.

            CON:              She had no sense of humour.

MARION:      Oh yes.  Let me see now…five ton of building sand dumped in her front drive…

            CON:              She needed a new patio…

            MARION:      A load of unasked-for horse manure…

            CON:              Her roses were looking a bit poorly…

MARION:      Catalogue furniture, carpet fitters, undertakers, funeral wreaths….

                        Hilarious, that. She must have been laughing her head off. 

            CON:              She was a fucking bitch.

            MARION:      Just because she found you in bed with…

            CON:              I wasn’t in bed with him. I was only in his room. (pause)  I had nowhere to

                                    sleep for Christ sake!

          MARION:      I thought it was pretty funny at the time.

            CON:              I’m glad someone did.  Did you know she told Fr. Cleary?  He was round

                                    like a shot.  You know how that lot are about…things like that.

            MARION:      The church frowns on homosexuality, Con. He was only doing his job.

CON:              Huh! Half of Willesden knew about it before the week was out.

            MARION:      Now, where’s your sense of humour?

            CON:              I can take a joke like the next man…but that wasn’t funny. Bloody narrow-

                                    minded ould biddy. Did she really think I was like that?  All I did was

                                    sleep in a friend’s bed for a few nights when he was on night shift.

MARION:      You overslept that night, Con. (laughs) I was finishing my cornflakes in the kitchen when she came in. She was in a right state – about the four legs she saw sticking out of the bottom of the bed.  And I think they’re men’s legs, she whispered, blessing herself.  ‘Course I knew two of them were yours…

CON:              I should’a stayed in your room.

MARION:      God no! That would have been worse still in her eyes. Anyway, you didn’t  really know me then. It was only after that we started going out.

            CON:              Oh yeah, that’s right.  I swept you off your feet soon afterwards.

MARION:      (a forced laugh) She was very good to me, the time I spent there. God rest

                        her soul.

            CON:              She’s dead?

            MARION:      She died last year.

            CON:              I never knew

            MARION:      Why should you?

            CON:              You could have told me.

            MARION:      What for?

            CON:              So as I could go and get drunk.

            MARION:      Since when did you need an excuse to do that?

CON                I would have raised my glass to her… (he raises an imaginary glass)

Your good health Mrs McGinty. May you continue to feed the hungry worm population….

            MARION:      See what I mean? I thought all that was forgotten.

CON:              It’s not just elephants who never forget.  She made a laughing stock of me. I didn’t dare show my face in the Galtymore for ages afterwards…

            MARION:      You made sure you got your own back, didn’t you?

            CON:              (an uncomfortable silence) Ah, it’s all history now.  (pause)

            MARION:      Is it?  (another pause)

CON:              I’ll have a word with Jimmy….get him to tone it down a bit.

            MARION:      I don’t want him here at all. There’s bound to be a room at the inn.

            CON:              And if there’s not, they might have the use of a stable, eh?

            MARION:      What?  (realising) Michael’s going to be here in…(she looks at her

                                    watch)…less than three hours.

            CON:              Better dig out the red carpet sharpish then, hadn’t I?

            MARION:      If that’s the way you’re going to…I can see now it’s going to be a fine

                                    homecoming…

            CON:              And whose fault is it if I’m not exactly over the moon?

            MARION:      He’s our son for heaven sake!

            CON:              Oh yes…our son.

            MARION:      For God sake! He’s been away five years, Con.

            CON:              I know that.

            MARION:      You could show some enthusiasm at least.  You never even…enquired

                                    about him (beat) He could have died for all you cared

CON:              No!  Don’t say that. Don’t bloody say that.  I do care.

            MARION:      Show it then.  Show him.

            CON:              I’m not like you. 

            MARION:      You don’t talk to him.  You never talked to him.

CON:              I did. I tried to. He’s the one who wouldn’t speak. After the…well…after what happened. (pause)   Besides, you do enough talking for both of us. All those phone calls…

            MARION:      Oh well, if you’re going to complain about a few little phone calls…

            CON:              I’m not complaining.  Jesus!

            MARION:      Are you going to speak to him?

            CON:              He’s the one who wouldn’t speak to me, remember?

            MARION:      I don’t want him arriving and finding you won’t speak to him.

            CON:              I said I would.

            MARION:      It’s not just him now.

            CON:              That’s another thing.  Getting married in the wilds of Woomabera –

or wherever it is. What’s wrong with here?  His home?

            MARION:      This isn’t his home. London is.

            CON:              You know what I mean.

MARION:      We got married in Willesden Junction.

            CON:              It’s not out in the bloody wilds.

            MARION:      It’s Katoomba.  And it’s not in the wilds.  It’s just outside Sydney.  I’m sure

                                    they are civilised there.

            CON:              Bloody upside-downers. I remember when I worked in Earls Court…

            MARION:      They remember you too, I bet…

            CON:              No one ever said a bad word about me. It’s in the breeding. The Kennedys

                                    can go anywhere and hold their heads high.  Civilised people every one of

                                    them.

            MARION:      Apart from your nephew Jimmy.

            CON:              Funny how he’s my relation all of a sudden.

            MARION:      He’s no relation of mine.

            CON:              Ah come on, he’s not that bad.

            MARION:      He’s a thug.  A foul-mouthed, nasty piece of work. And I don’t want him

                                    round my house.  What’s he doing here anyway?  You haven’t seen him for

                                    years.

            CON:              He just turned up.

MARION:      Just like that?

CON:              Yeah.  I couldn’t turn him away.

MARION:      On the run, then. A rat’s natural habitat is the city sewers, not the countryside.  Not enough victims  (pause) I don’t want the police coming round here.

            CON:              What police?  What are you talking about?

            MARION:      Where he’s concerned they won’t be far behind. I can see why Josephine

                                    washed her hands of him.

            CON:              She never washed her hands…

            MARION:      Abandoned then, if you want a better word.

            CON:              She did her best.

            MARION:      Josephine always did her best.  For Josephine.  Not that I blame her too

                                    much.  I might have done the same myself.  I mean, when your own son

                                    tries to burn your flat down – with you inside… (pause) He’s a psychopath;

a bigoted, racist, nasty…

            CON:              He needed a father, someone to keep him straight…

MARION:      And that would have solved all his problems, would it? God, aren’t fathers great altogether! (pause) Does he know Michael is coming home?

            CON:              I didn’t get round to telling him.

            MARION:      Oh, that’s grand.

CON:              It won’t be an issue.

            MARION:      No, it won’t.  And do you know why.  Because Jimmy won’t be here. And

                                    you had better make sure he won’t. I’m going out for an hour now…that

                                    should give you enough time to sort it out.

            CON:              Out?  Where are you going?

            MARION:      A policeman wouldn’t ask me that question.

            CON:              You’ve done the shopping.

            MARION:      Yes.  And now I’m going out again.  (she exits)

Con watches her go, a look of thunder on his face. He takes out his mobile phone and makes a call. (contd)

MORE POMES

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Is it National Poetry day today? ho knows! Anyway, here’s a few.

DID ROY ROGERS EVER READ THE ILIAD?

If I had a classical education

I could talk about the Greek Classics

Read the Iliad, and recognise dactylic hexameter:

I would know of the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles

Understand the about Odyssey, Homer, Diomedes, Poseidon

 And other such weighty matters  

Like who the fuck Perseus was?

But I don’t;

Instead of Greek Mythology

I read about Roy Rogers, Buck Jones, Johnny Mack Brown

And how Billy The Kid was left-handed;

About the gunfight at the OK Corral,

And who shot Jesse James in the back;

About The Lone Ranger and Tonto

And other important stuff like that;

Kemo Sabe?

I wonder if Roy Rogers ever read The Iliad?

MONOLOGUE

This is not an art society

This is a money society

A pleasure society

With most in an amorphous state

Demanding forms for themselves.

Where is the curer of souls –

He who gives advice to the lovelorn

As well as the thief and the life-taker?

There are no real answers;

So what do you do?

Perhaps the black youth had the answer

Waving a train timetable at me as I passed him by;

He had missed his stop and was shouting

‘You gonna’ help me out? Have you got a dollar’?

‘That depends’, I mouthed silently

‘On whether you have a gun or not’.

Luckily for me he didn’t.

GERONTOCRACY RULES

Gerontocracy is a word I do not like

Gerontocracy is popularised by silly old fuckers

Who frequently fall off their (motor) bikes

Gerontocracy is for coffin-dodgers

Who can now afford the platinum model

And peddle dreams that are no longer theirs to peddle

Gerontocracy is doddery rule by senile fools

Who believe they can live forever:

Gerontocracy rules – but only in good weather.

PECKER DUNNE contd

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The screen is now showing scenes from the film TROJAN EDDIE.  A middle aged man appears; it is RICHARD HARRIS, playing the character of John Power in Trojan Eddie.

            RH:     I’m croakin’ for some lush, Pecker.

            PD:     Who’s that?

RH:     You know me well, Pecker. Didn’t you teach me the cant in that godforsaken hole we spent several weeks in.

PD:     (recognising him) Well, holy God, it’s Richard Harris himself! The last time we met  – the only time we met – was on the set  of the fillum Trojan Eddie.

RH:     That’s the place I’m talking about –  that God forsaken hole. Twas worse than a real halting site

PD:     ‘Twas a real one (laughs) What are you doing here?

RH:     The same as yourself, man.

PD:     (nodding)  Passing through then. You’re dying for a drink?

RH:     That’s what I said. Croakin’ for a lush. (smiles) Your tuition wasn’t in vain. I still remember the whids-

PD:     Aye, the words. The parlay chanter.

RH:     Listen to this. The Seids – the guards. The tohbar –the road. A mush- a man. A raki- a girl.

PD:     Fair play to ya. You didn’t forget. Here  (he hands him a bottle of Guinness) That’s the Buskers Chanter I taught you, a type of parley spoken by travelling musicians and entertainers. There’s lots of different variations. Ah, it’s all died out now; no one uses it anymore. Mores the pity.

RH:     Well, I still remember it. Here’s to you, Pecker Dunne, parley poet and chanter. ( they drink) Did you ever watch the film after it was made.

PD:     I did. I even have a video of it. You and Stephen Rea. John Power and Trojan Eddie. And the girl…what was her name?

RH:     Kathleen.

PD:     Kathleen, yes. Beauty and the beast.

RH:     Steady now. I wasn’t that fucken ugly!

PD:     Sure you were too old for her any road

As they speak we see a scene at a travellers halt. Kathleen, a young girl appears. In her 20’s, she is very beautiful. Richard becomes John Power.

RH:     Kathleen! Come here till I show you something. This is where we used to stop. When we were on the road with me father. Right across here. Let the horses off and pitched our camp. With our little wagon on that hill right there. Fresh water, and –look – lashings of firewood for the fire. Meself and me sister Bridget, running through the woods. And those rocks there – see? – we were always climbing them.

K:        But you settled down, became part of the settled community.

RH:     But I was never a townie. (pause) Ah, I started rambling into the town, knocking around with a few local lads, old billiards halls and that. Then my sister Bridget met a settled boy – and ran off and got married. That sort of finished me on the road too. That summer when my father moved on I refused to go, and they went off without me. I never took to the road again.

K:        (coming close to him) But you married a traveller?

RH:     Aye. I married a traveller. Kitty. The Lord be good to her. You remind me a lot of her.

K:        Was she beautiful?

RH:     Yes. She was beautiful.

K:        They say you’re the wealthiest man in the county.

RH:     Ah, money! All the money in the world doesn’t buy you more than a shave at the end of the day.

K:        ‘Twould make me happy.  That, and a place to call home. (she looks around at the squalor) I don’t like the road meself. When I get married I’m wanting to live in a house. Bit of an orchard at the back and a swing for the children and all. (she looks at John) People think travellers don’t like beautiful things but we do. And they think we don’t like the cold as well, but that’s not true either. ( she links her arm in John’s) You’ll look after me, won’t you John?

Margaret  appears and sings SHE WALKED THROUGH THE FAIR (traditional)

MB:                My young love said to me “My mother won’t mind
And my father won’t slight you for your lack of kind”
And she stepped away from me and this she did say,
“It will not be long, love, till our wedding day”

She stepped away from me, and she went thro’ the fair.
And fondly I watched her move here and move there.
And then she went homeward with one star awake,
As the swan in the evening moves over the lake.

Last night she came to me, she came softly in,
So softly she came that her feet made no din.
And she laid her hand on me, and this she did say
“It will not be long love, till our wedding day”

PD:     She saw you coming a mile off, boy.

RH:     Sure I know that. But where would I get another chance of a fine woman like that in my lifetime? Me, a tinker gone bad. And nothing but a big empty house to go home to every night.

PD:     Aye, you’re right. More power to your elbow John.

RH:     It’s not my elbow that needs the power, boy!

PD:     Is that why she ran away with your nephew  Dermot on your wedding night?

RH:     You know how it is with young girls, their heads are easily turned.

PD:     And the suitcase of money she took with her?

The screen shows Trojan Eddie giving her the suitcase and Dermot in  the background, watching.               

RH:     ‘Twas her own. Her dowry.

PD:     Yerra, I know that. Was she worth it?

RH:     She came back, didn’t she?

PD:     How much was in the suitcase?

RH:     Eleven thousand.

PD:     Which she brought back, of course.

RH:     You know she didn’t. Her family, the McDonaghs, they had that away. Mind you, we broke a few heads. We got our money’s worth, by Christ, anyway

The screen now shows Eddie finding the suitcase under his friend’s bed.

PD:     And Trojan Eddie?

RH:     The Trojan eejit you mean! Sure I bankrolled him most of his life. Without me he’d have starved – him and his family. If he had brains he’d be dangerous.

As he speaks we see Trojan Eddie on screen, doing his spiel, selling his wares.

TE:     What you want I got. And if you can get it cheaper anywhere else then I want to know about it. Trojan Eddies the name, bargain-zinies the game. A walkman? I got it! A razor? I got it! A guitar? I got it! A keyboard? I had one last week. Too late. So listen, don’t be done out of it, get down here now. Trojan Eddie’s of William Street. Now. (a close up shot of him on the screen) What are yeh doin’ sitting there?  I said now! ( the film ends)

PD:     Seems to be doin’ alright for himself now, out on his own. A brand new store. And lashings of stock for sale. What did he have when he worked for you, John? An auld van and a stall be the side of the road. And sellin’ stuff you wouldn’t give to a charity shop. I wonder where he got the money to start up on his own…..?

RH:     What are yeh sayin’?

PD:     I’m  thinking the quare wan wasn’t the only one to see you comin’

RH:     It’s not my money, if that’s what you think.

PD:     Him and Dermot were very close though. Like brothers in fact. Maybe the McDonaghs were only the scapegoats in all this.

RH:     That bloody townie doesn’t know his elbow from his instep. Shure he won’t pay for any of that stuff. It’ll all fall down around his ears before long. You mark my words. Then he’ll be crawlin back to me looking for help. Cos he don’t stand a chance without me. He haven’t got a hope in hell. You see I know who I am, and what I am, and what I am worth. But him, he hasn’t got a clue, not an idea. He’ll come crawling back on his belly, boy. Just like the woman did.  You wait and see. Trojan Eddie!  Trojan fuckin’ eejit! ( by now he is shouting)

PD:     I suppose you are right, John. 

We see Kathleen in the background, calling to John

K:        John. Your tea is ready.

RH:     Right, Kathleen, I’ll be there in a minute.

PD:     She who must be obeyed

RH:     She’s pregnant you know. Our first child.  Isn’t it well for me boy?  ( he goes)

PD:     Fair play to yeh John. ( shakes his head as John disappears)

Margaret and Pecker watch as John walks away.

PD:     No fool like an ould fool.

MB:    He was an outsider, wasn’t he…Trojan Eddie, the townie?

PD:     They both were. Eddie and John. That’s what I liked about the film. It showed what it was like to be an outsider from both sides. Eddie , a townie , because he was working and making his living from John and the travelling community. And John, a traveller, who was living amongst the settled community,  and had made his fortune as a result. Both were despised in their different ways.  (a pause)                                                                                                           That’s where the music helps. Woody Guthrie was an outsider. He used his music to challenge things. I’m an outsider too. I use my music and my songs to challenge people in Ireland about the way Travellers are treated. I’ve also used it to celebrate the richness of Traveller music and Traveller culture. The first people to play the banjo were outsiders to America. They were the black slaves that were dragged halfway across the world from Africa to the cotton plantations of the American south.

Pecker and Margaret sings a verse of Woody Guthrie’s  LONESOME VALLEY (c) Woody Guthrie)

There’s a road that leads to glory
Through a valley far away,
Nobody else can walk it for you,
They can only point the way.

You gotta walk that lonesome valley,
You gotta walk it by yourself,
Nobody here can walk it for you,
You gotta walk it by yourself.

PD:     There’s a freedom, there is wildness, and there’s a sense of pain in Travellers style of music. When you’re downtrodden all your life it gets in your chest and it affects you. And it comes out in your music. I can hear that in Woody. Just as I can hear it in you. Did you feel an outsider Margaret?

MB:    All me life, boy. But I didn’t let that stop me. It was the singing I cared for. Only the singing. If I hadn’t had that, what would I have done? Maybe I might’a been a factory girl.

Margaret sings THE FACTORY GIRL (traditional)

As I went out walking one fine summer morning,
The birds in the bushes did whistle and sing
The lads and the lasses in couples were courtin’
Going back to the factory their work to begin

He spied one among them, she was fairer then many,
Her cheeks like the red rose that blooms in the spring,
Her hair like the lily that grows in yon’ valley
She was only a hard-working factory girl

He said soft beside her, more closely to view her
She said “My young man, don’t stare me so,
I gold in my pocket, and silver as well,
no more will I answer that factory call…”

Pecker appears with his banjo case. He opens the case, takes out his banjo and strums it for a moment.

PD:     The thing I love about the banjo is that it’s the instrument of the outsider. Me father wanted me to be a fiddle player, like himself. I think it broke his heart when I choose the banjo instead. I got my first one in Castlecomer Co Kilkenny when I was little more than a child. We had gone into a harness shop to get some gear for one of our horses and the man pulled out this dusty old banjo from somewhere and gave it to me. There are times in your life – moments when you feel something was planned for you by the man above. As soon as I held that banjo in my hands I knew we were going to spend our lives making special music together. (pause)  And so we did.

Pecker looks at his surroundings for a while then shakes his head.  He gathers his banjo and case etc and begins to move away.  The light gradually fades and we move to a centre spotlight.

Peckers  sings WEXFORD TOWN (c Pecker Dunne)

PD:                 My family lived in Wexford town, stopped travelling and settled down,
Though my father kept a horse and car, we lived within the town,
The people there misunderstood, or they did not know our ways,
So with horse and car, back on the road, I began my travelling days

My father was called the Fiddler Dunne, and I’m a fiddler too,
But although I often felt his fist, he taught me all he knew,
I know I’ll never be as good, and yet I feel no shame,
For the other things my father taught, I am proud to bear his name.

He taught me pride and how to live, though the road is hard and long,
And how a man will never starve, with a banjo, fiddle or song,
And how to fight for what I own, and what I know is right,
And how to camp beside a ditch on a stormy winter’s night.

O times were good and times were bad, and people cruel and kind,
But what I learned of people then, has stayed within my mind,
I’ll honour friends with all my heart, do for them all I can,
But I’ve learnt to go the road again, when they spurn the tinker man.

O Wexford is a town I like, but the travelling man they scorn,
And a man must feel affection for the town where he was born,
I know one day, that I’ll go back, when my travelling days are done,
And people will begin to wonder, what has happened to the Pecker Dunne.

The rest of the cast come out as Pecker finishes the last verse

                                                                                                End  (c) Tom O’Brien

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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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

LIFEAINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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Scene 4

Lionel’s flat. Sometime later. Both are relaxing

ALMA:
(pausing)
There’s something I need to tell you, Lionel.

LIONEL:
(stops playing)
Sounds serious. What is it?

Lionel’s flat. Sometime later. Both are relaxing

LIONEL:                                                                                                                     When did we first meet Alma? It was at your flat in Kensington, wasn’t it?

ALMA:                                                                                                                                     Yes, I think so. Tommy Steele brought you along. You had just written Rock With The Cavemen for him and it was a big hit.  Must be five years or more now.  (teasing)
But you’ve written so many hits—Living Doll for Cliff, As Long As He Needs Me for Shirley…but you can’t expect me to remember that far back.

We see her nervously fiddling and twisting her handkerchief

LIONEL:
(looking up)
You’ve been quiet tonight, Alma. Something on your mind

ALMA:
(takes a deep breath)
It’s about John. John Lennon.

LIONEL:
(raising an eyebrow)
What about him?

ALMA:
(hesitating)
We… we had a thing. A secret. It didn’t last long, but… it happened.

LIONEL:
(stunned)
You and Lennon? When?

ALMA:
(softly)
A couple of years ago. It was just after they started getting big. He was… different. Wild. And I was… curious.

LIONEL:
(bitterly)
Curious? Is that what you call it?

ALMA:
(defensive)
It wasn’t like that, Lionel. It was just a moment. A mistake.

LIONEL:
(standing up)
A mistake? You and one of the most famous men in the world? That’s not a mistake, Alma. That’s a headline.

ALMA:
(pleading)
It didn’t mean anything. It was just… something that happened.

LIONEL:
(sighing)
And now you’re telling me. Why?

ALMA:
(because I care about you, Lionel. Because I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.

LIONEL:
(softening)
Secrets have a way of coming out, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling faintly)
I know. But I’d rather you hear it from me.

(They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of her confession hanging in the air. Lionel walks over to the piano and plays a few notes, lost in thought.)

LIONEL:
(softly)
You’re full of surprises, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling)
That’s what keeps life interesting, isn’t it? Anyway, now it’s you turn.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                      My turn?

 ALMA:                                                                                                                         What secrets are you hiding? Come on…fair’s fair!

Lionel is silent for a while

LIONEL:                                                                                                                          I can’t read or write music

ALMA: (laughing)                                                                                                   Everybody already knows that! Come on…give!

LIONEL:                                                                                                              Well…lots of people think we are a couple, don’t they? I mean, we go places together, don’t we? And we often go away together for a couple of days… stuff like that.

ALMA:                                                                                                                             Like a married couple you mean? But we not really like that, are we?
(teasing) You know, Lionel, we’d make a great team. Maybe we should just get married and write hit songs together forever.


LIONEL:
(laughing)
And who’d keep us in line? You’d be off touring the world, and I’d be locked in a room with a piano.

ALMA: (jokingly)

I’m serious! (pause) Lionel, you’ve been my best friend, my collaborator, and the one person who always understands me. So, what do you say? Shall we make it official?

LIONEL:
(stunned)
Alma, are you serious?

ALMA: (smiling)

I could be
LIONEL                                                                                                                       N…No, you couldn’t.

ALMA:                                                                                                                       And we both know why, don’t we? (Lionel nods) We’re just friends. Good friends, but still only friends. (pause) Are you happy with that?

Lionel nods again

ALMA:                                                                                                                         Then so am I

ALMA sings ‘A HARD DAYS NIGHT’ while Lionel accompanies her on piano

Song by

The Beatles

It’s been a hard day’s night
And I’ve been working like a dog
It’s been a hard day’s night
I should be sleeping like a log
But when I get home to you
I find the things that you do
Will make me feel alright

You know I work all day
To get you money, to buy you things
And it’s worth it just to hear you say
You’re gonna give me everything
So why on earth should I moan
‘Cause when I get you alone
You know I feel OK

When I’m home
Everything seems to be right
When I’m home
Feeling you holding me tight
Tight, yeah

It’s been a hard day’s night
And I’ve been working like a dog
It’s been a hard day’s night
I should be sleeping like a log
But when I get home to you
I find the things that you do
Will make me feel alright, owww!

So why on earth should I moan
‘Cause when I get you alone
You know I feel OK

When I’m home
Everything seems to be right
When I’m home
Feeling you holding me tight
Tight, yeah

Mmm, it’s been a hard day’s night
And I’ve been working like a dog
It’s been a hard day’s night
I should be sleeping like a log
But when I get home to you
I find the things that you do
Will make me feel alright
You know I feel alright
You know I feel alright

(They share a quiet moment, the tension slowly easing. The lights dim as the scene fades.)

End of scene

Scene 5

STOLEN WORDS

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FETCHING THE WATER WITH NEDDY

Where I come from is who I am:
Tangled blackberry bushes
Smoke rising from a solitary chimney
The pine grove in the distance
And Father shouting
“More water in that barrel”
As we bucketed it from our well
To our asses cart,
Creel-less for once.
Other days Neddy would be laden down
With wood from the nearby thicket
Ash trees, young Sally’s, stumps of furze bushes.
Sometimes he hauled sand and gravel
From the quarry at Carroll’s Cross,
Part of Father’s master plan
To build us an outside toilet.
This would mean more water from the well
To feed the tank on its roof,
Unless it rained a lot
Which of course it often did
In our neck of the woods.

451


Ah Montag, Montag, where are you now?
Steeped in your kerosene world
You burnt the books
The houses and even the people.
Then fire seared your brain
And cleansed your senses
Books were made to be read not torched.
So you ran to the river
The Mechanical Hound snapping at your heels.

The sun burns every day
It burns time
The firemen burn the books
They burn them every day
Ah Montag, Montag, time burns everything away.

I HAVE A GOOD BOOK IN ME

According to perceived wisdom
Everybody has a good book in them
I now have a good book in me
I ate one this morning
For breakfast
I am still digesting the contents

RAINY NIGHTS IN SOHO


See all the down-and-out lickers and fuckers
Down the Embankment they tumble
Unable any longer to bear much reality
Too much self-knowledge
And time spent trotting
Between the Tate and the National
Or one of their endless reading groups
Believing they had
A story to tell
If only things had worked out,
If only the monkey had hit the right keys.
Hush! if you listen carefully
You can hear the dead click
Of their keyboards
In the raucousness of the Soho night;
The minicabs, the limos, the rickshaws all screaming
Take me…take me…I’m free
And the hen nighters, the stag nighters,
The whatever-the fuck nighters,
Lingering in pools of their own vomit
Waiting for the paramedics to call;
Shirts open to the navel, skirts slit
From here to eternity.
Late summer, later winter, who gives a shit?
The restaurants are all full
Though nobody is really eating
Just being there is what matters.
Smokers stop the traffic
Inspecting their mobiles
What would a Martian make of that?
No one sees anything any more
Except the lampposts they walk into;
There are no witnesses to crime;
How anybody falls in love anymore is a puzzle
Eyes no longer meet in lingering amazement
Unless they are reflected
In all those infernal hand-held screens.

Some poems from my collection STOLEN WORDS. Available on Amazon.