You Are Not Alone

A Tale of Twelve Speeches-1

A Tale of Twelve Speeches

James Woolf

EDITOR’S NOTE

Having been blessed with this prolonged and unexpected period of confinement in my one-bed flat, I find I have run out of excuses not to complete a project that has been lying dormant for several months. It is a project that will, I hope, be a God-send to actors when our theatres open their hallowed doors once again.

The following speeches are intended for use in that oddly artificial barometer of talent: the audition. They have been carefully sourced from some of the most unusual (and in some cases, downright obscure) plays that have graced the London fringe and beyond in recent years. It is well known that when confronted with the same audition speeches, time after time, hour after hour, creeping in their petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, directors will wilt, visibly. There is no danger of that happening if a monologue from this book is chosen.

My choice and ordering of the materials have added another distinctive and quite possibly unique feature to this collection. When the play excerpts are read in the order in which they are printed, they tell a story.1 It is a strange and dark tale of unbridled passion, venality and deceit; a tale, in short, that reflects well neither on the world nor its occupants. In drama, it was ever thus.

SPEECH ONE: THE HUSBAND

From Illicit Journeys2

by Nerris Cox3

Ralph

Going up to individual audience members, addressing them one by one, sometimes shaking hands.

Ralph … Ralph Fitch.

Ralph, thank you, pleased to meet you too.

Very excited to have been offered this opportunity, no really, I am. Yes, I did attach my CV, it’s all there in the email. Hopefully not too many typos, bit of a rush job.

Hi. I’ve never done this before, especially not with someone like you. That wasn’t meant to be offensive by the way.

Hello there. Christ! What am I doing? What have I actually done?

To whole audience

Ralph Fitch, Banking & Commercial Loan Workout Manager. (‘You’re a rare jewel, Ralph – a visionary and a safe pair of hands!’).

Ralph Fitch, owner of a large house in Hertfordshire, and husband to Camille. (‘Don’t stress me out, Ralph – I’m late for my Pilates!’).

Ralph Fitch, father to Ariel. (‘Do you have any idea what it’s like? – no, of course you don’t, because you’re a man’).

Ralph Fitch, fitness freak, who goes running at five thirty every morning, and also when Camille leaves for her Pilates. (‘Run, Ralph, run!’).

Ralph Fitch, who often passes a woman tending to plants in her front garden as he heads down Barham Avenue. Who is she? And what is she doing with her life? (‘Keep going, don’t stop’).

Ralph Fitch, who runs into the arms of his lover, Dinesh, in Links Drive. (‘Come in, Ralph, you look shocking’).

SPEECH TWO: THE LOVER

From Forever Fucking4

by Sam Hardcastle

Dinesh

We do it while his wife is at Pilates, while my parents are out, working, attending meetings, leaving me to make my supper and get on with ‘rethinking my future’, if I have any future. If they only knew!

His c**k is tiny, but his balls are enormous. A scrawny weed growing between two boulders.

One summer evening, a lovely summer evening, as usual I’m at home – well, my parents’ home.

I’m still ‘rethinking my future’. Caught cheating in my first-year exams – what a fool. I’m a university drop-out. Kicked out. Amazing how your closest friends suddenly treat you like a bat with rabies.

Tonight, he rushes through the front door looking different. Glassy. He has a sheen. Come in, Ralph, you look shocking, I say. It’s a rush, as always. He never has time for more than a quick f**k. Or suck. Tonight, the latter.

I tell him I want a conversation. About how I used to watch him running, morning and evening, through my bedroom window. And his eyes would scale the bricks and meet mine through the glass. He’d watch me, watching him – watching him from my suburban prison cell.

You caught my eye. A middle-aged man trying to stave off the inevitable middle-aged spread. By running. You’re nothing special. And yet, your nothing specialness, your ordinariness, your beautiful integration within society, are what make you so f*****g appealing.

Dinesh, I gotta go.

Don’t you remember that evening? How I went running after you in my green tracksuit? I overtook you. And then you overtook me. Then I overtook you again. Then you overtook me. And then you took me by the side of the road. The next time we did it here. In my parents’ home.

Dinesh, Son – I gotta go.

The man who seconds ago came in my mouth just called me Son. That can’t be right.

I’m feeling isolated and depressed, Ralph. I can’t go on experiencing life through my bedroom window.

He smiles sadly and leaves. The only man I’ve ever f****d in my parents’ house. The fools.

SPEECH THREE: THE GOOD SAMARITAN

From Even when the West Wind stops Blowing5

by Barbara Blakemore

Elaine

We had noticed each other.

We had clocked each others’ existence.

We had exchanged looks like silk scarves slipped through frozen letterboxes.

He ran as if tiptoeing. Afraid of a shard of broken glass. Afraid of the morning light or the gathering darkness. Afraid of the demons that pursued him or the fiends in the clouds. Afraid this run might be his last.

He smiled at me once. Just once he smiled as I clipped my White Cedar Tree. He smiled at me. While he ran. A brief side-glance of a smile; a popped-off button of a smile; a half-heard smile like an esoteric joke in a noisy bar; a smile thrown casually but joyfully like confetti at a wedding; a smile as satisfying as hot chocolate. He smiled. And like a fool I took that smile and built a palace around it.

Every morning and every night I would go out and garden. Sometimes I would forget to cook. Sometimes I would forget to eat.

That evening he was running back. I knew when he was running. And when he was running back. Running was right to left. Running back was left to right. Running back, he moved slower, more torpid than torpedo. That evening, it was different. My heart hiccupped like a frozen pea stuck in a piccolo. He was moving lopsidedly, a wobbly lawn mower on a steep slope. And he turned towards me and put a hand to his chest, he looked at me as he buckled, as he sank down, like he was about to sit in a chair but realised it wasn’t there. And then he continued falling. He almost bounced as he hit the pavement, rolling awkwardly, one leg folded and one sticking out like a mast, then rolled again, into my flower bed, where he came to rest under our willow tree.

The willow tree that my husband planted all those years ago.

The willow tree that has just kept growing and growing, weeping and weeping.

Growing and weeping while my heart has been shrinking.

And I ran towards him, like a westerly wind that’s blown up into a terrifying gale.

SPEECH FOUR: THE DOCTOR

From can you please slow down this is an emergency6

by David Carless

Doctor

anonymous phone call and man rushed in from street on trolley knew straight away it was ST-elevation myocardial infarction otherwise known as a “STEMI” heart attack poor bugger in his jogging pants no choice but to administer fibrinolytic agents to improve blood flow and revascularisation to restore blood circulation to heart which worked to an extent although he went into coma not unusual in itself as 80% of patients who are successfully resuscitated from cardiac arrest do not regain consciousness immediately after return of spontaneous circulation and may remain in a coma for hours or weeks or even be in persistent vegetative state and predicting the outcome following cardiac arrest for comatose survivors following resuscitation is the devil’s own work and source of much consternation among emergency room and intensive care unit physicians not to mention family members except we have absolutely no idea who his family are and this I understand is a real concern and ongoing area of enquiry.

SPEECH FIVE: THE RELUCTANT WORKER

From Frosty Reception7

by Joni Mitchell

Poppy

She’s a right b***h Judith is. Get this, so I’m working in this hospital, it’s my very first day, and she’s like: ‘Would you mind calling the police, Poppy? We’ve got a bit of a situation here.’

And I’m like: ‘Call the police? I’m answering the phone, Judith. It’s what you asked me to do.’

And she’s like: ‘Well now I’m asking you to call the police, Poppy, so you’ll have to stop answering the phone for a moment, won’t you?’

I mean talk about unnecessary sarcasm!

And I’m like: ‘Is it some kind of emergency?’

And she’s like: ‘Well, we have a patient in a coma, and we don’t know who he is.’

And I’m like: ‘Have you asked him?’

And she’s like: ‘He’s in a coma.’

She talks to me like I’m an i***t which I really don’t appreciate.

So, I’m like: ‘And you want me to phone the police to see if they know who he is?’

And she’s like: ‘Well, somebody might have reported him missing.’

And I’m like: ‘I suppose. But what if they haven’t?’

And she’s like: ‘If they haven’t, the police can make their own enquiries. Do you understand now?’

And I’m like: ‘Yeah, I understand. It’s just my agency told me I was gonna be a receptionist. Answering the phones and stuff. I didn’t know I was going to be a bleeding detective.’

And she’s like: ‘I’m not asking you to be a detective, Poppy. I’m asking you to make one phone call.’

And I’m like: ‘Can you not make it? You seem to know exactly what you want to say to them.’

And she’s like: ‘Yes, actually, I think I will make it. That will be much easier.’

And she just storms off. Leaves me sitting in reception wondering what the hell’s going on. I’d have quite liked to get involved if she’d given me half a bleeding chance. Trust my luck to get a b***h of a manager like her on my first job.

SPEECH SIX: THE DRUNKEN POLICEMAN

From The Ice Rink8

by Leticia Saunders

Ned

Here's a knocking indeed! If a policeman were knocking on the doors of the houses of all the missing people of the world, he would have worn out knuckles alright.

He knocks on a door.

Knock, knock, knock! I’m sorry to bother you. I’m trying to find the right house. Is yours the right house perchance?

He gets out a hip flask of whisky and drinks. He knocks on another door.

Knock, knock, knock! I’m sorry to bother you, I really am. I’m trying to find the right house for the body of a missing man who isn’t yet dead. Would that be yours?

He drinks more whisky and knocks on a door.

Knock, knock, knock! Are you the full complement here? What I mean is are you missing a husband, or a brother, or a son? Not that you look old enough to have a middle-aged son who’s missing. But you’re old enough to have a father, and a brother too I’ll warrant.

He drinks more whisky and knocks on a door.

Knock, knock, knock! I’m trying to find the right body for a missing house which is still alive. Would that be your body perchance?

He reacts to the door being slammed in his face.

He knocks on another door.

Knock, knock, knock! Hello love, why are you crying? What’s his name? Alright, I think we have him. Or his body at least. Oh yes, he’s alive. Just about. But his family is missing. Not anymore though.

SPEECH SEVEN: THE WIFE

From Living Death9

by Anthony Simpson

Camille

She dials a number on an old-fashioned Bakelite telephone.

Hello, Mr Fitch, it’s Camille, how are you? (PAUSE) You are? (PAUSE) Oh, that’s great. And Arlene, is she over that nasty cold? (PAUSE) Oh, that’s great news. (PAUSE) Yes, it did hang around for a bit, didn’t it? They can sometimes. (PAUSE) Yeah, I’ll bet she was. Well, great she’s feeling better.

(PAUSE) Me? Not too bad actually – not too bad at all, thanks for asking. (PAUSE) Busy, yes, always busy in the surgery. Pets eh? – they will get their little maladies, won’t they?