Writing

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.

THE HOMECOMING a short story

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THE HOMECOMING by Tom O’Brien

Did you ever see a hill shrink?  I mean get physically smaller bit by bit until there was nothing left.  To an occasional observer like myself it was probably more of a culture shock than if I had been present throughout its gradual disintegration.  But then, I only saw it every few years or so – when I came home on holidays from New York.  And every time there was another big chunk of it gone.  Things like that tend to stick in your mind.

It’s hard to describe how I felt about that hill.  It was like one of the family.  I grew up with it.  In the morning when I woke it would be there, looking down into our haggard.  A Jekyl and Hyde character; in the winter dark and foreboding, the mists clinging to its girth; in the summer smiling down on us children, beckoning us up into its warm embrace.

It never had a name, just The Hill. Mornings, before we left for school, mother would  shout at one of us to  run  to the Hill and fetch some milk from Nellie.  Nellie was our goat, and I think she liked The Hill better than our haggard.  The grazing wasn’t any sweeter up there, she just like the view.

She wasn’t the only one.  In summer we couldn’t wait to get home from school, divest ourselves of our school clothes, and climb up there.  There were five of us; my brother Seamus and myself, Frances and her two brothers, Billy and Josie.  We called our gang the Red Devils, which had Fr Dunphy sucking on his teeth when he first heard mention of the name. Frances was always kissing me,  which I didn’t care much for at the time.

The Hill was our territory.  Nobody could play there unless we invited them.  Once, we fought a running battle with some other kids who tried to muscle in.  We soon scattered them with a hail of stones.  That battle established it as our kingdom.  My father said we almost owned it anyway; the big farmer to whom it really belonged letting him have the use of it for ten shillings a year.

Clustered round its bottom were whitewashed cottages, the occasional bungalow, the pub, the creamery, and a galvanised shack occupied by a witch.  Behind the hill ran the railway line, and the level crossing,  which was manned by Frances’ father. Their house was part of the railway, and their front room was a mass of levers and cables.

We had a secret place on the Hill, a cave beneath an outcrop near its top.  You had to crawl on your belly to gain entrance because its mouth was guarded by several scraggy furze bushes.  We could have cut them down of course, but then we could have hidden inside and watched the goings-on below us.

The pub was the centre of the social activity.  On summers evenings there was open-air dancing on a makeshift stage in the field adjacent to the pub.  Old time waltzes and set dances  were the favourites.  The accordion player sat on a chair  playing his tunes, polishing off large bottles of porter as fast as they were put in front of him.  If playing was thirsty work then dancing was thirstier, and there was a constant stream of revellers shunting between pub and dance area.  From our vantage point we watched the dancers fling back their heads and swing their partners round and round, their shoes pounding on the timber, their shouts of joys ripping through the warm summer’s evening.

In the winter, the travelling shows came and pitched their tents in the same field, and entertained us for a few weeks with a mixture of comedy, drama and music.  Badly-acted plays and out-of-key singers warmed us up on many a cold night at the foot of the Hill.

My cousin, Nora,  took a fancy to one of the travelling showmen and began taking him up to our hiding place when the show was over.  We didn’t think much of that.  One summer’s evening we heard her screaming up on the Hill.  We found her in the cave, surrounded by a pool of blood.  When the doctor came he took away something in a bag, and later on I saw my father heading across the fields with a shovel on his shoulder.  The show never came by again.

As we grew older I began returning Francis’s kisses.  Now it was our turn to use the cave late at night!

I had just turned seventeen when the bulldozers moved in.  Shortly afterwards explosive experts began blowing up bits of the Hill, and the quarrying began in earnest. Soon there was a sprawling complex of dust-shrouded buildings, machines eating away at the Hill, and convoys of trucks bumping across the stony ground. Before long, the trees had turned grey, and the trains had stopped running.

My father cried as he watched the Hill disappear before his eyes.  The big farmer was sympathetic, but merely shrugged his shoulders; times were hard, and anyway, what use was a lump of rock to a farmer?  Father sold his smallholding, his sheep and his goats, and took a job in the quarry.  Very soon Seamus and myself followed.  Seamus was installed at the weighbridge, assisting with the dockets because he had a head for figures. Somebody must have reckoned I had a head for heights – because I was given the task of carrying the equipment for the men who set the charges. Every evening, just before six, the birds rose from the Hill like dust from a carpet, and shortly afterwards the silence was shattered by a series of thunderclaps.  Another bit of the Hill gone west.

It was shortly after my eighteenth birthday that Frances and Seamus died.  To the jaws of New York I ran; my solitary suitcase filled with the rags of my youth, a bottle of holy water, and a pile of Kit Carson and Johnny Mac Brown comics.  Away from the grief choking my lungs, and the red staining the grey rocks brown.  Away from the haunted thing staring at me from every reflective surface, and from the silent screams riding every breeze that tugged at the Hill’s battered face. Away to Uncle Willie.

          I saw many sights in New York, dreamed a thousand dreams, and knew real loneliness for a time.  The icy mistrals that periodically sweep down the great canyons of Broadway and the Bronx were warm compared to me.  I was a rock.  I was an island.  My days were spent constructing fashionable patios around  stucco-ed buildings with ornate entrances and moneyed owners, my nights in Uncle Willie’s counting house. In time, his small building firm became my large construction company.  Occasionally, when time permitted, I would come and watch the Hill grow smaller.

                                           ………………

All quiet here now.  The bulldozers and bedlam-makers have gone.  And so too has the Hill.  Erased from the skyline in thirty short years. A covering of topsoil hides some of the scars; here and there conifers and shrubs attempt to breathe new life into the pock-marked, lunar-like surroundings.  In the centre  a square of green, vivid against the drab background, seems strangely out of  place.  Even more incongruous is the white building, rising like a Phoenix from the embers, its five fluted columns standing like sentinels beneath its awning, its flanks guarded by a colonnade of progressively-sloping evergreens.

The pub still stands at the crossroads, grown larger and more prosperous over the years, and the creamery has expanded to become a cheese-making factory.  Of the level crossing and the railway there is no visible sign, although a cursory search would reveal the tracks still intact beneath the undergrowth. Most of the cottages have gone; replaced by new houses – many more of them – and the city, once more than five miles away, is now within spitting distance.

I look around me and shiver suddenly.  The ghosts of yesterday clamouring for attention once more.  The Red Devils scampering up that ungainly lump of granite. Voices drifting in the wind; “look what I found, look what I found!”.  Dogs, rabbits, burrows, names etched in flint.  Soft hair, silky thighs, music and laughter aloft on the breeze.  Then another excursion.  This time two people heading for the secret place, and another figure – hidden – watching.  An explosion.  The evening turning crimson. Two coffins submerged beneath a garden of flowers. A funeral cortege stretching further than the eye could see…Oh Frances, why? You and Seamus…Oh God!  I never meant for it to end like that…

A voice at my elbow brings me back to the present. 

“I found the keys in my briefcase.  Everything alright?”

I look at the man wearing the thick horn-rimmed glasses.  Was this tubby little estate agent really the boy I had played cowboys and indians with all those years ago?  Staked out on a warm rock as the rest of us chanted and danced around him?

“Yes”, I smile, “Everything is fine now Josie”.

He hands me the bunch of jangling keys.  “The keys to the Hill, Bernie. Welcome home”

end

STREET CORNER – 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 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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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 2

 A single spotlight on Lionel, now in his 50s, standing centre stage. The rest of the stage is dark, creating a sense of isolation. As Lionel speaks, faint projections or shadows of key moments from his life appear in the background (e.g., Joan Littlewood, Alma Cogan, the premiere of Oliver.

LIONEL:
(to the audience)
Twenty -five years. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? But when you look back… (pauses) It’s like staring at a different person. That young bloke, full of fire, thinking he could take on the world. And for a while, he did.

(He steps forward, the spotlight following him.)

LIONEL:
Fings Ain’t Wot They Used to Be. What a title, eh? Joan came up with that. Joan Littlewood. She always had a way with words. Me? I just wrote the tunes. But together… (smiling) We made magic. (pauses as he remembers)

 Frank Norman was the geezer who wrote the story.  It was his first play. A straight play; no music or nothin’; Frank sent it to Joan and she liked it, but told him it was a musical. She dragged me in to write the songs. ‘A cockney musical, Joan’, I said, ‘you’re ‘avin’ a laugh’. But she wasn’t. ‘Those days are long departed, dear, she said to me, ‘when every actress has roses round her vowels, and every actor wears a butler’s suit and speaks a mouthful of mockney. Oh no, this is the real Mccoy’.

And so Joan and her Theatre Workshop group began rehearsals at the Theatre Royal, Stratford East early in 1959. Some of those who took part are household names today; Yootha Joyce, Barbara Windsor, James Booth, George Sewell….

(He looks off into the distance, as if recalling a memory. A faint projection of Joan Littlewood appears in the background, directing a rehearsal. Then we see her for real at back of the stage ‘encouraging’ Rosey (Barbara Windsor) to sing a more upbeat rendition of WHERE DO LITTLE BIRDS GO)

JOAN:

Come on Barbara, it’s not a funeral march! Put some oomph into it

ROSEY:

Where do little birds go…in the wintertime? / There will be blizzards and snow too…in the wintertime.                                                                                               And the thought of it horrifies me so / where do…where do…where do little birds go?

JOAN:

No…no Barbara! Get those arms and legs moving. Imagine you are going to fly away…

LIONEL:
(calling out)
Easy, Joan. They’re doing their best.

JOAN:
(turning to him)
Their best isn’t good enough, Lionel. Not for this. You wrote something extraordinary—now let’s make it real.

LIONEL:
(smiling)
You’re a tyrant, you know that?

JOAN:
(grinning)
And you’re a genius. Now stop flattering me and get to work.

(They share a laugh, then Joan turns back to the cast, while Lionel watches with admiration.)

Scene 3

Lional’s flat, papers everywhere. drinks and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Lionel is at the piano, playing a few notes, while ALMA COGAN sits on the couch, scribbling lyrics on a notepad.

LIONEL:
(playing a melody)
What about this? (sings) 

We got love, we got laughter,
We got dreams to chase.
No matter what comes after,
We’ll always have this place.

.ALMA:
(thinking)
Hmm. It’s close, (pause)   It reminds me a bit of ‘Dreamboat’

LIONEL:

I didn’t write that one, did I?

ALMA:

You’ve written so many you can’t remember! But no, you didn’t. (pause) I think this one needs …more sparkle

LIONEL:
(grinning)
Sparkle? You’re the one with the laugh in your voice, love. Maybe you should sing it.

ALMA:
(playfully hitting his arm)
Cheeky. But seriously, Lionel, this could be huge. It’s got that magic—like Oliver!, but for the pop charts.

LIONEL:
(softly)
You’re my magic, Alma.

(There’s a pause. Alma looks at him, surprised by his sincerity.)

ALMA:
(smiling)
Careful, Lionel. You’ll make me blush.

LIONEL:
(laughing)
Impossible. You’re the queen of cool.

(They share a moment of quiet connection before diving back into the song.)

ALMA:
(scribbling)
What if we change this line? (sings) “We got love, we got laughter, we got nights that last forever…”

LIONEL:
(playing along)
Yes! That’s it. You’ve got it.

(They work together, refining the melody and lyrics. The tension between them is palpable, but they channel it into their creativity.)

ALMA:
(singing)
“We got love, we got laughter, we got dreams to chase. No matter what comes after, we’ll always have this place.”

LIONEL:
(softly)
That’s beautiful, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling)
It’s ours.

(They share a quiet moment, then Alma stands and takes the notepad.)

ALMA:
Let me try it from the top.

(She begins singing the full song, her voice filling the room. Lionel watches, captivated, as the lights dim slightly, focusing on Alma.)

ALMA:
(singing)

Verse 1:
We got love, we got laughter,
We got dreams to chase.
No matter what comes after,
We’ll always have this place.

Chorus:
Through the highs and the lows,
Wherever we go,
We got love, we got love.
In the stars up above,
In the songs that we sing,
We got love, we got love.

Verse 2:
We got nights that last forever,
We got mornings wrapped in gold.
Even if we’re not together,
We’ll have stories to be told.

Chorus:
Through the highs and the lows,
Wherever we go,
We got love, we got love.
In the stars up above,
In the songs that we sing,
We got love, we got love.

(As she finishes, the room falls silent. Lionel looks at her, a mix of admiration and longing in his eyes.)

LIONEL:
(softly)
You’re incredible, Alma.

ALMA:
(smiling)
We’re incredible, Lionel.

(They share a smile, but there’s a hint of sadness, as if they both know their time together is fleeting. The lights fade.)

LIFE AINT WOT IT USED TO BE

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opening scene of my new play

LIFE AINT WOT ITUSED TO BE

By

Tom O’Brien

Scene1

Lionel Bart’s flat, late at night. He’s sitting at a piano, scribbling notes. A friend, JOHN GORMAN enters. The flat is cluttered with sheet music and memorabilia, There here is a photo of Lional and John in National  Service uniforms on the wall.

JOHN looks at the photo then sings

JOHN:

Stand by your beds, here comes the Vice Marshall,

He’s got lots of rings, but he’s only got one arsehole

Do you remember that?

LIONEL:

How could I forget? (pauses) If we hadn’t been in that same carriage on that train to Padgate to do our National Service, we’d probably never have become friends

JOHN:

Some co-incidence eh!

LIONEL:

Co-incidence my arse! It was fate

JOHN:

(laughing) Remember that bloody Corporal on our first parade? Irish he was, by the name of Buckley. He stood in front of you, eyes burning, the peak of his cap almost touching your face. (dons an army cap and becomes the Corporal)

Where do you come from? (shouting)

LIONEL:

London, Corporal (he stands to attention)

JOHN:

I thought so. You’re a fucking spiv. I can tell by your tie. (He grabs Lionel by his tie and almost chokes him) You’re a fucking spiv. What are you?

LIONAL:

Leave it out, John. Jesus! (he frees himself) I had twelve weeks of that Irish bastard. That was enough. Still, one good thing came out of it; I met you – and we’re still friends after all this time.

They drink some beer and mess around, singing ‘stand by your beds’ again

Lional plays a few notes on the piano.

JOHN:
Jesus , Lionel, it’s almost two in the morning. You must’a been at this for hours.

LIONEL:
(without looking up)
It’s almost there, John. I can feel it. The melody, the words—it’s like they’re just out of reach.

JOHN:
(sitting down)
You’ve been saying that for weeks. What’s so special about this one?

LIONEL:
(smiling faintly)
This one’s different. It’s not just a song. It’s… a story. A boy, alone in the world, searching for something. For family. For home.

JOHN:
(raising an eyebrow)
Sounds heavy.

LIONEL:
(grinning)
Wait till you hear this one…

Lionel claps his hand in a rhythmic beat. He sings a couple of lines:

They changed our local Palais into a bowling alley and

Fings ain’t wot they used to be

The stage lights up. Singers & Dancers appear. Lionel plays the piano

All sing FINGS AINT WOT THEY USED TO BE.

They’ve changed our local palais into a bowling alley and
Fings ain’t wot they used to be
There’s teds wiv drainpipe trousers and debs in coffee houses
And fings ain’t wot they used to be
There used to be trams
Not very quick got you from place to place
But now there’s just jams, half a mile thick
Stay in the human race, I’m walking
They’ve stuck parking meters outside our door to greet us

No, fings ain’t wot they used to be
Monkeys flying around the moon
We’ll be up there wiv ’em soon
Fings ain’t wot they used to be
Once our beer was froffy, but now its froffy coffee
No fings ain’t wot they used to be
It used to be fun

Dad and old Mum paddling down Southend
But now it ain’t done
Never mind chum
Paris is where we spend our outings
Grandma tries to shock us all
Doing knees-up rock ‘n’ roll
Fings ain’t wot they used to be

We used to have stars
Singers who sung A Dixie Melody
They’re buying guitars
Plinkety plunk, backing themselves with three chords only
Once we danced from 12 to three
I’ve got news for Elvis P

Fings ain’t wot they used to be
Did the lot we us to
Fings ain’t wot they used to be

Spotlight back on Lionel and John

LIONEL:

That’s the start of it, John. My meteoric rise, they’re callin’ it. (laughs) They’re ‘avin’ a laff. I’ve been writin’ for fifteen years. Tunes and other stuff. Lots of hits too. What about Tommy Steele…how many have I written for him?…

They both sing a verse of ROCK WITH THE CAVE MEN

Or Cliff Richard….

Both sing a verse of LIVIN’ DOLL

Or  Shirley Bassey…

Both sing a verse of AS LONG AS HE NEEDS ME

LIONEL:

Hey! I didn’t know you could sing!

JOHN:

Oh, I can warble a bit. You’re not the only one who can do that.

Lights fade

Scene 2

Russian roulette as a cure for depression

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RUSSIAN ROULETTE AS A CURE FOR DEPRESSION

 

‘The first time I pressed the trigger

I knew I was immortal’

‘I wished the feeling could last forever,

My jubilation was total’

 

‘I’m a five-timer’, he told the newcomer

Extending his gun-finger and closing it slow

Every lost life seemed etched on his forehead

Five down, one more to go

 

‘Boredom mostly’ and ‘it passes the time’

Were his excuses for such dramatic play.

‘And it turns the girls on too

In some extraordinary way’

 

‘The best cure for depression I know’

Handing the game to the next in line

Where the muzzle blew a hole between his eye and his ear

Death, too, passes the time