My own plays, Theatre

on sprinklers, under-aged drinking and horrible sex

A monologue from my new play It’ll Last Longer.  Many thanks to Raimondo Cortese who has been workshopping it with me.  

 

So I’m a kid.  Like fourteen?  Fifteen?  Couldn’t have been more than fifteen and its Australia Day and I end up in this pub by myself watching cricket and drinking beer and I’m not really into cricket but after six or seven hours of drinking it’s growing on me and every burly beer gut in the room is my friend now and there are these women with tits out to here searching out my eyes and licking their lips at me from across the room.  You know?  Like I’m something irresistible.  One of them keeps stealing mouthfuls of my drink every time she passes to the toilet and she needs to go loads so by the time the game’s done my glass is rimmed with lipstick.  Australia wins and all the blokes hug me real tight and I’m drowning in their fat and their yeasty t-shirts and we’re all so in love with each other that when someone suggests we go for a game ‘right the fuck now’ we all think it’s genius.

So it’s thirty blokes taking it in turns to throw a tennis ball at a backpack and calling it ‘cricket’ and the big tits have followed us from the pub and I don’t know how anyone can squeal as high as they squeal.  They don’t sound human but what would I know:  I’m just made of beer, right?  One hundred percent pure booze.  I end up somewhere on outfield pissing on a tree and the whole park is spinning like our bowling isn’t and my ears are full of their screams and I’m Brett Lee taking a piss, right?  Pissing for Australia at the MCG: that’s me.  And I turn back to my new mates, dick out, arms up, appealing, like, ‘as if I didn’t fucking slaughter that barky mother-fucker!’

And – that’s it.  Everything goes black for a bit.  Dunno.  Guess I passed out or hit my head or –

Image

When I come to, the park’s empty.  All those yeasty guys, all the squealing pigs…  Gone.  But there’s this woman sitting next to me.  She looks as old as my mum but she’s not acting like a mum, right?   I’m hammered and I’ve got a lump the size of a truck on my head but she doesn’t give a shit.  Doesn’t even look at me.  She’s not wearing makeup and after a whole day of watching those tongues lick those lipsticked mouths, its like she’s got no mouth at all.  Her face is just a blur smoking a cigarette.  She’s looking out over the oval and the sprinklers are on, singing that song that sprinklers sing: ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.

She’s goes ‘You’re cock’s hanging out, love.’

And I’m like ‘yeah.  It is.’

‘You gonna put that away?’

‘Nah.  Don’t reckon.’

And we just sit there for a bit.

‘Want me to put it away for you?’

I have to concentrate real hard to nod.  ‘Yeah.’

And shits spinning like those sprinklers and the park is empty but I can still hear those screaming voices.  Like they broke some wire in my ear and it’s just gonna be forever ‘EEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIII’.

She takes me to the hospital after.  Sits next to me in the waiting room for about half an hour then says ‘fuck it’, gets up and leaves.  She was my first.

Photo of the night sky by Sarah Walker.  www.sarahwalkerphotos.com

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