Rose F. Akay proxy SXV.
Led Zeppelin – Whole Lotta Love
The Who – My Generation
Sex Pistols – Anarchy In The UK
Madonna – Material Girl
Take That – Pray
ABBA – Money, Money, Money
Frankie Goes To Hollywood – Relax
Queen – Bohemian Rhapsody
The Beatles – Let It Be
The Rolling Stones – Ruby Tuesday
Robbie Williams – Angels
Sex Pistols – God Save The Queen
T-Rex – Get It On
Setting: A Bar.
It is late, well past what really ought to have been closing time, but this place never seems to stop; not tonight, anyway. It is not nice here. You do not want to come here for a drink under any circumstances. You do not want to stop here to quickly use the toilet either. You don’t want to be here ever, and if you are it is only because you are either completely unaware, or because you are all too aware, and no longer care.
Not far from the bar, a somewhat inebriated and totally unaware IDEALIST is slurring his ideals at anyone who will listen. He is a pretentious little shit - but he may be speaking the truth. His speech is a mixture of perverse platitudes and (accidental?) profundities: you decide which is which. I remind you, he is a pretentious little shit. Pretentious. Little. Shit.
This is my generation.
Surely, anyway, we must be in sight of the dream
Right now, the dream we long to live,
Anyone can see, if you stop and close your eyes,
Open your eyes! Live those dreams, scheme those schemes,
Our figurehead is not what she seems, no,
No traffic line, no shopping scheme, no passerby,
No antichrist, no anarchist, no crimes, no queen,
No poison in the human machine,
The future, I’m talking about my g-g-generation, your future,
Life will never be the same.
He is getting really pissed now, but has become convinced that what he is saying is true. He can almost see the England’s bright and beautiful future spreading itself before him, possibly with himself as some great leader - but of course, he would never advocate that, now would he? He’s lost all sense of how many, or few, people are even in the bar, let alone listening to him, and he has absolutely failed to notice the WHORE standing a little way away from him, listening to his every word and knowing exactly what she is hearing. She is an image of wasted, bleak beauty; the colour seems to have been sapped out of her skin; even her lurid clothes, petals on a dead flower, look washed-out and bleached. As the IDEALIST draws to the end of his speech, she decides she can take no more, and interrupts, mercifully. Or not.
Ha ha ha, right, you see experience has made me,
Open your eyes and face the truth,
There’s no future in England’s dreaming.
Open your eyes.
All I do each night is sit and wait.
Some boys kiss me, some boys try all night,
I work all night.
As she reaches the end of the word ‘night’, there is an abrupt INTERRUPTION. Some new arses have just walked in. Nobody wants them here, but they have come anyway, and they are expecting to drink a lot and they are expecting to do so very immediately and very deliberately. It is clear that there are several of them, even though only one voice can be discerned. He is clearly a cunt.
Get pissed! Get it on!
Get it on! Get it on!
Get it on!
The INTERRUPTION dies down eventually, probably because he is trying to order a drink by now. The WHORE continues, laughing wryly at what has just happened.
Aha, must be funny in the rich man’s world.
But do they know the places where we go?
The broken hearted people, when the night is cloudy?
When you want to come, in the city, we are ways to get what you want.
All the things I do, dirty and sweet, yeah, each night...
The IDEALIST, without realising he is doing it, interrupts her, pointlessly.
Don’t do it!
Relax! Each night, anyone can see,
Each night sends shivers down my spine.
My body’s aching.
There is a SECOND INTERRUPTION. This one is trying to get rid of his twattish companions: he can see they are not wanted here. It may or may not work.
Yeah! All right! Let’s go!
A man like that is hard to find.
Some boys kiss me.
Some boys hit me, and hit me. And hit me,
And get pissed, and come.
Easy come, easy go, that’s all right with me, no one knows
She comes and goes.
The IDEALIST has been forced to sober up a little too quickly. It is the conversational equivalent of the bends, and all he can think of is trying to get away.
I’ve got to go!
He doesn’t get far.
He probably doesn’t even leave his chair.
Too late! No escape from reality.
My generation? Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
We’re the flowers in the dustbin, that’s the truth.
The IDEALIST tries to answer.
Things they do look awful...
He chokes on the words, now unable to say anything at all. He quietly starts to cry. The WHORE speaks quietly to him.
Didn’t mean to make you cry...
Rose F. Akay