It's Friday, It's Five O'clock, ...

There's an air of expectation in town tonight. It's Friday night, the weekend starts here and it's the show of the week. With a waiting list of over two years, unless you
know someone who knows someone... Best bibs and tuckers are out in force, the slick suits with the razor sharp creases, the acres of taffeta and satin sewn into evening dresses fit for a queen. Not that she is ever here, although it is rumoured she watches and even joins in.
The limos pull up outside the biggest theatre in the land, the broad pavement ever more full of excited couples waiting the signal to enter. A buzz of anticipation as
pleasantries are exchanged, last week's show discussed, "Did you see...?" "Wasn't he funny?" "I never thought..." "Did you get it?" "I cannot wait for..." "Yes, it cost
George an absolute fortune but it is a once in a lifetime experience", and so on.

The lights are down, the orchestra strikes up with the theme song, TV cameras pan across the audience, some of whom are already chuckling in anticipation.

Silence and darkness.

A single spot, aimed at one side of the stage...it must be...yes! It's Mr Spinge!!!

A man walks from the side of the stage across in front of the curtain while the spot follows him. Of indeterminate age, he is dressed in a brown, broad check suit, with a
matching trilby. Halfway across he stops, turns his head slowly to look at the audience, as though he has only just noticed they are there. He raises his eyebrows
slightly, only the front row can see this hut everyone knows from the close-up on the TV each week. The house reverberates with hysterical laughter, Mr Spinge is a firm
favourite of the nation. He turns his head back, slowly, and continues his walk across the stage and into the wings on the opposite side. Act over.

"Oh, he's so funny!" "So clever" "How does he do it every week?" "A genius" The adulation for Mr Spinge buzzes around the auditorium for a few tens of seconds until
stifled by the curtain raising to reveal an idealised pastoral stage set, painted trees, green hills behind them and a few bales of straw scattered around the stage. One of
these has Lily Lobelia sitting upon it The audience applauds wildly

Lily Lobelia is in her 40s and looks it. Her act, as always, is to dress and act as a young girl, singing innocently of her hopes in love. She has blond hair that hangs in ringlets, almost certainly a wig. Her dress is flounced and too short, coloured a vivid red as befits her name. It has long sleeves to hides the rows of small bloody scabs on her arms. She holds a parasol to protect her delicate skin from an imagined sun. Which is ironic, given the quantity and thickness of makeup she has plastered herself with, in a vain attempt to hide the syphilitic sores about her mouth. Lily is famous
throughout the land for her amorous exploits, her hospital stays, her addictions. This should all contribute to a distinct lack of career but, in fact, adds a frisson, all the
associations mean she is, in a way, her own paedophile violator. And the audience love her for it.

Lily's lisping love song over, she waves and smiles sweetly, she thinks, to everyone and then staggers off to a syringe and a bottle. Rapturous applause follows her.
Comedy, music, what more could be offered? The curtain drops.

Darkness and silence.

A single spot, aimed at the comer of the stage. Not Mr Spinge again? Surely no one could expect any more from him? An angular, gangly lad walks on. "Who's he?"
"Someone new?"

A slight cough and a confident smile, " Good Evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Rimbaud Ree and I am going to entertain you "
"That's for us to decide" "How dare they put something new on the bill!" "What is he going to do?"
The lad produces some balls from his trouser pocket and begins to juggle them. Two, three, four five...and so on until he has something like a dozen balls/lying through the air in ever changing trajectories.
The crowd are restless, what is this show-off trying to prove? Why do they think that anyone could be entertained by such a display? Restless mutterings thrum through the theatre as displeasure is communicated.
Ree continues to juggle, a look of total concentration on his face, oblivious to the audience's lack of appreciation. The balls are looping higher and higher, disappearing out of view, when...a look of horror on the lad's face and the balls start to fall onto the stage floor... "I've shit meself! " he wails and runs off.

Relief spreads through the audience and he is forgotten almost immediately. When "And don't come back!" is heard from offstage, they cannot even begin to understand
what it is in aid of.

The show must be nearing the end now, the finale, the reason for coming, is nigh.

Darkness and.. .a drum roll. A drumroll that carries on and on, reaching a crescendo as the lights come on, the curtain raises and shows...

An empty stage.

The lights dim, leaving the stage bathed in a dark silvery blue. Where can he be?

A figure appears at the back of the stage.

He sidles forward. An old man, angular, thin, misshapen. He seems to find breathing, moving, standing still painful. Dressed in a too tight black suit, white hair spilling over his forehead, he licks his too big lips and
"Hello"
"I used to love my mother. "
"Even when she beat me, I deserved it"
Raucous laughter echoes around the theatre.
"When she beat me I was getting her attention "
"I was being noticed"
"A wonderful feeling"
The old man looks tremulously over his shoulder, as if expecting something or someone.
"My old dad loved me as well"
"But you don't want to hear about that"
"Yes we do" The audience all scream in unison.
But further exposition is rendered impossible because the audience are screaming approval - the Lads have appeared! One slides down from the ceiling on a rope, one
climbs up out of a trapdoor, three run on from the wings and one, it appears, was sitting in the front row. Of course, they are all carrying their famous baseball bats,
their little children as they call them, so we are told in the programme notes, they never speak themselves.
The old man whimpers and starts to lick his lips wildly - terror causes a dry mouth.
He tries to speak but the Lads are circling, weighing the children in their hands.
Laddie looks at the audience and grins, lifts the bat into the air as if to ask "Shall I? "
"Yes!" comes the resounding response and the bat spins intricately as Laddie swings it into the old man's abdomen. Hitherto silent, the orchestra strikes up a jaunty tune as next Laddo then Ladda then Laddington then Ladabad then Laditch each swing their bats into the old man. He falls to the stage and the Lads continue to hit him.
Each strike is met with cheers from the audience, each name is chanted, each Lad acknowledges his supporters and hits the old man again. When it looks like the old
man can stand no more and is about to breath his last, a voice barks from offstage
"Now Lads'. We want him fit again for next week, remember!"
The Lads stop circle around the old man and take their leave, each kicking him in the groin as they leave the stage, like some grotesque morris off.
The audience's bated breath is tangible. Have they gone too far this time? Will this be the final curtain call?
The bloody, broken heap stirs and somehow he drags himself to his feet,
"Th... " A bubble of blood comes from his nose, partnering another from his mouth. He coughs blood up, to the audience's hilarity,and tries again,
"This wee... " He crumples to a heap and slowly, oh so slowly, heaves himself back upright, coughing more blood up as he tries.
"This week's wor... " He seems to fall asleep while standing there, dripping blood from his mouth. A sudden jerk, more coughing,
"LOVE to SONG in three. Goodnight"

Darkness and silence.

Show over.