A Play Wot I Wrote.

This may well be the worst piece I ever post on this blog. Please forgive me.

A few years ago, following my dad’s death, I cleared out his loft where I discovered many long-lost treasures. I also found several notebooks containing poems and other items written by me many years ago.

This opening scene is, mercifully, all that remains of a play ‘wot I wrote’ in the 6^th Form, oh shall we say quite a few years ago now. It was performed at the Victoria Theatre, Stoke-on-Trent. People with more money than sense paid to see performed by a professional company of actors. Sadly, it did not transfer to the West End after a triumphant tour of the provinces and my budding career as a playwright suffered a fatal blow.

 

SCENE 1

 

(Unemployment office in a Northern town.  Scene opens in the Manager’s room which has a metal desk and filing cabinets.  It has no distinguishing features other than it’s gloom.  The acting Manager, Mr. Machin, is seated behind the desk reading the Daily Telegraph.  He is wearing a good quality suit.  There is a knock on the door.  He hurriedly puts the newspaper away in the desk and straightens his tie).

 

Machin:  Come.

 

(ENTER  Terry Simpson, a new member of staff.  He is in his early 20′s a good-looking smart young man).

 

Terry:  (Advancing to desk with hand outstretched).  ‘Good morning, Terry Simpson.’

 

Machin:  (Shakes his head and looks at his watch while remaining seated)  ‘Ten past nine, Simpson, not a very good start.  You’ll have to get up a lot earlier than this if you’re going to work here. Leave that lying in bed all day nonsense to our clients.’

 

Terry:  (Indignantly)  ‘I’ve been up for hours, I’ve been waiting outside for 20 minutes, your security man wouldn’t let me in.’

 

Machin:  (Heavily)  ‘Even so.  Still you’re here now.  (He rises to his feet and shakes hands) Machin, Deputy Manager, that’s Machin, machine without the ‘E’.  (He indicates a chair to Terry who sits down, Machin resumes his seat  behind the desk)

Machin: ‘New to this work aren’t you?’

 

Terry:  Yes, I’m here on promotion, but I’ve been on all the training courses.’

 

Machin:  ‘Well you’ll soon find it’s a lot different in the real world.  All that fancy stuff they teach you on courses won’t help you round here.  Treat the unemployed with the respect they deserve, that’s none at all.  They’re all scroungers, work-shy layabouts or alcoholics.’

 

Terry: (Protesting)  ‘Not all, surely?’

 

Machin:  ‘Not all no, but they’re the good ones. Scum that’s what they are, no bloody use to themselves or anyone else.’

 

Terry:  ‘Well, I don’t know ….’

 

Machin:  (Interrupts)  ‘Dead right, you don’t know.  I do and I’m telling you.’

 

(Knock on door)

 

Machin:  (With gesture of annoyance)  ‘Come.’

 

(ENTER  carpet fitter, wearing overalls and carrying a clip board).

 

Fitter:   ‘Morning, Mr. Machin is it?’

 

Machin:  ‘Yes, what do you want?’

 

Fitter:  ‘Come to change your carpet, won’t be long.’

 

Machin:  ‘Whatever for? It’s practically new.’

 

Fitter:  ‘Question of entitlement. I’ve got me orders.’ (shows papers to Machin)  ‘See here, Machin, Room 308.’

 

Machin:  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

 

Fitter:  (Patiently).  ‘Well, Mr. Machin, what’s your actual grade?’

 

Machin: (In his most officious voice)  ‘Higher Executive Officer, but I’m acting as Manager pending the arrival of a new appointment.’

 

Fitter:  ‘That’s it then, see, H.E.O. grade is entitled to a square of ‘C’ quality carpet.  This is a fitted carpet, quality ‘B’ what’s more.  Manager can have it, got the grade see, you haven’t so you can’t.  It’ll have to come out, won’t take me long.’

 

Machin:  ‘But this is the Manager’s room, my own room has a carpet square.’

 

Fitter:  (Even more patiently)  ‘But that’s my point innit?’

 

Machin:  (Baffled)  ‘What?’

 

Fitter:  ‘That you’re not in your room, you’re in this room which has got fitted carpet, quality ‘B’, won’t do will it?’

 

Machin:  ‘The new manager’s due to arrive next Monday.  What will you do then, put it back?’

 

Fitter:  (Nods in agreement)  ‘First job, got it down in the book.’

 

Machin:  ‘I really don’t see the justification for all this, it’s pointless.’

 

Fitter:  ‘Pointless is it?  Why do you think there’s such a thing as carpet regulations?  (He changes his tone and prods Machin on the chest)  Look, are you trying to put me out of work?  Aren’t there enough blokes on the dole round ‘ere without trying to lose me my job?’

 

Terry:  (Tentatively)  ‘Er, perhaps I could get off to my office?’

 

Machin:  (Looks at him as if he has forgotten who he is)  ‘What?’

 

Terry:  ‘My office?’

 

Machin:  ‘Oh yes, along the corridor, Room 301, number’s on the door.  Even you can’t miss it.  Get along while I sort this fellow out.’

 

(Terry makes his way to the door as Machin resumes his argument with the fitter)

 

Machin:  (to fitter)  ‘Now then, were you born without a brain, or are you being deliberately stupid?’

 

(EXIT  Terry, Scene ends on door closing behind him)

 

(END OF SCENE 1)