A monologue from the play by Clare McIntyre
HANNAH (any age)
You were right. There has been a drunk in here. I met him. That’s why I don’t like being on my own. Whenever I’m on my own
I get cornered by some loony who wants to tell me the story of his pesky life. It always happens to me. Always.
If there’s a loony out there he’s going to find me. I met a bloke once who wanted me to help him buy a coffee because he was disabled.
Disabled my foot, he was carrying a crash helmet. He’d come on his motorbike. But according to him he was disabled.
He wanted me to help him buy a coffee. He wanted to know if I would like one. So I ended up buying us both coffees and talking to him.
And you get the whole life story and it’s just depressing.
It’s incomprehensible and you know you’re never going to clap eyes on that person again and you’ve got their sadness
and queerness to cart around with you for the rest of time… It’s quite a line isn’t it? “Can you help me please, I’m disabled.”
We’re all f***ing disabled. If frailty is the bottom line we’re all disabled. He smelt too. They always smell. Why did he have to find me?
Why this bloody human dereliction? It’s mad isn’t it, not being able to think of anything to do with yourself apart from destroy yourself, drink yourself into the grave.
I have absolutely no idea what he is like. He just talked from a hole in the top of his head. He hated his wife.
He’d bought his daughter a dress watch in Hong Kong. She was an arrogant b*tch. He’d lost his wallet. Someone’s cat had been sick down his front, haha.
He was here. He wanted his jacket. It was all covered in crap. He didn’t even notice.
