NSFW E-Book

Lucy Kirkwood

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

Seitenzahl: 89

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

A sharp comedy about power games and privacy in the media and beyond. Carrie's getting them out for the lads, Charlotte's just grateful to have a job, Sam's being asked to sell more than his body, and Aidan's trying to keep his magazine from going under. Set in the cut-throat media world, Lucy Kirkwood's comedy exposes power games and privacy in the age of Photoshop. [NSFW = Not Safe For Work, online material which the viewer may not want to be seen accessing in a public or formal setting such as at work.] Lucy Kirkwood's play NSFW was premiered at the Royal Court Theatre, London, in 2012.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Original Production

Characters

NSFW

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

NSFW was first performed at the Royal Court Jerwood Theatre Downstairs, London, on 25 October 2012. The cast was as follows:

RUPERT

Henry Lloyd-Hughes

CHARLOTTE

Esther Smith

SAM

Sacha Dhawan

AIDAN

Julian Barratt

MR BRADSHAW

Kevin Doyle

MIRANDA

Janie Dee

Director

Simon Godwin

Designer

Tom Pye

Lighting Designer

Guy Hoare

Music & Sound Designers

Ben & Max Ringham

Casting Director

Characters

CHARLOTTE, twenty-five

RUPERT, twenty-eight

SAM, twenty-four

AIDAN, early forties

MR BRADSHAW, late forties

MIRANDA, late forties/early fifties

Note on Text

A forward slash indicates interrupted speech.

A comma on its own line indicates a beat; a silence shorter than a pause, or a shift in thought or rhythm.

Thanks

I would like to thank Simon Godwin, Dominic Cooke, Mel Kenyon and Ed Hime. There are also a number of people who generously gave of their time, knowledge and experience who do not want to be named, but they know who they are and I thank them too.

L.K.

This text went to press before the end of rehearsals and so may differ slightly from the play as performed.

1.

The editor’s office of Doghouse magazine, a weekly publication for young men. The magazine’s name appears in neon on the wall. Beyond the door, an open-plan office.

There is a pool table, a fridge of drinks. A dartboard. The editor’s desk has a desktop Apple computer on it. There are framed prints of topless photo shoots on the walls. A cricket bat in the corner. An enormous Liverpool FC flag strung from the ceiling. The pool table is strewn with toys and gadgets and computer games that the magazine has reviewed or is reviewing.

CHARLOTTE, a middle-class girl from outside of London who now lives in Tooting, is sitting on a chair, a folder in her lap, furiously writing notes. She has other files on the floor which she consults from time to time.

RUPERT, an upper-class boy from Berkshire who now lives in Hoxton, watches her. Bored, he yawns, looks about the office. Wanders over to the pool table and gives it a kick.

RUPERT. When I first started here, we used to play on that all the time.

This place has gone to the fucking dogs.

He sits down on the floor at CHARLOTTE’s feet.

Scratch my head.

Without looking away from her work, or stopping writing, CHARLOTTE reaches a hand out and scratches RUPERT’s head. He groans in pleasure.

SAM, a working-class, university-educated boy from outside of London who now lives in Archway, enters, juggling a cardboard tray of coffees. He’s sweaty and frantic.

SAM. Am I late? Is he here?

CHARLOTTE takes one of the coffees. RUPERT takes another.

CHARLOTTE. He’s in a meeting with finance. Running late.

SAM. There was this woman in Starbucks, and she couldn’t make up her mind, she kept saying ‘There’s so much choice, isn’t there!’ and laughing, / I nearly –

CHARLOTTE. Sam? Calm down.

SAM. No just the thing is, is I was late on Monday too and I can’t, / I just can’t –

RUPERT. Mate. Last year I was reviewing absinthe for the June issue. I got completely munted, walked in here, Aidan’s taking a meeting with Roger fucking Highsmith, yeah? I don’t remember a thing but apparently I took out my cock and balls, jiggled them in my hand, said ‘How d’you like them apples?’ and threw up on his folding bicycle. I’m still here, aren’t I? It’s media. You’re not going to get fired for being late with some coffees.

CHARLOTTE. Yeah well, it’s different for you, isn’t it.

RUPERT. How is it different for me? I am a member of the workforce.

CHARLOTTE stares at him.

CHARLOTTE. D’you know how Rupert got this job, / Sam?

RUPERT. Classy. Really fucking classy, Charlotte.

CHARLOTTE. D’you think he did an interview? D’you think he spent hours checking the font on his CV?

RUPERT. Century Gothic, thank you and actually yes I did an interview and FYI, I didn’t conduct it on my knees, like some / people we COULD MENTION –

CHARLOTTE. He got a / THIRD. In ART HISTORY.

RUPERT sings, in a rather beautiful baritone, to the tune of ‘Mandy’ by Barry Manilow:

RUPERT. ‘Oh Charlotte, you came, and you gave me chlamydia.’

CHARLOTTE. Shut up! What’s wrong with you?

RUPERT. What? I’m just messing with you.

CHARLOTTE. Sam doesn’t know that.

RUPERT. Sam, I was messing about. It was jokes.

CHARLOTTE. I did not give him chlamydia.

RUPERT. No. Of course she didn’t. Of course.

Of course.

He winks at SAM, scratches his crotch. Mouths the sentence ‘It was crabs’ at him, shielding his mouth from CHARLOTTE’s view.

CHARLOTTE. What did you say?

RUPERT. I said IT WAS CRABS.

CHARLOTTE throws down her files, goes for him, he dodges her, laughing.

Her Secret Garden’s crawling with pests, Sam! Omnem relinquite spem, o vos intrantes!

She catches him, puts him in a headlock, sinks him to his knees.

CHARLOTTE. Where’s your copy? Aidan’s going to ask, what am I going to tell him?

RUPERT. You’ll think of something! / (Laughs.) Ow!

CHARLOTTE. Do I look like your mother? Do I look like your / fucking mother, bitch?

RUPERT. Oh, don’t let’s fight, darling! Not in front of the child!

CHARLOTTE. I’m serious, you fucking waste of space –

RUPERT. Sam, she’s flirting with me! You’re a witness, she’s flirting and it’s hurting!

AIDAN enters. A middle-class, educated, good-looking man. He is carrying a large oblong item, covered in brown paper and protective wrapping.

He stops, stares at the scene. CHARLOTTE and RUPERT disentangle themselves. Beat. AIDAN carries on across the room to his desk, takes his jacket off, dumps his bag.

AIDAN. Great issue. I really mean that.

SAM rushes to bring AIDAN his coffee.

(No, I’m alright, Sam, had one upstairs.)

SAM takes the lid off the coffee, knocks it back in one go.

The circulation’s finally taken a leap, it’s early days, but the heart monitor is flickering, it’s definitely flickering. Print journalism lives to fight another day.

A half-hearted cheer from the others. He holds up the parcel.

Just arrived from the print shop.

He pulls off the wrapping to reveal a large framed print of a topless girl, kneeling on an unmade bed. It’s not a professional-standard image, it’s been taken by an amateur. The girl has very large breasts, and is in a pose that emphasises this, arching her back, presenting her arse. A sexy face, lips apart, a finger in her mouth. She is undoubtedly beautiful, but also very natural, her make-up is a little crudely applied, her hair is a little wild, she wears a white-cotton pair of everyday pants, chipped blue nail varnish, plastic bangles on her wrists. AIDAN takes down last year’s winner from where it hangs on the wall, and places the new print in its place.

Lady and gentlemen, meet Doghouse’s Local Lovely, 2012.

They all look at it.

CHARLOTTE (reading from the caption). ‘Carrie, eighteen, likes Twilight books and theme parks.’

RUPERT. Chestington World of Adventures!

CHARLOTTE. It’s retarded. At least last year’s had the reading age of a grown-up.

RUPERT. Charlotte was reading Proust when she was eighteen.

CHARLOTTE. Rupert was playing soggy biscuit when he was eighteen.

RUPERT. Still do. Lovely end to an evening, a good round of old SB.

CHARLOTTE. What were you doing when you were eighteen, Sam?

SAM. Revising.

CHARLOTTE. No but for fun.

SAM. Revising. Pretty much from when I was sixteen, to when I came here, I was revising.

AIDAN’s looking up at the print on the wall.

AIDAN. I really like this.

RUPERT. Carrie, meet Humbert Humbert.

AIDAN. No, I do, I mean. Aesthetically. I think this is what we should be going for. Much more natural than last year’s. Natural’s good. There was a sort of, plastic quality to last year’s, around her –

CHARLOTTE. Tits.

AIDAN. No, I meant more in her / energy –

CHARLOTTE. Tits.

AIDAN. I mean, there was a quality, an overall quality that I found a bit, intimidating. But this is good, it’s very real very next-door very normal. How many entries did we have this year?

SAM. Nine hundred and sixty-nine.

RUPERT laughs. CHARLOTTE gives him a look.

RUPERT. Sixty-nine.

AIDAN. Not bad. Up on last year.

CHARLOTTE. It was Sam’s choice.

AIDAN. Yes, I know. It’s an excellent choice, Sam.

SAM. I thought she looked friendly. Sort of, approachable.

They all look at the print.

CHARLOTTE. Yeah, that’s the word. Approachable.

,

AIDAN. Once more unto the breach.

AIDAN sits behind his desk. RUPERT and CHARLOTTE grab the two other chairs in the office, SAM has to make do with a beanbag.

I just want to start by saying thank you. I know how hard you’ve all worked, these last few issues, and I want you to know it’s been noted, and appreciated. Charlotte, I’ll send round an email, but if you could pass on my gratitude to the rest of the staff?

CHARLOTTE notes this down.

However, there’s a long way to go. The climate is very hostile. As you know, two of the publications in our demographic have gone under in the last three months.

Half-hearted cheer from CHARLOTTE, RUPERT and SAM.

We’ve gained a little from their readership, but not as much as we’d like. And this is an opportunity, I don’t think we’ve fully grasped that yet, I mean we’ve got the C2DEs, they’re with us, but if we’re clever we can broaden our appeal, scoop up some of those ABC1s – you don’t look excited.

Everyone tries to look excited.

This is exciting. We’re not talking about editorial overhaul, but a tactical repositioning. There’s an existing mission statement, no one’s saying touch the statement, Roger’s certainly not saying that, but I’m giving you licence here to be bold, guys, be brave, yeah? There’s always room for jokes, there’s always room for boobs, that’s a given, but what else is there room for?

RUPERT puts his hand up.

Rupert?

RUPERT. Bums?

AIDAN. Bums don’t sell, what I’m saying is, is let’s really live in the spaces between the boobs, yeah? Let’s not let them outgrow us, I want you all to keep putting yourselves in the head of that eighteen- to thirty-five-year-old man. Thinking about who he is and what he wants to spend his disposable income on, what does he talk about with his mates, what makes him laugh, what Doghouse magazine can give him that he can’t get anywhere else.

So, on that note.

Our next Man Challenge.

The others groan.

Who wants to go to the Arctic for a week? Charlotte?

CHARLOTTE. Survey says uh-uh.

AIDAN. Rupes?

RUPERT. Already been.

AIDAN. When?

RUPERT. School trip.

SAM. What’s it like?

RUPERT. Pretty cold.

AIDAN. We’ll get you some mittens.