stratford east
In the plays an autistic child punches a girl he likes; a brother kills his sister and assumes her identity; racial barriers break down on a slave ship when a witchdoctor heals the first mate.
The kids stand and take their applause.
I sit on a stage with director, another writer, the Meth, and a well-known TV intellectual. Everybody concludes the event has been a resounding success. A few kids tell me their play was better than the ones which were chosen. The ones who were chosen seem unlikely winners; reserved, keeping any excitement at bay.
The TV intellectual says I'm familiar, asks if she knows me from somewhere. I tell her she doesn't. She asks if I get asked that a lot. I tell her I do. Always have done. Never quite known why.
The kids stand and take their applause.
I sit on a stage with director, another writer, the Meth, and a well-known TV intellectual. Everybody concludes the event has been a resounding success. A few kids tell me their play was better than the ones which were chosen. The ones who were chosen seem unlikely winners; reserved, keeping any excitement at bay.
The TV intellectual says I'm familiar, asks if she knows me from somewhere. I tell her she doesn't. She asks if I get asked that a lot. I tell her I do. Always have done. Never quite known why.
posted by maldoror at 5:02 p. m.
5 Comments:
who was it?
Kirsty Walk?
Muriel Grey?
Jo Whiley?
Mariella Frostrop? (does she count as an intellectual, or is she just a fag smoking gravelly-voiced, over paid hussy?)
None of the above. A clue is to be found in the subject matter of the third play described.
Got it. Hasto be good old Sarah D. She of the oversized glasses and permafrost.
My old mucker from York. Nope, du bis in der ballpark aber du hast keine cigar.
I give up! It's the Witchdoctor of the Worshipful Woolmen, or nobodaddy
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