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A monologue from the play by Richard Bean
Act 1, Scene 2
Francis
Outside the Cricketer’s Arms pub. There are tables and a dustbin. Enter Francis from the Pub Entrance.
On the pub table are some unfinished drinks. Some dregs of Guinness, white wine, red wine in a bottle, orange juice.
My father, Tommy Henshall, God rest his soul, he woulda been proud of me, what I done with my life, until today.
I used to play washboard in a skiffle band, but they went to see The Beatles last Tuesday night, and sacked me Wednesday morning.
Ironic, because I started the Beatles. I saw them in Hamburg. Rubbish. I said to that John Lennon, I said ‘John,
you’re going nowhere mate, it’s embarrassing, have you ever considered writing your own songs’.
So I’m skint, I’m busking, guitar, mouth organ on a rack, bass drum tied to me foot, and the definition of mental illness, cymbals between my knees.
So there I am, middle of Victoria Station, I’ve only been playing ten minutes, this lairy bloke comes over, he says – ‘do you do requests?’
I say ‘yes’, he says ‘I’d like you to play a song for my mother’. I said ‘no problem, where is she?’
He said ‘Tasmania’ So I nutted him. This little bloke Roscoe Crabbe seen all this and offers me a week’s work in Brighton, says he needs a bit of muscle.
I tell him this is all fat. But I need a wage, I haven’t eaten since last night. But I don’t get paid until the end of the week, and I can’t stop thinking about CHIPS.
I’m staying in a pub, and I don’t even have enough shrapnel for a PINT.
He empties all the dregs into one pint pot, picks up a tab end out and downs it in one. He looks at the dustbin. Puts a hand on the lid.
There might be a discarded bag of chips in here. No! I can’t go through the bins! Must stop thinking about CHIPS.
Come on Francis! Think about something boring, like…..Canada. He closes his eyes, concentrates. Canada!
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