Menhirs and Women

Sylvia Didcot was a world renowned archaeologist specializing in monolithic monuments. She also happened to be a certified kleptomaniac who had successfully concealed her pilfering compulsion throughout her illustrious and celebrated career. When Sylvia Didcot went to Stonehenge, however, she couldn't resist sneaking a giant prehistoric menhir into the boot of her Ford Capri and dragging it back home along the A303.

“What’s that?” said Brian, Sylvia’s husband.

“What does it look like?” said Sylvia.

“It looks like a giant prehistoric menhir protruding out the back of your Ford Capri,” said Brian.

“Then why did you ask?”

“Is there something you want to tell me?” said Brian.

“Yes,” said Sylvia.”My name’s not really Sylvia. It’s Margaret. I changed it when Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister. I’m sorry.”

“But I love the name Margaret, “ said Brian. “And I love Margaret Thatcher. I’m secretly a raging Tory.”

“In that case,” said Sylvia. “I think we should get a divorce. You can have the kids, I'm taking the menhir.”

The Condition

Peter proposed to his girlfriend, June in July in a poppy field near Aldershot, a town in the English county of Hampshire about 60 miles south west of London administered by Rushmoor Borough Council. Peter worked for the council as a junior administrator whilst June was captain of the cheerleaders for Aldershot Football club. What a team they made! (Peter and June, not Aldershot). Peter popped the question just as June climbed over a stile so that he wouldn’t have to kneel down and put undue pressure on his languishing joints. Peter had dodgy knees but was, on the plus side, a dab hand at chess. June, on the other hand, had an exemplary set of knees but could only see in black and white.

“I will marry you, Peter - but one on condition.”

“Name it,” said Peter.  

“I want to have a threesome.”

“Great,” said Peter, genuinely enthused. “Me too. With a man or a woman?”

“Both,” said June. “But not with you.”

Peter was confused.

“I’m confused,” said Peter. “You want to have a threesome, but not with me?”

“That’s right,” said June. “With Karen and Alan.”

“Karen and Alan,” repeated Peter. “Our best friends?”

“That’s right,” said June. “It was actually Alan’s idea. Apparently he’s dynamite in bed and he says he’d love to do with it me and Karen. Karen’s very open minded and a massive slut too so she’s up for it and I want to see what it’s like to sleep with a man with fully functioning knees.”

Peter was mortified. He had always hated his knees but never more so than now. “And what about me?” he said. “Perhaps I could spend the night with a couple of your cheerleading colleagues?”

“No,” said June. “They’re like wild animals; you wouldn’t be able to handle them. But you can watch me and Karen and Alan if you like, you might learn something.”

“OK,” said Peter, “I’d like that.”

“And then we can get married,” said June, stepping sassily down from the stile, “and play as much chess as you like without feeling guilty.”

The Wrong Room

Early this morning I woke up to find a Spanish dwarf in my bedroom, standing in the corner next to my fish tank. I looked at the tank and saw that it was fishless. 

“What have you done with my fish?” I said.

The Spanish dwarf dodged my question, and instead replied with one of his own:

“Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“No.” I said. "I've never seen you before.”

“Then how did you know I was from Spain?”

“I guessed from your accent.” I said.

“Actually, I'm from Catalonia. Do you not recognise the hat?”

The dwarf was wearing a red Barretina: a classic piece of Catalonian headgear. I should have know. Damn, I can be such an unobservant fool in the morning!  

“I'm sorry,” I said. “But you haven't answered my question. What have you done with my fish?”

“If I told you, I'd have to kill you,” said the Spanish dwarf from Catalonia.

“But I thought you loved me.”

“I thought so too. But I think I've got the wrong room. Is your name Nina Juanita Gomez Garcia Castro?"

"No, it's Gerry."

"Oh, then this is definitely the wrong room. Sorry to have bothered you."

With that the Catalonian dwarf promptly left my room, and I managed to fall back to sleep. When I re-awoke a few hours later, my fish was happily swimming in his tank and a small red Catalonian hat was lying on the floor next to it. 

An honest mistake

Tony Monroe thought that a cat house was a place you went to buy cats so he was genuinely surprised when he found himself engaging in the physical act of love with a woman he didn't know in exchange for money.

…

“It was an honest mistake,” said Tony to his wife, Cheryl, who had really wanted a cat for her birthday but now just wanted a husband who didn’t accidentally sleep with other women.

“So what was she like?” said Cheryl.

“She was nice,” said Tony. “But I think I upset her: after we’d finished I asked for a refund because I needed the money to buy you a cat.”

“Never ask a prostitute for a refund!” said Cheryl. “That’s the golden rule! OMG Tony, this is the worst birthday ever, not only did you not get me a present, you went to a brothel and insulted the “service provider” by asking for your money back!”

“If it’s any consolation,” said Tony, “when we were in bed together, I kept most of my clothes on and when I – you know – arrived … I said your name instead of hers.”

“You didn’t?” said Cheryl.

“I did,” said Tony. “I was thinking of you the whole time.”

“Why, Tony, that is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Tony Monroe then left the room and returned presently brandishing a box.

“And here’s your birthday present,” said Tony, “surprise!”

“A cat in a box: it’s what I’ve always wanted!” said Cheryl, tears of joy and sadness running down both sides of her face. “But I don’t understand. Where did you get the money from?”

“Well,” said Tony, “the cat house has a no-refund policy but the nice lady said I could start a tab instead. So I can pay the next time I’m there!”

Cheryl said nothing. There wasn't any point. She looked at the cat. The cat looked at her; they seemed to understand each other. Tony was in the dog house for going to the cat house but did he have any idea what he'd done? Cheryl looked at Tony, then back at the cat. “Forgive him,” the cat seemed to be saying, “for he knows not what he does.”

“Thank you,” said Cheryl.

“You're welcome,” said Tony.

“I wasn't talking to you,” said Cheryl. 

A compromise

Lenny and Jean were at loggerheads. Lenny was as stubborn as a mule and Jean obstinate like a whale (humpback or beluga).

After 7 years of ineffectual peace talks and fruitless resolution-seeking, Lenny and Jean finally agreed to compromise.

Since mules were impractical and whales (humpback or beluga) hard to come by, they decided instead to get a cat.

Pistols

Why must pistols always be at dawn?
I am not a morning person
For the love of a woman
I'll go to bed
But not lose my head
It's simply not my idea of fun
And besides I don't even have a gun
(I mean why would I?!)
So if it's all the same to you
I'll not risk my life
You can keep my wife
I'll not die
Or eat lead
When I can lie in
and eat bread

you (9/11)

you were an inspiration
to at least one person
open brackets me close brackets
if not an entire generation
(ours)
a maverick in your field
the polar opposite of a scarecrow
so attractive!
and not just to birds
i might add
but i won't
if an ostrich could fly
that's the kind of ostrich
you would have been
no word of a lie
the best!

existence (or life: an ontological misunderstanding)

thou art no imaginary creature

for i could not imagine thee

unsurpassed in loveliness, unequaled in beauty

you are real in every conceivable way

it is i therefore who does not exist
- is there something i have missed?  

Apocalypse Now and Again

Arnold Cramp woke up sweating and screaming in the middle of the night after a terrible dream about the Vietnam War. In the morning he woke up and decided to join the army.


At the recruitment office when asked why he wanted to join Arnold said he had watched Apocalypse Now just before going to bed and now he wanted to go to Vietnam. 

He was enrolled on the spot; no-one seemed to notice or care that the war in question had finished over 40 years ago and Arnold Cramp was clearly out of his mind.

The Brink

Ant Vestibule was on the brink. But of what he didn't know: a breakthrough or a breakdown? Yes, it was surely one of the two: whether his combined cider and trouser press business would flourish or fail only time would tell and reveal the true nature of his brink. 

46 a lump in the floor

One Monday Saffron Tuesday walked into my office without even knocking. But I didn't give a damn not just because she was the Channel Islands’ current beauty pageant winner but because my door is always open. Literally.  That’s just the way I roll. And my door doesn’t shut properly because of a lump in the floor.

“What can I do for you Ms Tuesday?” I asked, firm but friendly.

“Saffron, please,” said Saffron, friendly but firm.  

“What can I do for you Saffron?” I said, italicising her name for emphasis. 

“I'm looking for work,” she said. “I'm not going to be the Channel Islands’ current beauty pageant winner forever.”

“No, you’re not,” I said, “there’ll be a new winner next year and you’ll be the beautiful human equivalent of fish and chip paper. What would you like to do?”

“I'd quite like to work with children or animals - or both.”

“Wouldn't we all? I quipped. I used to fancy myself as a red coat but I’m colour blind. “What's your experience in that area?”

“I actually used to be a child,” said Saffron, “and I'm still technically an animal: a mammal and a primate, you know?”

“I know,” I said even though I didn’t. “Great, well we don't have anything at the moment but I'll keep your CV on file and let you know if anything comes up”.

“Thank you so much,” said Saffron.

“Don't mention it,” I said. “Shut the door on your way out, will you?”

“But I thought your door was always open – literally. Because of the lump in the floor…”

“Maybe that's your problem Ms Tuesday,” I mocked, “you think too much.”

I shooed the Channel Islands’ childlike pageant primate out of my office and slammed the door behind her. The door hit the lump in the floor, bounced back and lambasted me in the face.

No doubt it was nothing more than I deserved; a broken nose to accompany my bitter, broken dreams.          

44 The joke

"Did you hear the one about the millionaire who gave away all his money and became a Franciscan Monk?"

“No.”

“Well, because Franciscans belong to a Mendicant Order of Monks they actually rely on the kindness and generosity of others.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t understand jokes, do you?”

“Not really, no.”

#19 the M25

Frankie honestly never thought she'd end up working in a toll booth on the M25 

- but she did.

And because Frankie used to be a man, 

she told an awful lot of people everyday 

that she was now much happier 
being a woman.

Gerry Howell: Glorious Invention! Edinburgh Press Release

 GERRY HOWELL: GLORIOUS INVENTION!


Gerry Howell / PBH’s Free Fringe

WINNER FRINGE GURU EDITOR’S CHOICE AWARD BRIGHTON 2012  

& BUXTON FRINGE BEST INDIVIDUAL COMEDY SHOW 2010

Award-winning comedian Gerry Howell returns to the Edinburgh Fringe with his much anticipated new stand-up / storytelling show, Gerry Howell: Glorious Invention!

 

“Smart, surreal, very funny… *****” - Fringe Guru, Brighton Fringe 2012

Welcome to the wonderful, befuddling world of award-winning comedian Gerry Howell. Gerry's performances lie somewhere between Mr Fantastic and the mysterious encyclopedia of Uqbar. His imagination casts itself far and wide as he recounts his early years growing up in a post office or his experiences playing chess with pandas. He can tell you how Shakespeare was born in an ostrich egg, or about dressing up as an anagram for an evening out. 

“Often likened to a young Eddie Izzard [Gerry Howell] possesses a wonderfully befuddled stream of consciousness” - The Guardian

Whilst his mind flings itself from one delicious idea to another, you may find his body cankering around the stage like a loose nugget of popping corn, or crawling up the wall like a wild spider. Tread carefully and keep your ears to the ground...

**** ThreeWeeks - Edinburgh Festival 2011 

If you haven't seen Gerry before, expect the unexpected, if you have – ditto. The greatest pleasure is the pleasure of anticipation. So that's something to look forward to. Parrot Fashion Accessories: Gerry is expecting you.

"Surreal Rambling Brilliance" -TimeOut

Time: 4.15pm

Venue: Bannerman’s, 55 Niddry Street, Edinburgh, EH1 1LG

Dates:  5 – 24 August (not Saturdays)  

Tickets: Free / Non ticketed

For further information please contact Gerry Howell: howell.gerry@gmail.com or 07729985831

www.freefringe.org.uk                                                        www.gerryhowell.co.uk

“Lexicography is no laughing matter” – Oxford Theatre Review

                    

Religion

“Is it true you can only move diagonally?" said the actress to the bishop.

Tradition

Felicity wanted a traditional wedding

so she couldn’t believe her luck

when she was kidnapped

and forced to marry

a man she didn’t

know.

Coffee or something?

Barry Quince was really into art and Japanese girls (and stuff like that) so imagine his delight when he met a beautiful and talented young sculptress from Nagasaki! 

"I'm into all things artsy and Japanesey," said Barry Quince in a gallery in a certain part of town that used to be just another part of town but was now considered to be the new somewhere or other part of town, if you see what I mean. "Would you like to, I dunno, maybe go for a coffee or something?" 

"No thank you," said the sculptress from Nagasaki. "I'm too busy being, I dunno, artsy and Japanesey for coffee or something." 

The Eurovision Song Contest

Steve Gibbon had always dreamed of competing in the Eurovision Song Contest.
He worked in Rumblelows and did Karaoke at the local pub every week. 
Then Rumblelows closed down and Steve Gibbon lost his voice. 
He tried to get a job at Dixon's but he couldn't speak. 
He tried to get a job at Curry's but still couldn't speak. 
Steve Gibbon's voice never came back, he still dreams of competing in the Eurovision Song Contest and is confident his chances haven't been affected at all.

Manliness

Joseph Leadbelly was feeling all manly and paternal. His new wife had a bun in the oven and was going to have a baby. Joseph was pretty sure he and his wife hadn't consummated their marriage but he was so excited about his impending fatherhood that he really didn't mind. “Maybe it will be another Jesus baby!” he said to himself, deciding on balance there was slightly less shame in being a Christian than a cuckold. 

The Broken Teapot

In a purely light-hearted way Nancy and Clara used to argue about which of them was more gay. “I am” Nancy would say. “No I am” Clara would say. After a play fight got out of hand in a tea shop in Whitley Bay, Nancy and Clara paid for the broken teapot and reluctantly agreed that all lesbians were gay, but some were more so than others. More importantly, they would now have to find a new favourite teashop to while away the day; one that would welcome all manner of couples, however straight or gay.

4 star review of my brand new show at the Brighton Fringe Festival

htmlhttp://www.fringeguru.com/reviews/brighton-2012/gerry-howells-parrot-fashion-accessories.html

Health & Safety

Amateur daredevil and water sports fanatic Mike Finesse couldn’t have regained control of his speedboat at a more fortuitous moment. At the last second he swerved to avoid a ferry containing the incomparable Swedish ladies beach volleyball team, one pristine looking member of which was so impressed by Mike’s breathtaking near miss that she decided simultaneously to jump ship, desert her compatriots, abandon any hope of Olympic medal glory, and leap spectacularly into the lap of the still calm and collected Mike Finesse.

“You were so brave when you nearly crashed into the ferry,” said the smitten Swede, running her fingers over Mike’s torso as if it was some kind of chicken-taffeta hybrid. “Do you handle a woman the way you handle your boat? If the answer’s yes then let’s make love; wild, dangerous, irresponsible love, as if there was no such thing as tomorrow or a health and safety procedure.”

“The answer’s yes,” said Mike Finesse, “I just need you to fill in this form and put this helmet on, then we can drive back to terra firma, get married on the beach (once I’ve had a chance to ask for your father’s blessing, of course) and from then on we can do it as much as you like.”

Laurels

Alfred J Hammock the 473rd, of the relaxing, reclining, oft tied between two trees, laidback, easy-living dynasty, spent most of his time, if not all of it, sitting, if not lying, all over his ancestors’ laurels. The plight of the over-privileged: poor Alfred J, he did not even have his own to sit on.

Julian Bean and his mournful suspicious wife

Julian Bean was famously capricious. That’s not to say he was famous because he wasn’t but if he had been, it’s surely his capriciousness that he would have been famous for and this made his wife Morwena Bean more than a little bit suspicious.


As with all people noted for their capriciousness, sometimes Julian Bean wasn’t capricious at all. But it’s like he said more often than was necessary: “Hello and welcome to my world. My name's Julian Bean and I’m characterised by and subject to the forces of whimsy, I’m as unpredictable as a sea monkey at an improvised comedy workshop, but I can’t always be capricious, can I? Would you like to dance?"

Julian Bean enjoyed very much welcoming people to his world, which he considered with a swath of superiority to be more original, more fun and generally better than other people's worlds. This firmly held conviction was objectively unprovable (of course) but what was no matter of debate or opinion was the fact that Julian Bean couldn't dance. He could do a fair number of things, he was a zesty conversationalist, an enthusiastic climber and a dab hand at spotting a rare bird when it behove him to do so but he was intrinsically, woefully incapable of moving his body in any vaguely rhythmical fashion.

Because Julian Bean was defined by his wild and sporadic changes in mood and behaviour, it came as no great surprise to those who knew him when he suddenly passed away for no particular reason.

"Capricious through and through", said the vicarious vicar at Julian's impromptu funeral which was held on a tugboat in Monkton Park, as part of the Chippenham River Festival. "Julian Bean was at a loose end for the first time in his life and it would appear, incomprehensible though it may seem, that this, understandably, is why he finally snuffed it."

His mournful and suspicious wife carried on living after Julian's death right up until the time of her own, but she always slept in fancy dress, as Greta Garbo one night, Attila the Hun the next, in the vain hope that her dead husband might capriciously one day come back to life.

The autobiography of Winston Shoehorn

Perched in his garret, Winston Shoehorn, waiting for inspiration, Winston Shoehorn, tried to think of a word, just one word to get the ball rolling, open the flood gates through which the creative juices would endlessly flow. But … Winston Shoehorn couldn’t think of a word, not one, not even a letter that might eventually give birth to the formation of a word. “I’m fucked,” he said to himself, trying not to sound defeatist. “I can’t think of a single bloody word, there’s nothing else for it.” He put down his pen (a nice ballpoint - perfect for writing, containing as it does an internal reservoir of ink, which is dispensed via the point of the ball when the ball starts to roll), stood up from his desk and flung himself out of a nearby window, in the mistaken belief that he, Winston Shoehorn, would only realistically achieve the recognition that he, Winston Shoehorn, felt he deserved after, as in not before, his death. Winston Shoehorn died instantaneously upon impact, leaving behind as his literary legacy, the only evidence that he had ever entertained artistic ambitions, however modest or misguided; the one longwinded and rather clunky autobiographical paragraph that you, the reader, have just read.

Amanda Quorn

Amanda Quorn was a devout and voracious carnivore. Indeed she loved poultry and game and once tried to get off with a moose (low in fat and higher in protein than beef or goose).

Although the Quorn family history could be traced back several generations (long before the advent of the dubious micro-protein based alternative to meat with which Amanda shared her name), very few people bothered to investigate her genealogy, and it was widely assumed that Amanda Quorn was a treacherous and perverted charlatan; a duplicitous and fraudulent sham, who would hoodwink the butcher at the drop of a yam. 

"I'm Quorn by name and name alone!" Amanda would declare from the rooftops, the blood of a boar dripping from her chops, but it was to no avail, the universal taunting would not stop.

Until one day she decided enough was enough and Amanda Quorn checked into the local asylum, where she was tragically mistaken for a fruit and swiftly turned into jam, (something she herself would never ever eat given therein the complete lack of meat) and despite the human rights protestations, her family's grief and abject disbelief, it was surprisingly tasty and higher in protein than goose or beef. 

Jacob Mansize and the lady with the beautiful mouth

Jacob Mansize, wildlife fanatic (otters mainly) and bearded barber, was snoozing in his chair, dreaming of the woman of his dreams when a butterfly flapped its wings in Papa New Guinea and set in a motion a chain of events that would dramatically change the course of history for a very short period of time. Or was it merely a cosmic coincidence that a butterfly flapped and moments later on the other side of the world a lady walked out of the wind and rain and into Jacob’s barbershop on Balham High Road (Tooting end), jolting Jacob out of his fantastical slumber, and requested an impromptu trim?

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” said the lady, stylishly ushering the words out her mouth, which was beautiful, the sort of mouth you might see in a toothpaste advert, a new kind of amazing toothpaste that promised to do all manner of things that no other paste (tooth or otherwise) had ever done before, like turn back time or make you look like Grace Kelly in her heyday even though you actually look much more like Matthew Kelly on a bad day, perhaps one involving an erroneous police arrest on suspicion of stealing a hot cross bun.

Jacob Mansize stirred in his chair and rearranged his body parts into a form and posture befitting the presence of a lady with a beautiful mouth.

“No matter,” said Jacob, his words bumbling out of his mouth and onto the hairy floor. “I was just taking a little nap, it’s been a busy morning – how can I help you?”

“Do you cut ladies hair?” said the sodden, weather-beaten lady.

Jacob was about to say no, I don’t, this is barbershop, are you completely out of your mind of course I don’t - when he noticed the mouth on the face of the lady standing in front of him asking him the question. He was struck, nay, walloped by its beauty; he fell back into his chair, clocked the uncanny resemblance of the lady to the female protagonist in his recent reverie, decided on the spot he was in love with the lady purely on the basis of just one of her physical attributes, albeit an important one, and declared: “But of course, I cut ladies hair, and I would love to cut yours, it would be an honour and a pleasure - when do you need it done by?”

“Are you free now?” said the lady, who in addition to her beautiful mouth, possessed an irresistible pair of hands. “I have a date this evening and my regular hairdresser has gone on a silent retreat to Billericay - lastminute.com apparently, more like massive-inconvenience.com...”

The beauty of the lady’s mouth slipped off her face like a cheap mask half way through the ball. A new kind of ugliness crept up in its place and settled in immediately like a squatter with unparalleled staying power and no desire to see the world.

Jacob Mansize was no longer in love. He fancied the pants off the lady before him on account of her mouth and hands but that was all. She had a date already and said things like “massive-inconvenience.com”. This was a most unattractive trait and Jacob knew for certain they could never be together. Jacob pretended he had just remembered something very important which meant he wasn’t free after all and he showed the lady out of his shop.

He shut the door behind her, and locked it. He climbed back into his chair and resumed his snooze, this time dreaming not of womankind but of the otter sanctuary he hoped one day to open and run, not realising this venture would remain a far off fantasy if he continued to refuse to cut people’s hair.  

As Jacob Mansize nodded off for the second time that afternoon, another butterfly flapped its wings many miles away and consequently, a few moments later, nothing happened.

  

Making A Deutsch Mark

A list of useful loanwords from the German language.

1.       Angst – without this Radiohead wouldn’t exist.

2.      Kindergarten – without this there would be no Kindergarten Cop.

3.      Poltergeist – literally noisy ghost, this would be much less scary, just really annoying.

4.      Schadenfreude – taking pleasure in other people’s misfortune. The Germans are well aware we don’t have a word for this and they find it very amusing indeed.   

                            A list of not so useful loanwords from the German language.

1.       Sauerkraut – sour cabbage, anyone? No thanks.

2.      Wunderkind – a who’s good at German or simply a German child.

3.      Kaputt – this means broken, we can just say broken. If the word broken ever breaks, then we can use Kaputt. 

Face to Face

Face to Face

A short, somewhat anachronistic play about the horrors of war, mistaken identity and the wonders of modern technology (especially in the field of corrective plastic surgery)

It is night and dark except for the light – the light of the moon. Daisy is sitting in a rocking chair but she is not rocking, she is still, dead still, but is she dead? No, she is not, although between you and me sometimes she wishes she were, she is merely asleep, having a nightmare, a truly horrendous nightmare. Really bloody good acting is required at this point to convey the contents of Daisy’s dream, as it includes vital clues to her character and portentous symbols about what is come, e.g the loss of a loved one, the folly of war and dirty sex with a clown. Suddenly Daisy hears a sound and stirs – it is the sound of a tired man returning from the war, the Second World War, although it’s virtually impossible to tell which war from the sound. Enter a man. For dramatic purposes I am not sure who it is.  

Daisy:                    Maurice? Maurice, is that you? Maurice?

Clive:                     It is I Clive.

(I am now at liberty to reveal that the man is Clive, Clive Ham, a brilliant vegetarian soldier with an unusual penchant for wood)

Daisy:                    Oh. I thought it was Maurice.

Clive:                     It is I Clive but with the face of Maurice.

Daisy:                    I see. I understand and yet I don’t.

Clive:                     How can I say this? Maurice is dead.

Daisy:                    No! He can’t be! Say it ain’t so! Your drug is a heartbreaker! My love is a life taker!

Clive:                     I’m afraid it is so. Maurice didn’t make it but he wanted me to have his face. Here, here               and here. Daisy, my darling, can you still love me?

Daisy:                    Oh, Mr Ham!

Clive:                     Please call me Clive.

Daisy:                    Very well, Clive. The truth is I have never loved you. Secretly, I have always been in                        

love with Mr Eggs.

Clive:                     You mean Maurice?

Daisy:                    Yes, Maurice Eggs, Mr Ham.

Clive:                     Pray, what was it you loved about him?

Daisy:                    His face.

Clive:                     This one?

Daisy:                    Yes. At least now I can tell you to his face.

Daisy and Clive look at each other longingly and confusedly, and then kiss - perhaps forever but we shall never know, as this, my war torn, lovelorn friends, is the end of the play. Fade to black, to the sounds of Flight of the Bumblebee. Blackout. The end.   

the return of frederick goodge: friday 27 January @ Etcetera Theatre Camden ...

The Descent of a man

A new play by Frederick Goodge

Dramatis Personae

Thomas Macavity

Vivien Monroe

Scene 1. Thomas Macavity is a man on the edge and also the window ledge of the 30th floor of a very tall building that looks a bit like a vegetable.  Enter Vivien Monroe, a woman. She is a wily creature, a temptress and a pretty good waitress too. You should see her tips. For years now, she and Thomas have been having an on and off, up and down, in and out, tempestuous, torrid and tawdry love affair. Thomas turns around and sees Vivien.

Thomas: I'm on the window ledge of the 30th floor of a very tall building and I'm about to jump.

Vivien:     Don’t do it.

Thomas: Why not?

Vivien:     Life’s too short.

Thomas: That doesn’t make any sense.

Thomas jumps off the window ledge and plummets to his death.

Scene 2. Vivien is at home, inconsolable, literally beside herself with grief. She is listening to “Where do you go to, my lovely” by Peter Sarstedt on repeat. Eventually she falls asleep. 

Blackout.  The end.

Now that I am older

I used to have this fantasy that I would bump into the girl of my dreams in a branch of Millets and we’d be there fighting over the last tent left but in the end we’d decide to share the tent and spontaneously elope to France together and live happily ever after. But now I’m now less romantic and more realistic, you can buy tents on line, not just from Millets and I never want to live in a country where it’s illegal to name a pig Napoleon. Just in case.