WRITING FOR PERFORMANCE.

NED McCANN.
SECOND DRAFT..

SMOKO
A PLAY FOR STAGE.
____________________________
ACTION.
FADING UP FROM BLACK TO MORNING LIGHT SHOWING A COUNTRY KITCHEN. THE KITCHEN IS FURNISHED WITH A DOUBLE SINK, WORK BENCHES, A WELSH DRESSER ON WHICH WEDDING PHOTOS AND OTHER ACCOUTREMENTS OF FAMILY ARE DISPLAYED.THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM IS TAKEN UP WITH A DINING TABLE, BENCHES, AND A BABY CHAIR.
THERE ARE TWO DOORS IN THE ROOM. ONE IS CLOSED. THE OTHER, A SCREEN DOOR, IS ALSO CLOSED, BUT WITH HENS PECKING A HOLE AT THE BOTTOM OF IT. THERE IS A WINDOW, BEFORE WHICH A WOMAN, JOANNE, IS SITTING.
ON THIS WINDOW SPACE, SLIDES WILL BE PROJECTED.
AS THE ACTION PROGRESSES, THE SIDE WALLS GRADUALLY CLOSE IN ON JOANNE UNTIL, CEASING HER RESTLESS PACING, SHE SEATS HERSELF AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE.
CO-INCIDENT WITH THE SIDE WALLS REACHING THE EDGES OF THE TABLE, THE LIGHTING FADES TO BLACK.
WITH THE IS SEATED
JOANNE.I ‘ve never liked the country.


SLIDE; THE COUNTRY.
I’m a city girl born and bred.
There is something malevolent about the country. Country rage?
I never sleep well here.
FADE TO BLACK. UP SLIDE OF ANIMATED SHADOW TREES WAVING AND INTERMINGLING THEIR BRANCHES.
The noise is horrendous.
HOOTIE OWL .
The screams of dying things.
BUNNY RABBITS LOOKING STARTLED.
SFX OVER. SCREAMING.
Mingling with the screams of those other things who do the killing.
FOX,
Goes on the whole night long.
SLIVER OF SUNRISE.
And just when you are about to fall asleep…

SNAKE RATTLING RATTLE.
TERRIFIED MOUSE.
The sun screams up…
VEN BLIND RATTLES OPEN TO BRILLIANT SUN.
And it starts all over again with the chirruping and crowing of those who have survived.
HEN’S HEADS BEING CHOPPED OFF.
SOMETHING’S ENTRAILS BEING PULLED OUT.
PIGS ROOTING IN TROUGH.
I hate the trees.
TREES.
I don’t like the way they rub their limbs together on a windy day.
----------------------------------
TREES ON A WINDY DAY.
-------------------------------
Some say its the trees waving their branches about that causes the wind.
SLIDE; TREES.
I don’t like the sneaky way they drop their branches on people.
COW.
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.
BRANCH FALLING ON COWS HEAD.COW MOOS AND FALLS OVER.


And I hate country men. Hate the way they tip their hat as they brush past you. They’re always brushing past you. Miles of room in the bloody country, and they must brush past you.
They’re disgusting with their big boots and thick sweaty socks.And those tight, little shorts they wear.
They’re all only after the one thing.
Not that city men are any different.
They’re all tarred with the same feather.
In the city, one doesn’t have to come in contact with them. One can live communally with women of like mind; nurtured, protected, far away from the brutes with their bellies and those thingies sticking from the front of their shorts.
There should be a law against that.
There used to be.
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.
But, in the right light, it is still discernible.
And the way some of them thrust their pelvical regions forward while walking,or drinking those beers with the silly bit of lime stuck in the neck, it is unmistakable.
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 wee bit…provocative?
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.
The only reason I left the commune and came up here to visit was because my sister wanted me to be godmother to her latest…a girl…at long last.

SLIDE; WEDDING PHOTO..
Jayne married a man, Wayne.
SLIDE;WAYNE IN FULL FOOTY GEAR BEING TACKLED.
And had Garth.
SLIDE;WAYNE KICKING BALL.
SF/X; UP ROAR OF CROWD OVER. "It’s a goal!"
DOWN ROAR.
And Jason, ROAR.
and Mark. 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.
SLIDE;RUBICUND MALE FACES.
It’s not Tom, or Harry. It’s Dick they’re after. And then 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.
SLIDE; 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.’
SLIDE; TURBINES. AND CHURNING WATER.
Better the devil you know I suppose.
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 use a bucket, and scoop and bathed Balinese style. Problem?
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 there’s a cake gotta be baked for smoko.
‘Be a dear, ‘Jayne says.
Bake a cake?
‘For their smoko.’
Do you do this every day?
‘Oh yes,’ she says.
Every day, I think? Everyday, myself, I’d be asking myself some questions.‘
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.’
So I goes down to the hen run.
Well the thongs were a big mistake.
Talk about primal. Mud and shit everywhere, it is definitely not thong territory. And the smell.
Honestly, I don’t think that can be good for the baby.
Anyway, I fill the egg basket.
You’ve gotta lift the hens up,feel underneath them, and take the eggs.
As I said, primal. Back in the commune 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- a proper bath this time –fuck the bloody drought, and lots of Dettol, I told Jayne about my adventures.
‘Oh yes’,she said. ‘ I should have warned you about Roosevelt.’
A bloody big hen takes a 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..
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 over my shoulder.
‘Well I don’t, on mine,’ I said.
She’s gone, of course, poor thing.
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 I’d no sooner kicked Roosevelt off, fuck the thongs. I’m wearing me Bludstones now, and thick socks against the ticks, when Wayne’s dog,Boofhead, jumps in with his thing sticking out, and starts to roger me leg again.
I dealt with Boofhead as I dealt with Roosevelt… belted him under the chin with my bluddies.
I spread a clean cloth on the bench.
It, Wayne, is posing beside the mincer. One of those industrial numbers-all chopping blades and whirling dicers.
He‘s pouring tripes, offals, and other disgustings into the hopper and poking them down with a stick.
His mate, Drongo, is catching the spew in a bucket, and feeding it to the pigs.
I laid out the mugs, the teapot, and the cake.
All that icing can’t be good for teeth.
‘Smoko , Drongo,’ Wayne said. And slashed at his throat for Drongo to turn off the machine.
‘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.
Calling on my regain the night training, I caught his fingers and locked them back to his wrist.
Grabbing his elbow, exactly as displayed in the manual, I deflected his momentum with my shoulder, and back flipped him into the mincer.
Drongo, when he saw what was happening, 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.
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 stuffed him down with a stick..
At least he waved.
More’n Wayne did.
I went back up the padock, and that fucking dog of Wayne’s shagged at my leg again.
I did a chong lai chop at it, miscalculated and broke its nose.
Now its yowling.
I had to tell Jayne what I’d done.
Now she’s yowling
And the baby’s yowling.
And somewhere in the distance…
POLICE SIREN.
As I said in the beginning, ‘I’ve never liked the country.’