NED McCANN.
WRITING FOR PERFORMANCE.
SMOKO
NOTE.
FIRST DRAFT WAS WRITTEN FOR STAGE.
SECOND DRAFT HAS BEEN TRANSPOSED TO SCREENPLAY..


SET.
A COMFY, COUNTRY KITCHEN.
FROM A WOOD FIRED STOVE, YOU CAN ALMOST SMELL THE SSMELL OF BAKING BREAD WAFTING THROUGH THE GOOD CHINA ON THE WELSH DRESSER WHERE WEDDING PHOTOS AND OTHER ACCOUTREMENTS OF FAMILY ARE DISPLAYED, WITH OVERSPILL PINNED TO THE CREAM PAINTED WALLS BEHIND.
THERE ARE TWO DOORS IN THE ROOM. THE DOOR TO THE LEFT IS CLOSED. THE DOOR TO THE RIGHT IS OPEN, WITH ITS SCREEN IN PLACE.
THERE IS A RIP ALONG THE BOTTOM OF THE SCREEN DOOR.
HENS PECK AT THIS RIP, MAKING IT LARGER.

THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM IS TAKEN UP BY A LONG DINING TABLE. THE TABLE HAS BENCHES ON EITHER SIDE,SUBSTANTIAL CHAIRS AT EITHER END, AND A BABY CHAIR.
A CEILING LAMP WITH A WIDE OPAQUE SHADE SHOWS A PACKET OF TOBACCO, A BAG OF DOPE, PAPERS AND MATCHES. LYING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TABLE. TO THE SIDE OF THE TABLE IS A PICNIC BASKET.
ON EITHER SIDE OF THE HUGE SINK ARE BENCHES CONTAINING KITCHEN PARAPHANAELIA. IN PARTICULAR A MINCER.
ABOVE THE SINK THERE IS A WIDE WINDOW.
ACROSS THE WINDOW THERE ARE SHELVES.
ON THE SHELVES ARE JARS OF PRESERVES, AND PICKLES OF ONION, GHERKIN, AND CUCUMBER. THE LIGHT SHINING THROUGH THEM MAKES THEM SEEM TO THROB-PULSATE.
A WOMAN, JOANNE, IS STANDING BY THE WINDOW.
ACTION PROCEEDING, PLOT UNFOLDING, SHE PACES BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS;PICKING THINGS UP LAYING THEM DOWN, ROLLING JOINTS, PUFFING THE SMOKE OUT LIKE BETTE DAVIS, AND, LIKE DAVIS, ALL THE TIME PACING.
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INTERIOR.GLOOMY DAY.
1.UP FROM BLACK TO SMOKE SPIRALS RISING UP,OVER AND THROUGH TITLE…
SMOKO.
2.PAN DOWN SPIRALS OF SMOKE TO JOANN. EXHALING JOINT., SHE IS STANDING BY THE WINDOW.
3.JOANNE. TURNING.
I ‘ve never liked the country.
4.POSTCARD; THE COUNTRY.. COW GRAZING.
6.JOANNE ASHES JOINT. I’m a city girl born and bred.
7. PUFFS. BLOWS SMOKE DOWN NOSTRILS. I never sleep well here.
8. SMOKE FLOWS TOWARDS WINDOW AND WREATHS AROUND THE BACK LIT PRESERVE JARS.
9.JOANNE. There is something malevolent about the country.
10. CLOSE UP ON JARS.
11.I hate the trees.
12.BEYOND THE JARS ARE TREES. IT IS RAINING AND THE BRANCHES ARE LEAFLESS AND DRIPPING.
13. I don’t like the way they rub their limbs together on a windy day.
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14.TREES ON A WINDY DAY.
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15.Some say its the trees waving their branches about that causes the wind.
16.SLIDE; TREES.
17.I don’t like the sneaky way they drop their branches on people.
18.COW.
19.The amount of people, some of them quite respectable, really, killed by branches falling from trees in the country each and every year beggars belief.
20.BRANCH FALLING ON COWS HEAD.COW MOOS AND FALLS OVER.

21.Nights are the worst.
22. HOOTIE OWL .

23.The noise is horrendous.
24.BUNNY RABBITS LOOKING STARTLED.
25.The screams of dying things.
26.CUT TO RED FILTER
SFX OVER. SCREAMING.
27.Mingling with the screams of those other things who do the killing.
28.FOX,
29.Goes on the whole night long.
30.SLIVER OF SUNRISE. OPENING BARS OF THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA OVER
31.And just when you are about to fall asleep…

32.SNAKE RATTLING RATTLE.
33.TERRIFIED MOUSE.
34.The sun screams up…
35.VEN BLIND RATTLES OPEN TO BRILLIANT SUN.SHINING THROUGH JARS.
36.HENS’ HEADS BEING CHOPPED OFF.
37.SOMETHING’S ENTRAILS BEING PULLED OUT.
38.And it starts all over again with the crowing and snotrting of those who have survived.
39.PIGS ROOTING IN TROUGH.
40. COCK CROWING.

41.
And I hate country men.
42. MARLBORO MAN TIPPING HAT.
Hate the way they tip their hat as they brush past you.
43.They’re always brushing past you. in their big boots, thick sweaty socks.,and those tight, little shorts they wear.
Miles of room in the bloody country, and they must brush past you All only after the one thing.
Not that city men are any different.
STOPS BEFORE A FRAMED PRINT OF LOWRIE’S SPENCER STREET AT RUSH HOUR.
They’re all tarred with the same feather.
In the city, one needn’t come in contact with them.
There, one can live communally and be mutually… nurtured, by women of like mind; away from the brutes with their bellies and those thingies sticking from the front of their shorts.
THUMBS THROUGH PETER JAMES CALENDER OF BLOND SURFER BOYS WITH BUTTOCKS BOBBING FROM THE BACK, AND THINGIES STICKING FROM THE FRONT OF THEIR SPEEDOS.
There should be a law against that.
There used to be.
SHE CLOSES CALENDAR. COVER SHOWS GROUP OF BONDI SURFERS CIRCA 1940
.Once men were required to wear modesty aprons on the front of their swimmers.
Even then it was visible.
And as for those tight jeans some of them used to wear. It was so visible you could tell its religion.
Thank God the fashion has changed and most of them are now wearing looser garments.
MALE MODEL ON CATWALK BACK TO CAMERA. WEARING INDIAN PANTS OF THE FINEST COTTON, CLINGING TO THE CONTOURS OF HIS BUTT.
But, in the right light, it is still discernible.
MALE MODEL WEARING INDIAN PANTS OF THE FINEST COTTON STRIDES DOWN CATWALK WITH SHLONG LIKE A SWINGING PENDULUM..
And the way some of them thrust their pelvical regions forward while drinking those beers, it is unmistakable.
STOPPING BY THE FRIDGE, SHE LEAFS THROUGH HOLIDAY POSTCARDS MAGNETTED THERE..
The Scotch and Greek women had the right idea when they made their men wear those skirts and tou tous.
Although I find the pom poms on the greek’s shoes a tad…suggestive?
And anyway underneath the aprons, skirts, and kilts their thingies would still be sticking out.
Can’t help themselves.
Picks up photo from country sideboard.
I only came up here was because my sister, Jayne, wanted me to be godmother to her latest…a girl…at long last.

WEDDING PHOTO..
Jayne married a man, Wayne.
WAYNE IN FULL FOOTY GEAR BEING TACKLED.
And had Duane
SLIDE;WAYNE KICKING BALL.
SF/X; UP ROAR OF CROWD OVER. "It’s a goal!"
DOWN ROAR.
And Shane, ROAR.
I don’t know why some women have this urge to give into the so called maternal instinct.
PICKS UP PHOTO
SLIDE; MOTHER AND CHILD.
A myth engendered and encouraged by the patriarchs.
RUBICUND MALE FACES.
And the girls fall for it. They chase evry Tom and Harry, until they get to Dick.And when they get the dick, they get the guilts and have to have a baby.
If they were true mothers, they could by pass Dick and have in vitro fertilisation.
PIPPETTE AND EGG. SUCKING SOUND OVER.
But, as my friend, Yvonne, points out, ‘with IVF, the donors are anonymous. So God knows who’s muck they’re pumping into you.’
TURBINES. AND CHURNING WATER.
Better the devil you know I suppose.

JOANNE IS STANDING BY THE SINK. THERE IS A BASIN OF WATER WITH A LADLE IN IT SITTING ON THE DRAINING BOARD
It started this morning. Soon’s I had my bath.
She’s never off my back, our Jayne.
‘Oh, we just have quick showers here, Joanne.’ She says. ’ The drought.’
Well I know there’s a drought on and I wasn’t having a bath as such. What I did was fill a bucket, and bathed Balinese style. Problem?
SHE LADLES WATER FROM BASIN.

There’s a ritual in the country. Its called,’ smoko.’
Smoko, I ask you. Why do they have to make such a big thing at 10 of a morning about having a smoke when all they seem to do all day is roll little fags and smoke them. It’s a wonder there’s any work done.
After the breakfast things are washed and put away. Full breakfast by the way, sausage, bacon, eggs, muffins and tea.
There’s a cake gotta be baked for this smoko.
‘Be a dear, ‘Jayne says.
Bake a cake?
‘For their smoko.’
Do you do this every day?
‘Oh yes,’ she says.
I think, Every day?
So we’re in the kitchen. Flour-check, sugar-check. Butter-check. Eggs…
‘Oh, don’t I have any?’
Nope.
‘You’ll have to go down to the hen run. Would you mind?’
Well the thongs were a big mistake.
Talk about primal. Mud and shit everywhere. Definitely not thong territory. And the smell.
Honestly, I don’t think that can be good for the baby.

ACTION WITH TEA POT IN COZY.
You’ve gotta lift the hens up,feel underneath them, and take the eggs.
As I said, primal. We have ours delivered. Free range; guauranteed unfertilised.
As I’m coming out the hen house, this very big hen has a go at me.
Jumping up and pecking me.
I gave it such a swipe and then threw eggs at it until it went away.
And I’d no sooner stepped out the gate when the bloody dog has a go; shagging my leg… until I feel a hot stickyness soaking through my stocking.
After my second bath of the day. Fuck the bloody drought. A proper bath this time . with lots of Dettol. Dabbed on where the hen bit me and the dog shagged me.
I heard a terrible story once about a girl who became pregnant when she had a bath, after her brother, in the water he had just masturbated in.
Lots of Dettol.

I told Jayne about my adventures.
‘Oh yes’,she said. ‘ I should have warned you about Roosevelt.’
lump out my leg the size of your fist and all she can say is, ’Oh yes I should have warned you about Roosevelt.’
Anyway I starts the cake while Jayne puts the baby down and starts on lunch. Honestly its unending.
All men do is eat three times a day. And, after the third eating, demand their right to…that..
SHE PUTS CARROT THROUGH MINCER.
I grate a big carrot through the cakemix.
‘Oh I don’t know if they’ll like that,’ Jayne says.
Well fuckem, I said, and started on the icing.
I usually put, ‘I love you, Wayne’, in hundreds and thousands and silver balls on my icing, Jayne said.
‘Well I don’t, on mine,’ I said.
I take the cake with the tea in the smoko basket down to the shed where Wayne and his mate, Drongo, are making pig’s feed on the big mincer.
Now the routine is that you whoop like an Indian when you approach them.
They don’t like to be startled, or come upon by surprise.
You’re supposed to cooee. It’s the country thing.
So I cooes, and, soons I does,Roosevelt the rooster, comes rushing out and starts to savage me again.
I’d forgot to close the hen run gate when I got the eggs, hadn’t I?
‘Number one rule in the country, always close the gate behind you.’ Yes, Jayne.
Anyway, fuck the thongs. I’m wearing me Bludstones now, and thick socks against the ticks. I give Roosevelt a kick in the slats that sent him flying.
It, Wayne, is posing beside the mincer.
MINCER.
One of those industrial numbers-all chopping blades and whirling dicers.
APPRPRIATE KITCHEN UTENSILS IN MOTION.
He‘s pouring tripes, offals, and other disgustings into the hopper and poking them down with a stick.
MOUTH OF KITCHEN MINCER WITH OUTPOURINGS.
His mate, Drongo, is catching the spew in a bucket, and feeding it to the pigs.
PHOTO OF CHAMPION PIG WITH RIBBON.
JOANNE UNPACKS BASKET.
I spread a clean cloth on the bench. Lay out the mugs, the teapot, and the cake.
All that icing can’t be good for teeth.
‘Smoko , Drongo,’ Wayne slashed at his throat for Drongo to turn off the mincer.
‘Goodonyaluv,’ he said and slapped me on the btm.
Now no one slaps me on the btm ever.
I’ve even had my falling outs with Yvonne about that.
Soon’s he did, something snapped.
SHE SNAPS SPRING ONION IN TWO.
Calling on my regain the night training, I caught his fingers and locked them back to his wrist.
SHE DEMONSTRATES WITH OWN HANDS.
Grabbing his elbow, exactly as displayed in the manual, I deflected his momentum with my shoulder, and back flipped him into the mincer.
KITCHEN MINCER.
Drongo panicked.
Instead of switching off, he lunged at me.
Kneeling, I took his lunge with open arms, and spun him on his momentum into the hopper where Wayne’s long legs were being diced into pig bite chunks.
CARROT SLICES ,BRUSSEL SPROUTS AND BABY BEETROOT GOING THROUGH MINCER WHERE HANDLE IS WHIRLING UNAIDED.
Wayne hadn’t known what hit him on account of going in head first.. But Drongo, when I flipped him into the hopper, did a lot of squeeling when he landed on the blades feet first.
The mincer played up a bit when it came to his hips. But I helped him down with a stick.
JOANNE POKES SKEWER INTO HOPPER.
HERE, THE SIDE WALLS START TO MOVE IN TOWARDS THE CENTRE OF THE ROOM WHERE JOANNE IS NOW SITTING AT THE TABLE STILL SMOKING.
At least Drongo waved.
More’n Wayne did.
As I came back up the padock, that fucking dog of Wayne’s made to shag at my leg again..
I belted it with me Blundies; broke its jaw, and now its yowling.
I had to tell Jayne what I’d done.
AS WELL AS THE SIDE WALLS SLIDING CLOSER, THE CEILING LAMP IS DESCENDING UNTIL IT SITS ABOVE JOANN’S HEAD LIKE AN ELECTRIC CHAIR DEATH CAP.
Now she’s yowling
CRYBABY DOLL SITTING IN BABY CHAIR..
The baby’s yowling.
And somewhere in the distance…
POLICE SIREN OVER.
As I said in the beginning, ‘I’ve never liked the country.’
WALLS HAVE NOW COME IN AS FAR AS THEY CAN.
OVERHEAD LIGHT IS FLICKING LIKE FLASH BULBS.
JOANN, WINCING AT EACH FLASH, SITS RIGID WITH HER HANDS CLUTCHING THE ARMS OF THE CHAIR.
CUT TO BLACK.