F*ck the Polar Bears E-Book

Tanya Ronder

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: NHB Modern Plays
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 80

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

A raucous family drama about the cost of living the life of our dreams. Gordon and Serena have worked hard to get where they are. He's on the verge of a massive promotion at an energy giant. She's preparing for a move into the house of their dreams. The family appear to be cooking on gas. But behind their perfect front door, light bulbs are blowing, the drains keep blocking, and a phone inexplicably refuses to charge. Not to mention that daughter Rachel's adored toy polar bear is nowhere to be found. F*ck the Polar Bears premiered at the Bush Theatre, London, in September 2015.

Leseprobe

Tanya Ronder

FUCK THEPOLAR BEARS

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Title Page

Original Production

‘The Age of Loneliness is Killing Us’

Acknowledgements

Epigraph

Dedication

Characters

Fuck the Polar Bears

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

Fuck the Polar Bears was first performed at the Bush Theatre, London, on 11 September 2015. The cast was as follows:

GORDON

Andrew Whipp

SERENA

Susan Stanley

BLUNDHILDE

Salóme R Gunnarsdóttir

CLARENCE

Jon Foster

RACHEL

Bella Padden / Eléa Vicas

Director

Caroline Byrne

Designer

Chiara Stephenson

Design Associate

Nina Patel-Grainger

Lighting Designer

Tim Deiling

Sound Designer

Josh Anio Grigg

Assistant Director

Mark-Stuart Flynn

The Age of Loneliness is Killing Us

George Monbiot

The age we are entering, in which we exist apart, is unlike any that has gone before. This is the Age of Loneliness. We were social creatures from the start, mammalian bees, who depended entirely on each other. We are shaped, to a greater extent than almost any other species, by contact with others. But now, social isolation is as potent a cause of early death as smoking 15 cigarettes a day; loneliness, research suggests, is twice as deadly as obesity. Dementia, high blood pressure, alcoholism and accidents – all these, like depression, paranoia, anxiety and suicide, become more prevalent when connections are cut. We cannot cope alone. Yet what counts now is to win. The rest is collateral damage.

British children no longer aspire to be train drivers or nurses –more than a fifth say they ‘just want to be rich’: wealth and fame are the sole ambitions of 40% of those surveyed. A government study in June revealed that Britain is the loneliness capital of Europe. Who can be surprised, when everywhere we are urged to fight like stray dogs over a dustbin?

Our most cutting insult is ‘loser’. We no longer talk about people. Now we call them individuals. Competition drives growth, but growth no longer makes us wealthier. Figures published this week show that, while the income of company directors has risen by more than a fifth, wages for the workforce as a whole have fallen in real terms over the past year. The bosses earn – sorry, I mean take – 120 times more than the average full-time worker. (In 2000, it was 47 times.)

Yet, a survey by Boston College of people with an average net worth of $78m found that they too were assailed by anxiety, dissatisfaction and loneliness. Many of them reported feeling financially insecure: to reach safe ground, they believed, they would need, on average, about 25% more money.

And for this, we have ripped the natural world apart, degraded our conditions of life, surrendered our freedoms and prospects of contentment to a compulsive, atomising, joyless hedonism, in which, having consumed all else, we start to prey upon ourselves. For this, we have destroyed the essence of humanity: our connectedness.

This is an extract of an article originally published by the Guardian in October 2014. Reproduced by kind permission of the author.

www.guardian.co.uk

www.monbiot.com

Acknowledgements

My thanks to Madani Younis and his team at the Bush for their priceless parenting of a young idea – they are truly a writer’s theatre.

Grateful thanks to those who stoked the fire along the way – Sophie Wu, Monica Dolan, Mark Lockyer, Kobna Holdbrook-Smith, Karen Cogan, Michael Shaeffer, Richard Hawley, Lyndsey Marshal, Katie West, Danny Webb, Isabella Laughland, Jessica Sian, Chook Sibtain and Roger Michell.

And for reading – Darragh, Jules, Ruth, Rose, Louis, Deborah, Rufus, Emma Jane and Nick Hern.

To crucial and open conversations regarding the facts – Juliet Davenport, Lavan Rubasingam and Alastair Harper, thank you; thanks also to Tipping Point, and for the inspiration of writers Naomi Klein, George Monbiot and Elizabeth Kolbert.

And my deep thanks to Caroline Byrne and her team, who engaged with such forensic precision and huge open hearts with everything that the piece asks.

T.R.

Most of us can read the writing on the wall;we just assume it’s addressed to someone else.

Ivern Ball

To the shared art of keepy-uppy

Characters

GORDON, Communications Director of a big energy company

SERENA, his wife

BLUNDHILDE, their au pair

RACHEL, their young daughter

CLARENCE, Gordon’s brother

This ebook was created before the end of rehearsals and so may differ slightly from the play as performed.

ACT ONE

Scene One

Friday evening

A smooth car pulls up on gravel. The central hallway/open living area of an ostentatious house in North London. Large enough to house a backless divan/daybed, all the action takes place in this space. We hear the front door close, the inner door open, a slight curse, then GORDON arrives with a door handle in his hand. He is laden – doorknob, briefcase, pizzas, off-licence bag. SERENA calls.

SERENA (off). Is that you?

GORDON (calls back). Hello, lollipop.

SERENA (off). Hi, I’m just…

GORDON. Don’t worry. Rache?

(Calls.) Rachel?

SERENA (off). She’s at Helen’s.

SERENA dashes in with a girl’s bag. These two are down-to-earth people come to money late, not posh at all. SERENA, younger than GORDON, has a strong Irish or regional accent, GORDON is from London or the regions. Their conversation is fast and pinched.

You’re late.

He puts down his stuff to help.

GORDON. What can I do?

SERENA. Did that just – ?

GORDON. Clarence can –

SERENA. Yep.

Beat.

You got my text?

GORDON. What did he say?

SERENA. That we’re being gazumped, in his agent way…

GORDON. Don’t panic, Serena…

SERENA. It’s reasonable panic, Gordon, I don’t know why you’re not.

GORDON. It’s my job not to.

SERENA. This is home, Gord, not work, your serenity’s all wrong here.

GORDON. Can’t help it, when stress comes up I just say no.

SERENA. Whereas I actually make huge efforts to feel uptight all the time.

Beat.

Did you get it?

GORDON. I’ve come straight from a meet.

SERENA. Via Pizza Dome…

GORDON. With a pretty spectacular outcome.

SERENA. But no bonus.

GORDON. I didn’t want to ask for what is essentially a Christmas present in September.

They start talking over each other.

SERENA. Nearly October –

GORDON. You know what I’m saying –

SERENA. Why did you say you were going to, then?

GORDON. Because –

SERENA. You went this morning saying you would ask.

GORDON. Were there no alternative. A bonus is finite.

SERENA. I know it’s fucking finite – yes I know I swore, I’ll put a pound in the box –

GORDON. I’m getting you your house, my love –

SERENA. What if we get another offer, lose that buyer too, and it’s not my fucking house. (Swear box.) I know.

GORDON. Serena, listen, I know it’s not in the bank –

SERENA. Which is where it needs to be –

GORDON. But, but it will be by Monday. Trust me, we’ll come in, bang, with anything they need, blow everything else out the water.

SERENA. How?

GORDON. I’m in a completely different scenario than I was twelve hours ago.

SERENA. Did you molest someone, you been arrested?

He appreciates her humour.

GORDON. What time are you leaving?

SERENA catches sight of the time.

SERENA. Oh God, where’s Blundhilde… (Calls off.) Blundhilde?

BLUNDHILDE replies from upstairs.

BLUNDHILDE (off). Coming!

GORDON. We’re safe, my sweetheart, trust me.

SERENA. Apart from having to find several million over the weekend.

GORDON. High streets are not the only option.

SERENA changes her mind, calls back up to BLUNDHILDE.

SERENA. In fact, not yet, don’t come down yet, five minutes, Blundhilde, okay? Blundhilde? Come down in five.

BLUNDHILDE (off). Okay, Serena!

SERENA (to GORDON). Hold there just one sec.

SERENA runs to the utility room, the sound of a tumble dryer opening.

(Off.) Shit.

The tumble dryer closes, starts up again. GORDON shouts through to her.

GORDON. What time are you back?

SERENA (off). Clarence is here later.

SERENA comes back in.

What’s the crux?

GORDON. Salary increase.

Beat.

Can we have coffee tomorrow?

SERENA. I’m not here tomorrow.

GORDON. Course.

SERENA. We could at midnight or dawn.

She dashes into an adjacent room.

A walk in the park is like some dream from the past.

She emerges with a brush.

I’m so crap, I always forget her hairbrush.

GORDON. D’you want some pizza before you go?

SERENA. Maybe, it’s just a bit…

She makes a face.

But, it’s Friday.

GORDON. Is that why you only have me on Fridays? Bit –

He returns the face.

SERENA. You can talk, Mr Distracted…

GORDON. I’m never not up for nookie.

SERENA. Huh.

GORDON. With my beautiful wife.

He approaches her.

SERENA. Not now, Gord, everyone’s… everything’s…

GORDON takes the pizzas and crosses to the kitchen.

I’ve just sorted in there.

He turns back.

GORDON. It’s why I got pizza instead of Chinese or…

SERENA. What flavour?

GORDON. Sloppy Giuseppe.

SERENA. How many?

GORDON. Six.

SERENA. Six?

GORDON. Plus…

He reveals the champagne, gets two flutes.

SERENA. What’s the increase?

He pops the cork.

GORDON. Substantial. I have to go against Wiggie but that’s not a problem, I can do that, I can do anything.

His confidence deflates SERENA. The upstairs toilet flushes. GORDON pours champagne.

SERENA. I’m not drinking.

GORDON. Why not?

SERENA. Driving.

GORDON. Course you are.

SERENA looks at her watch.

What do we have to do?

SERENA. ‘We’.

She says this almost to herself.

GORDON. Do you want me to get her?

SERENA. It’s fine, Blundhilde can go, they just eat so early in that house, as if I needed that detail. Do you know what Helen’s mum’s mother’s name is?

GORDON. No.

SERENA. Or that she has a colostomy bag?

GORDON. I didn’t, no. I thought you liked Helen’s mum.