fiction

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers contd…

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Pecker and Margaret round the campfire. Others in the background.

MB:    Were you ever around Camden Town in  the fifties?

PD:     I wasn’t, Margaret. More’s the pity. I was stuck in Manchester. In a factory makin’ plastic thing-a-me- jigs. Can you imagine the Pecker in a factory?

MB:    I can’t. How did you breathe at all? Were you there long?

PD:     A few year. I nearly forgot how to play me banjo. It took me months to get back into me stride after I finally escaped. The money was good, but sure that’s no consolation for not bein’ able to go where you want to.

MB:    Freedom, boy, that’s all that matters. You would have loved Camden Town then. The Bedford Arms and the Favourite were our meeting places. The finest musicians and singers in Ireland were to be found there at the time. Willie Clancy, Seamus Ennis, Dominic Behan, Luke Kelly to name a few. And of course that’s where I met Michael.  Michael Gorman. The finest fiddle player of them all…

We hear the fiddle being played; the tune is a jig, THE STRAYAWAY CHILD, which was composed by Margaret. A couple can be seen dancing in the background. The music fades after a while.

PD:     The strayaway child. ( he hums a bit of it)

MB:    You know it then?

PD:     Yerra, indeed I played it many’s the time on the fiddle. One of Michael’s isn’t it?

MB:    Everyone thinks Michael composed it. But he didn’t, it was meself. It was the bane of me life, boy. I spent years trying finish it. I wrote it shortly after I ran away from home, but could never get it right. Michael helped me to put it all together. People were always talking about my relationship with Michael; I mean, they wanted to know was it just musical, or was it personal as well. Well now, I used to say to them, that’s between me and the gatepost,

PD:     Yarrah, who cares anymore, girl! Sure I was a divil after the women meself. And then after many years I found the one that mattered. Madeline. She gave me a wonderful family. (laughs) She was nearly young enough to be me daughter. But that didn’t matter. Shure love bates Bannaher.

MB:    And Bannaher bates the devil! – so they say. The thing is, I was never really in love. Would you believe that? Well, I had a husband, but I was only in love with one thing – and that was singing and music.

PD:     Ah now…I don’t believe that…

 MB:   I’m telling you. You never met anyone like me, boy – that could say I never loved a man. Only the one thing I’m in love with and that’s music.

We hear a woman’s voice off

OFF:   You’re a fraud Maggie Barry.

MB:    Who the divil is that?

A woman appears.

            MB:    Oh Lord save us, it’s me step-mother.

WOMAN:      Queen of the gypsies me backside! You’re not a Tinker – nor a Traveller no more than I am. It’s not even your right name. Your father was Charles Power.

MB:    It’s me stage name. Anyway, my grandmother came from Spain and she was a Romany gypsy. She was a singer too, and played the guitar, and her ancestors was gypsies from Italy.

WOMAN:      Don’t listen to her, mister. Her father played the music for the silent pictures in Cork for most of his life. He never left the city till the day he died. You can’t just decide to become a traveller – you have to be born one.

           MB:     My people were all travellers. Just because me father choose to stay in Cork for most of his life doesn’t change that one bit. What do you know about it anyway?

           PD:      She’s been Margaret Barry all my life. And she has done more for Travelling people and their music than almost anyone else I know. That’s good enough for me.

  WOMAN:    She has you bamboozled, like she bamboozled men all her life. She could always twist men around her finger. Like that Gorman fella, the fiddler, she took up with in London. He left behind a wife and family, broken-hearted and starvin’, back home in Sligo.

           MB:     Why you….! That was nothing to do with me. I didn’t even know Michael then. You’re spreading malicious gossip.  You should be locked up you spiteful auld strap.

WOMAN:      Shaa!  Anyway, you broke your father’s heart when you ran away. And left me to pick up the pieces.

           MB:     That’s your real gripe, isn’t it? He didn’t want me. And you certainly didn’t. You made that clear. It was the happiest day of my life when I got on my bicycle and headed for the North. I was content there for nearly twenty years, living in me caravan, and singing and playing to me heart’s content at the fairs and the matches.

WOMAN:      Until you ran away with the fiddler Gorman

            MB:    I never ran away with him. I was invited to London by Alan Lomax to do some recording. That’s how I met Michael.

WOMAN:      Maybe, maybe not. But you were never a Tinker Margaret Barry. Never a Tinker…(she exits)

MB:    And you were always one. By nature anyway.  You don’t suppose people will think I was a fraud, Pecker?

PD:     That’s the least of your worries, girl. Sure you’re more popular these last  years than you ever were when you were…when you …

MB:    When I was alive, boy.  Don’t be afraid to say it. Well, that’s nice to know anyway. (she looks around) You know, I often think this place is a bit like the Wells Fargo Depot. Stagecoaches come in, people get off and get on; they bring a bit of news, and then they go away again. Off to God knows where. And you’re left waiting for the next coach to come in…

PD:     You’re here a long time yourself, girl. Without movin’ on, I mean.

MB:    Am I, boy? I wonder why that is?  Ah shure ours is not to reason why. Ours is just to….well you know what I mean.

Pecker and Margaret both sing a few verses of IT’S NEARLY OVER NOW, AND NOW I’M EASY ( (c) Eric Bogle)


BOTH:           For nearly sixty years, I’ve been a Cockie
Of droughts and fires and floods I’ve lived through plenty
This country’s dust and mud have seen my tears and blood
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

I married a fine girl when I was twenty
But she died in giving birth when she was thirty
No flying doctor then, just a gentle old black ‘gin
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

She left me with two sons and a daughter
On a bone-dry farm whose soil cried out for water
So my care was rough and ready, but they grew up fine and steady
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

My daughter married young, and went her own way
My sons lie buried by the Burma Railway
So on this land I’ve made me home, I’ve carried on alone
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

City folks these days despise the Cockie
Say with subsidies and dole, we’ve had it easy
But there’s no drought or starving stock on a sewered suburban block
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy

For nearly sixty years, I’ve been a Cockie
Of droughts and fires and floods, I’ve lived through plenty
This country’s dust and mud, have seen my tears and blood
But it’s nearly over now, and now I’m easy
And now I’m easy

End of scene

PD:                 My proper name is Paddy Dunne. It was me uncle who said call yourself Pecker. Pecker, that’s a great name, boy, he said. And he was right. I think  music is something that has got to be born in you. In the blood. Like the blood horse, the drop of blood has to be there. If I hadn’t got the music I think I would be very hungry. Nobody else gives a damn for my family only me. All my people were show people, carnival people, still are today. The cinema, fairs, the circus, hurling and football matches, that’s where you’ll find us, anywhere there’s a big crowd

You’d always know spring was here when you saw the crows building their nests, and when you saw the primroses growing at the side of the road, and when you saw me father’s caravan coming over the brow of the hill. That’s the time when me mother would tell us we ‘were goin’ off to the country again’.

A man appears in the background. He is dressed in 1940’s clothes, the clothes of an artisan, and carrying a set of uileann pipes. He begins to play. The tune is called COLONEL FRASER/RAKISH PADDY.  We hear it for a few minutes, and see a couple dancing in the background.

PD:     Well, God…do you know what? I’d swear that’s Johnny Doran. The great Johnny Doran.

MB:    Tis, boy. I‘d recognise him anywhere. We were often in competition. At a match, or a fair. If you saw Johnny on the horizon, ‘twas time to pack up and move on, because the pennies would be very scarce in your bag that day.

PD:     I heard tell of one fair where he collected nearly fourteen pounds for the day’s playing –  and the wages of a farm labourer at the time was twelve pounds for a whole year.  I often collected four or five, but fourteen pounds! (he shakes his head then shouts)  Hey, Johnny, is that you? Is that Johnny Doran?

The man looks at him and smiles, then waves. He plays the pipes for a few more minutes , and the couple dance again.

PD:     Did you know that in Cromwellian times there was a bounty on pipers? Five pounds, the same as on priests, cos the authorities believed they had the power to incite rebellion.

MB:    And why wouldn’t they – have the power, I mean –  if they could play like Johnny

PD:     The finest piper in Ireland. He was one of the Cashs’ you know. One of their descendants, anyway. I remember the Cash’s when I was growin’ up in Wexford. Goin’ to school there, and the Cashs’ and the Dunnes’ being put together on one side of the classroom. That’s the way it was for some reason. I suppose it was because we were Travellers.

MB:    That was the prejudice, boy. We hadn’t a name for it then , we just thought that was the way all people treated travellers. But that’s what it was. Pure prejudice.

PD:     Because we dared to be different. And it wasn’t ignorant people doing it.

MB:    Like guards. Or farmers.

PD:     It was educated people. Teachers. And priests. The parish priests ran the schools in them days, so suppose it was on their orders that we were…what’s the word?

MB:    Segregated.

PD:     That’s the fella.

MB:    Like the Jews in Hitler’s Germany.

PD:     We were in good company then. Segregated be people who weren’t fit to lick  Johnny Doran’s  boots.

MD:    Johnny would put the heart crossways in you when you listened to him. Did you know he taught Willy Clancy how to play the pipes? Willy himself told me that. (pause) He died young. Too young. He was crushed beneath a wall that fell on his caravan in Dublin. Wasn’t I livin’ there around the time? Ah, he lived for two year after in a wheelchair, boy, but what sort of a life was that for him?  He never played the pipes again.

The music should get louder now, as the couple finish the dance, then disappear.

PD:     Well, he’s not in the wheelchair now. You know, that’s the second miracle I’ve seen in me life. The first was when a nun talked me into givin’ up the lush – the drink. I thought I would never do it. And I told her so. But she wouldn’t leave it lie. ‘You’re an alcoholic’, she said to me. I didn’t like those words – but she was right. And she persuaded me to join Alcoholics Anonymous.

Pecker stands before his peers, as if at an AA meeting.

PD:     Me name is Pecker Dunne and I’m an alcoholic. I had me first drink when I was twelve years old at me Confirmation in Wexford town.  I went out to celebrate with my father’s brothers who were confirmed on the same day. That was my first drinking session and I went on to drink for the next forty years. I became an alcoholic because I like the taste of the lush. I liked the way it made me feel. I knew at an early age I had a problem but I wasn’t able to stop. I tried a few times. I remember coming to Clonmel to play some music and decided there and then to take the Pledge. I managed to stay off the drink for six months; I bought a wagon and horses and felt a lot healthier in meself. But then I hit the bottle again and within a few weeks the wagon, the horses, the nice harness were all gone. I spent everything on the dark stuff in the bottom of the bottle  (pause)

            I drank everything; beer, spirits, poitin, anything that would make me high. But like many alcoholics I was in denial for years. This despite the fact that I was as bad an alcoholic as you would find anywhere in Ireland. I almost hit a priest once when he told me I was an alcoholic. I was in denial, you see. Drink can strip you of your dignity and leave you with nothing. That is how powerful it is. There are years in my life I can remember very little about. They are like a blur. It is like I wasn’t really living. I went through a period of sleeping in graveyards, don’t ask me why. I suppose I was in good company because I was half-dead myself. I remember waking up very early in a graveyard in Kerry one morning and thinking, ‘God, it must be resurrection day and I am the first up’.

            And then I met this nun from Skibereen who saved me. I was in hospital because of the drinking and she came over to me and tried to help me. The abuse I gave that poor woman. ‘Leave me alone, I’m dying sick’, I would say, But she wouldn’t give up. ‘We’ll have a talk’, she’d say. And I would say to her ‘If we do have a talk will you leave me alone after that?’  And she would say ‘No I won’t’.  Then one day she came over and said ‘Now, just relax and listen to me for a moment. Do you know you have a disease called alcoholism?  The alcohol is in the bottle and the ‘ism’ is in you. That’s what it is, plain and simple. If you leave the bottle alone you will have no problems. I will take you to a place where you can start to fight your addiction’. And she took me to my first meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.

            When I came out of the meeting she was waiting for me. ‘How do you feel now?’ she asked me. ‘Sister’, I said, ‘the gates of heaven haven’t opened to let me in yet, but the gates of hell are starting to open to let me out’. She put her arms around me and said, ‘You know I love you, Pecker’. That fixed it for me. Her telling me she loved me meant everything to me. The drink had brought me so low I didn’t care anymore whether I lived or died, but when she said that I knew there was at least one person in the world that cared. I said to myself, ‘someone wants me to live’. And shortly after that I met my wife. I’ve been sober ever since.

Pecker sings the song SULLIVAN’S JOHN  (c Pecker Dunne)

PD:                 Oh Sullivan’s John, to the road you’ve gone
Far away from your native home
You’ve gone with the tinker’s daughter
For along the road to roam
Ah, Sullivan’s John you won’t stick it long
Till your belly will soon get slack
As you roam the road with a mighty load
And a tooten box on your back

I met Katy Caffrey and a neat baby
All behind on her back strapped on
She had an old ash plant all in her hands
For to drive her donkey on
Enquiring every farmer’s house
As along the road she passed,
Oh, where would she get an old pot to mend
And where would she get an ass

There’s a hairy ass fair in the County Clare
In a place they call Spancel Hill
Where my brother James got a rap of a hames
And poor Paddy they tried to kill
They loaded him up in an ass and cart
For along the road to go
Oh, bad luck to the day that I went away
To join with the tinker’s band

Oh Sullivan’s John, to the road you’ve gone
Far away from your native home
You’ve gone with the tinker’s daughter
For along the road to roam
Ah, Sullivan’s John you won’t stick it long
Till your belly will soon get slack
As you roam the road with a mighty load
And a tooten box on your back

MB:     That’s a great song, Pecker.

PD:     I wrote that song when I was eleven. And I think it’s the best one I ever wrote. It was a romantic incident that I saw among the travelling people that inspired me. We pulled in off the drag – the road – one evening outside Kilrush, joining a camp that was already set up. We were there for a few days and every evening I noticed this farmer’s son coming down to the molly – the camp – and he had his eye on this beautiful traveller girl. You could see that that he was crazy about her and she about him. In the heel of the hunt, they were so mad about each other that they ran away to England together. Johnny Sullivan was the boy’s name and I named the song after him.  He joined the travelling life in England and started his own tarmac and trucking business there. In the song I pretended that he was a tinker tramping the road, but in reality he became a very wealthy man. Ah, that’s what they call poetic licence I suppose. 

End of scene

PECKER DUNNE – last of the travellers

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Pecker dunne…part 1

PECKER DUNNE – LAST OF THE TRAVELLERS

By

Tom O’Brien

A play with music about the travelling musicians of Ireland, mostly concentrating on Pecker Dunne and Margaret Barry. They were both from travelling families, Tinkers, and were marginalised by Irish society. Looked down on, indeed persecuted for their way of life. Both were great singers and musicians, and along with the great Johnny Doran, did more to promote Irish traditional music than almost any other person of our times.                               Both are dead now and the play is set in a kind of imaginary ‘halting site’, where departed souls are temporarily resident while awaiting transport to somewhere permanent.

Characters

                        Pecker Dunne………………….40-60 yrs

                        Margaret Barry……………….30-50 yrs

                        Guard Sergeant………………..  40’s

                        Richard Harris/John Power….50-60yrs

                        Kathleen……………………………early 20’s

                        Johnny Doran……………………..late 30’s

                        Mary…………………………………..mid 20’s

                        Tinker Man…………………………30-40 yrs

                        Step-Mother………………………..early 40’s

                        Farmer…………………………………40’s

Apart from Pecker and Margaret, all the other characters can be played by one male and one female actor if need be.

Some musicians may be required, possibly a banjo/fiddle player and an accordionist.

Margaret Barry has a pronounced Cork accent, even when singing.

PECKER DUNNE – LAST OF THE TRAVELLERS

By

Tom O’Brien

Scene one

A darkened stage, then a spotlight. PECKER DUNNE appears, carrying a banjo case. The case has Pecker Dunne stencilled across the body. Bearded, he wears a wide black leather belt with silver buckle on his trousers, and could be anywhere between 40/60 years of age. He sings I’M THE LAST OF THE TRAVELLIN PEOPLE (c) Pecker Dunne)

PD:                 Me name it is Paddy, I’m called Pecker Dunne                                                                     I walk the road but I never run,                                                                                              I’m the last of the travellin’ people                                   

With me banjo and fiddle I yarn and song,                                                    and sing to people who do me no wrong                                                  But if others despise me I just move along,                                                    and know I’ll find friends in the morning                                          Arah money is money and friends they are friends,                                       And drinking with them is where all money ends                                          But it isn’t on money it’s on them I depend                                                         When friends and the guards are against me.                                                           

From Belfast to Wexford from Clare to Tralee,                                             a town with a pub is a living for me                                                                       I haven’t a home but thank God I am free,                                                 I’m the last of the travellin’ people

The road isn’t aisy but it’s what I choose,                                                      I’m not always a winner but I’l           Summer and winter keep travelling I will                                                     But the road it is long and I know it will kill                                                  The last of the travelling people.  

As Pecker finishes the stage lights come up. There is a blank screen as backdrop.  Towards the front we see what looks to be a travellers halting site; campfire, cooking utensils etc – the impression being given is that the wagons etc are just out of sight. It should be a hazy, sort of unreal-looking place, with a few people seated at various points. Some of these can be musicians.

            PD:     Where the bloody hell is this place?

  On screen we can now read HAPPY 80TH BIRTHDAY PECKER.

            PD:     Birthday? Eighty?  What’s goin’ on here?

 MARGARET BARRY appears from the mist with her banjo. She sings THE GALWAY SHAWL (traditional)

MB:                At Oranmore in the County Galway,
One pleasant evening in the month of May,
I spied a damsel, she was young and handsome
Her beauty fairly took my breath away.

Chorus:
She wore no jewels, nor costly diamonds,
No paint or powder, no, none at all.
But she wore a bonnet with a ribbon on it
And round her shoulder was a Galway Shawl.

We kept on walking, she kept on talking,
‘Till her father’s cottage came into view.
Says she, “Come in, sir, and meet my father,
And play to please him The Foggy Dew.”

She sat me down beside the fire
I could see her father, he was six feet tall.
And soon her mother had the kettle singing
All I could think of was the Galway shawl.

I played The Blackbird and The Stack of Barley
Rodney’s Glory and The Foggy Dew
She sang each note like an Irish linnet.
Whilst the tears stood in her eyes of blue.

‘Twas early, early, all in the morning,
When I hit the road for old Donegal.
She said goodbye, sir, she cried and kissed me,
And my heart remained with that Galway shawl.

PD:     God bless all here tonight. Isn’t Margaret great to turn up

for my birthday? Ladies and gentlemen, Margaret Barry.

MB:    That’s the first I heard about any birthday, Pecker.  I was told

there was a few shillings in it for me.

PD:     Ah, g’wan now girl.

MB:    Well, seein’ as it’s yourself Pecker. And it’s not as if we’re strangers. Shure, we sung together before.

PD:     Aye, we did, a long time ago. A chanter supreme, that’s what you are. It’s me birthday today – apparently. What age do you think I am?

MB:    I can still read, boy.  (indicates the screen and laughs)

 Not as ould as me, anyway.

PD:     Sure you’re no age. If you were six months younger I’d run away

with you!

MB:    I was born in 1917, boy.

PD:     That would make you…ah…

MB:    Dead, boy. T’would make me dead. (she looks around) ‘Tis a funny auld place, isn’t it?

PD:     Where is it at all? Is it the afterlife – or just another bit of roadside the council forgot to fence off?

MB:    The afterlife, boy! (looks around) There’s never anyone around to ask. People just seem to come and go.

PD:     You sure it’s not a guard (police)) station? There’s never anyone in them places anymore.

MB:    No, they’re always too busy hidin’ behind hedges and the like to give you a ticket for something or other. Don’t talk to me about the guards.

A uniformed Garda Sergeant walks into view.

            PD:     Well, Lord save us, if it isn’t auld Baldy Tyres himself!

MB:    I know that fella! He stopped me wance in Limerick for havin – how did he put it? – a ‘defective rear light on a moving vehicle’. On t’oul caravan, if you don’t mind! The lousy fecker.

GS:     Well now, what have we here?  The Pecker Dunne and Margaret Barry. When did you pair hitch up together? Or is that too delicate a question?

PD:     Since when did the matter of delicacy ever bother you? Or any Guard for that matter.

GS:     I was only doin’ me job.

MB:    That’s what Cromwell said at Drogheda.

PD:     And a lot more places besides. I wonder now if Guards are descendants of Roundheads?

MB:    (aside)  He have the head of one, anyhow

GS:     What was that? (he is walking about, looking at things) You know, you can’t park here anymore.

PD:     A bit of auld waste ground, on the side of the road – where’s the harm?

PS:      Ah now, it’s not as simple as that. Not like it used to be in the old days. There’s the health and safety issue to be considered for a start…

MB:    Health and safety, boy?  What’s that when it’s at home?  We parked here in 1930, when I was thirteen years old, and we’ve been parking here on and off ever since.

PS:      Not for the past twenty years you haven’t.  There’s new laws these days, official halting sites, proper…

PD:     He’s talkin’ about all these new EU laws, girl. Ah, shure it’s all changed since you…since you…(pause)  It’s the new United States of Europe. We’re all only satellites now, being told what to do be some mush in Brussels.

MB:    Is that a fact? I’m well out of it then.

PS:      Be that as it may. I know you Pecker, and I know what will happen if I give you permission to stay here. There’ll be a swarm of you here before you can say ‘Ballybunion’.

PD:     It’s me birthday. I’m entitled to ask a few friends round for me birthday.

PS:      Have ye any horses? I don’t want any horses roamin’ the road – or the farmer’s fields for that matter.

PD:     Prags? What would a traveller want with a prag these days? The only thing I travel with these days – apart from me four be four – is this. (he waves his banjo case)

PS:      I’ll be keeping a close eye on all of you. I don’t want any trouble now. ( he heads off)

MB:    He won’t go far, boy. He’ll be peeping from behind some hedge.

Pecker and Margaret sing DANNY FARRELL (by Pete St John)

I knew Danny Farrell when his football was a can
With his hand-me-downs and Welliers and his sandwiches of bran
But now that pavement peasant is a full grown bitter man
With all the trials and troubles of his travelling people’s clan

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A raider, a trader, a people police hater
So lonely and only, what you’d call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

I knew Danny Farrell when he joined the National School
He was lousy at the Gaelic, they’d call him amadán – a fool
He was brilliant in the toss school by trading objects in the pawn
By the time he was an adult all his charming ways had gone

I knew Danny Farrell when we queued up for the dole
And he tried to hide the loss of pride that eats away the soul
But mending pots and kettles is a trade lost in the past
“There’s no hand-out here for tinkers” was the answer when he asked

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A raider, a trader, a people police hater
So lonely and only, what you’d call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

I still know Danny Farrell, saw him just there yesterday
Taking methylated spirits with some wino’s on the quay
Oh, he’s forty going on eighty, with his eyes of hope bereft
And he told me this for certain, there’s not many of us left

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A raider, a trader, a people police hater
So lonely and only, what you’d call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

Lights fade, then Spotlight on Margaret Barry

MB:    I was born on the first of January 1917 in the city of Cork. Peter Street. Me mother was seventeen years married to me father when she died. I was about twelve then. She was a beautiful woman; I don’t think there was a lovelier woman to be got in Cork. Lovely black hair, you know. She used to wear it in a plait right around her head, and all got up in a big bun at the back, with a big hairpin stuck in it. She got double pneumonia and it killed her. I remember her calling me to her bedside in the hospital and saying ‘Margaret, my Margaret’. I never got over her dying. Never. Me father re-married, but I couldn’t get on with them, so I set off on me own when I was sixteen and settled in the North of the country.                                                                                                            I sang through the fairs. And the markets. And I had very enjoyable times. And more times it wasn’t so nice because there was wind and rain, and I’d get wet coming back on me bicycle from somewhere. But I enjoyed every minute of it. Me heart was delighted when I went through the fairs and could keep on singing all the time. But as soon as ever I’d finish up at some fair or a market I’d actually go to some house. I used to always be hired. They knew me that well. Around Castleblaney,  Monaghan, Crossmaglen, Armagh, and all these places. And they used always come along for me and say ‘we’d like for you to come up to the house some night, and play a few tunes and sing a few songs’. And there I was, I used to go to the house at eight o clock in the evening and from then until maybe seven in the morning I’d keep on playing for them and singing. I’d get a rest about twelve o clock and get something to ate. And then off I’d go again. I’d play some half sets, and if there was room enough in the place they’d take away the furniture, and  they’d dance away the night. It would just be a sociable thing; it wouldn’t be a wedding or a wake or anything like that, it was the way they were around them parts, the way they enjoyed themselves. They loved that kind of life you see, the dancing and the craic. It was what they called a house ceili. And naturally enough, it was never without drink.  (shakes her head)  All gone now, boy.

Margaret sings THE FLOWER OF SWEET STRABANE  (traditional)

MB:                If I were King of Ireland and all things at my will
I’d roam through all creations new fortunes to find still
And the fortune I would seek the most you all must understand
Is to win the heart of Martha, the flower of sweet Strabane

Her cheeks they are a rosy red, her hair golden brown
And o’er her lily white shoulders it carelessly falls down
She’s one of the loveliest creatures of the whole creation planned
And my heart is captivated by the flower of sweet Strabane

If I had you lovely Martha away in Innisowen
Or in some lonesome valley in the wild woods of Tyrone
I would use my whole endeavour and I’d try to work my plan
For to gain my prize and feast my eyes on the flower of sweet Strabane

Oh, I’ll go o’er the Lagan down by the steam ships tall
I’m sailing for Amerikay across the briny foam
My boat is bound for Liverpool down by the Isle of Man
So I’ll say farewell, God bless you, my flower of sweet Strabane

POTEEN – a short story

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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.

STREET CORNER – a short play

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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.

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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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.

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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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

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

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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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

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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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

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE (continued)

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Scene 5

LIONEL: (in spotlight)                                                                                               My mother was forty-nine when she had me. Or so she said! Or was it forty-one? Anyway, by that time she had very little strength left to give me the affection and love I craved.  I remember sitting by the piano as a boy, playing tunes to make her smile. But she was too tired to even clap. Not only was I deprived of love, I had no money either, so you can imagine when I hit it really big with Oliver, the novelty of being wealthy was more than I could cope with. Trouble is money doesn’t automatically bring love, does it? And I needed love. So I thought I could buy it.

John Gorman appears in another spot. They both sing a verse of ‘Can’t Buy Me Love.

BOTH:                                                                                                                           Can’t buy me love, love
Can’t buy me love

I’ll buy you a diamond ring my friend
If it makes you feel alright
I’ll get you anything my friend
If it makes you feel alright
‘Cause I don’t care too much for money
For money can’t buy me love

LIONEL:

I wish I had written that. Not bloody Lennon.

JOHN:

Don’t forget McCartney.

LIONEL:

They wrote that in Alma’s flat you know. In fact I think she helped.( Pause}                   

Money can’t buy me love.

JOHN:

You bought plenty of other stuff though. You’ve always been chasing something, Lionel. Love, fame, money… but you’ve already got more than most people ever dream of. You had four fancy cars at one stage. And a chauffeur-driven limo. Not to mention that palace in Chelsea.

LIONEL:

Aye. The Fun Palace. Money was no object and I had this desperate need to be loved. And I used to think that giving someone an expensive present was a foolproof way of buying their affection. Today, of course, by some irony the situation is reversed. I’m so broke it is they who are giving me the gifts. The worst thing about being bankrupt John, Is having no…money! It really pisses me off. In fact, I was so pissed off this morning that I wrote this new song – Bankruptcy Blues.

He hands john a copy of the lyrics and they sing it, with Lionel on piano

BOTH:

Bankruptcy Blues”
(In the style of Lionel Blair)

(Verse 1)
Oh, the bills came knocking, and the debts piled high,
The bank said, “Sorry, love, but now it’s goodbye!”
I once had a fortune, now I’ve got naught but air,
But I’ll tap-dance through the chaos, ‘cause I just don’t care!

(Chorus)
It’s the Bankruptcy Blues, oh, what a lark!
I’m singing in the dark, though the future’s not so stark.
With a wink and a grin, I’ll let the troubles slide,
For every cloud’s got a silver lining inside!

(Verse 2)
The creditors are calling, but I’m out of sight,
I’m waltzing through the ruins, keeping spirits light.
They took my car, my house, and my fancy yacht,
But they’ll never take my joy—oh no, they cannot!

(Chorus)
It’s the Bankruptcy Blues, oh, what a show!
I’m down, but not out, and the world will know.
With a twirl and a spin, I’ll rise from the ash,
For life’s a grand performance, and I’m here to sashay!

(Bridge)
So here’s to the dreamers who’ve lost it all,
Who’ve stumbled and fallen but still stand tall.
Bankruptcy’s a chapter, not the end of the book,
With a song in my heart and a hopeful look!

(Final Chorus)
It’s the Bankruptcy Blues, oh, what a ride!
I’ll take it in my stride, with my pride as my guide.
With a laugh and a song, I’ll turn the tide,
For life’s a stage, and I’m still on the bright side!

(Outro)
So raise a glass to the ups and the downs,
To the smiles and the frowns, and the spins and the rounds.
Bankruptcy’s a dance, and I’m leading the way,
With a twinkle in my eye, I’ll steal the day!

JOHN:

There’s still life in the old dog eh! (pause) When you mentioned the Fun Palace back there, something that’s been bothering me for ages came to mind. Where did that name come from?

LIONEL thinks for a moment

LIONEL:                                                                                                                       The Fun Palace? It was something that Joan – Joan Littlewood – wanted to set up. An avant-garde theatre scene of the 1960s. A sort a visionary project conceived by Joan  and architect Cedric Price, designed to be a dynamic, interactive cultural space that blurred the lines between art, technology, and community.                               Although it was never fully realized, it remains a symbol of radical creativity and innovation. It was never built due mainly to financial and logistical challenges.   Joan’s Fun Palace was supposed to be this grand, revolutionary thing. Mine? Just a fancy house with too many rooms and not enough love.                                     (laughs) I just nicked the name for my place!

Lionel visualises a conversation between himself and Joan

JOAN:
(gesturing wildly)
Imagine it, Lionel—a place where art, science, and community come together. No  

LIONEL:
(skeptical)
Sounds like a pipe dream, Joan. How are you going to pull it off?

JOAN:
(grinning)
With a little help from my friends. You in?

LIONEL:
(laughing)

If you build it Joan, they will come! (to the audience)
Life’s a stage, and I’m still dancing. Even if the music’s stopped.

End of scene

Scene 6
LIONEL:(to the audience)                                                                                           When I was a young kid in the East End, there was a sweet shop opposite our house where you could get a chocolate bar with a toffee in it for a penny. It was called ‘Oliver’, and the wrapper around it had a picture of a lad asking for more. I never forgot that image. And then I saw that film by David Leon…

John Gorman appears

JOHN:                                                                                                                       Yeah. Oliver. I was there too, remember? We had bunked off from our National Service to see it. I remember you sayin’ you had never even read Oliver Twist back then.

LIONEL:                                                                                                                           I still haven’t got round to it.

JOHN:                                                                                                                         How can you write a play about a book you haven’t even read?


LIONEL:                                                                                                                      Easy peasy. I was reading an article one night recently about how Dickens had gone about writing it, and it hit me—this story was meant to be sung. The characters, the drama, the heartbreak… it was all there, just waiting for a tune

He plays and sings at the Piano. Alma Cogan comes in during this and joins in

LIONEL:

I’ve already written a few (sings’ Food, Glorious, Food’) 

 Is it worth the waiting for?
If we live ’til eighty four
All we ever get is gru…el!
Ev’ry day we say our prayer —
Will they change the bill of fare?
Still we get the same old gru…el!
There is not a cust, not a crumb can we find,
Can we beg, can we borrow, or cadge,
But there’s nothing to stop us from getting a thrill
When we all close our eyes and imag…ine

Food, glorious food!
Hot sausage and mustard!
While we’re in the mood —
Cold jelly and custard!
Pease pudding and saveloys!
What next is the question?
Rich gentlemen have it, boys —
In-di-gestion!

Food, glorious food!
We’re anxious to try it.
Three banquets a day —
Our favourite diet!

Just picture a great big steak —
Fried, roasted or stewed.
Oh, food,
Wonderful food,
Marvellous food,
Glorous food.

source: https://www.lyricsondemand.com/soundtracks/o/oliverlyrics/foodgloriousfoodlyrics.html                                                                                                                                                       

LIONEL:
There’s a lot more, but It goes something like that.

ALMA:
A musical about a workhouse boy? Lionel, are you sure this will work?
LIONEL:
It’s not just a workhouse boy. It’s a story about survival, hope, and the power of love. And I feel it’s going to be a hit. (Pauses) What if they hate it though? What if I’ve made a terrible mistake?
JOHN:

Relax, Lionel. You’re creating something extraordinary. Just wait and see.

LIONEL:

Alma, I was thinking of asking you to maybe play the part of Nancy. You know who Nancy was?

ALMA:

(laughing) Of course I do. Not like you, I read the book. She was Bill Sykes girlfriend

LIONEL:

Yes, she was. Nancy is one of the most complex and compelling characters in Oliver!, She plays a crucial role in the story, embodying themes of loyalty, love, and sacrifice. Here’s a bit of a scene I am working on with Nancy and  Oliver. Let’s read it together.

He hands her a sheet of the script.

LIONEL:

I’ll be Oliver. (then he looks at John and hands him a page) You can be Bill

LIONEL:(reads) A dimly lit room in Fagin’s hideout. Nancy is sitting alone, holding a shawl. Oliver enters, looking scared.

OLIVER:
(softly)
Nancy?

NANCY:
(smiling)
Oliver. Come here, love.

LIONEL reads. ‘Oliver sits beside her, and she wraps the shawl around him’.

NANCY:
You’re safe now, Oliver. I won’t let anything happen to you.

OLIVER:
(tearfully)
But what about Bill? He’ll hurt you if he finds out.

NANCY:
(softly)
I know, love. But some things are worth the risk.

(She begins to sing As Long As He Needs Me, her voice filled with emotion.

NANCY:
(singing)
As long as he needs me…
Oh, yes, he does need me…
In spite of what you see…
…I’m sure that he needs me.

Who else would love him still
When they’ve been used so ill?
He knows I always will…
As long as he needs me.

I miss him so much when he is gone,
But when he’s near me
I don’t let on.

As she finishes, Bill Sikes enters, his face dark with anger.

BILL:
(grabbing Nancy)
What do you think you’re doing, Nancy?

NANCY:
(defiantly)
I’m doing what’s right, Bill. For once in my life, I’m doing what’s right.

BILL:
(angrily)
You’ll regret this, Nancy.

He drags her away as Oliver watches, helpless. The lights dim as the scene fades.

LIONEL:

That’s far as I’ve got. What do you think? Are you up for it?

ALMA:

I don’t know. You know how I hate being tied down to anything – or any place – for too long.  I’m a singer Lionel. I like variety. A new place every week. A long run is just not my scene. (pause} Look at Fings Aint Wot they Used To Be. It’s already been running over six months in the West End. And they say it’s sold out for the rest of the year. And it ran for over a year at Stratford East before that.

LIONEL:

And you could have been part of it Alma. Instead, Barbara Windsor is getting all the attention.

ALMA:

Like I said, I don’t think it’s me.
LIONEL:

You might come to regret it. I just have a feeling that this is the big one.

ALMA:

(smiles and sings)

Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be

The future’s not ours to see, Que Sera Que Sera.

End of scene