Tangent: Jim Cartwright, Lesley Sharp
Jim Cartwright wrote the script for "Strumpet". His first play was the award-winning "Road", produced on stage in 1986 and in a film adaptation by the BBC in 1987. It's not available for purchase (dang!) but some public-spirited individual has put it on Youtube.
Watch this clip starting from about 10:13 to the end of the segment (a little over four minutes). It features a young Lesley Sharp, who played opposite CE in "The Second Coming" and "The Shadow Line", and also had roles in "Clocking Off" and the "Midnight" episode of Doctor Who.
This is writing. This is acting. It's harrowing.
(Transcript mine, because when things fascinate me I have to write them down. Any quibbles or corrections welcome.)
I’m fed up with waiting for him. He’ll be another hundred years at his rate. What a life. Get up, feed every baby in the house, do whatever else I can, without cash, while he drinks, drinks it, drinks it, and shoves nothing my way except his fat hard hands in bed at night. Rough dog he is, big rough heavy dog, dog with sick in its fur. He has me pulling my hair out. Look at my hair. It’s so dry, so sadly dry. I’d cry, but I don’t think tears would come, and there’s nothing worse than an empty cry. It’s like choking.
Why do we do it? Why do I stay? Why the why why-o? You can cover yourself in questions, but you’re none the wiser, ‘cause you’re too tired to answer.
Always scrimping and scraping. He just takes the jar out and does what he wants with it. Oh, he leaves a couple of pound on the table corner sometimes, sometimes, but you never know when, and if you ask him he chops you one. That’s why I have to borrow, borrow off everyone. I’m like a bony rat, going here, going there, trying to sniffle something out. They help me, though I bet you they hate me really, despise me really, because I’m always there, and I keep asking, asking, and they can’t say no, just open their purses, and I says “Thank you, thank you” about a thousand times till we all feel sick. (laughs) God, I can’t wait till the kids are older. Then I can send them.
He’ll come in soon, pissed drunk through, telling me I should do more about the place, eating whatever is in the house, pissing and missing the bog, squeezing the kids too hard, shouting, then sulking, then sleeping, all deep and smelly, wrapped over and over in the blankets.
Drink’s a bastard. Drink’s a swilly brown bastard, smelling stench sea and he’s the captain with his bristles wet through, swallowing and throwing, swallowing and throwing, white brown water all over me.
Oh, what am I saying? It’s a nightmare, all of this. I blame him, then I don’t blame him. It’s not his fault there’s no work. He’s such a big man. He’s nowhere to put himself. He looks so awkward and sad at the sink. The vacuum’s a toy in his hand. When he’s in all day, he fills the room like a wounded animal, moving about, trying to find his slippers, clumsy with the small things of the house, bewildered. I see this. I see the poor beast in the wrong world. I see his eyes, sad and low. I see him as the days go on, all damp sacks one on top of another. I see him, the waste, the human waste of land, but I can’t forgive him. I can’t forgive the cruel, the big fucking clumsy ape. He’s so big and hunched and ugly. Oh my man, I hate him now, and I didn’t use to. I hate him now, and I don’t want to.
Can we not have before again? Can we not? Can we not have before again? Can we not?
Watch this clip starting from about 10:13 to the end of the segment (a little over four minutes). It features a young Lesley Sharp, who played opposite CE in "The Second Coming" and "The Shadow Line", and also had roles in "Clocking Off" and the "Midnight" episode of Doctor Who.
This is writing. This is acting. It's harrowing.
Click to view(Transcript mine, because when things fascinate me I have to write them down. Any quibbles or corrections welcome.)
I’m fed up with waiting for him. He’ll be another hundred years at his rate. What a life. Get up, feed every baby in the house, do whatever else I can, without cash, while he drinks, drinks it, drinks it, and shoves nothing my way except his fat hard hands in bed at night. Rough dog he is, big rough heavy dog, dog with sick in its fur. He has me pulling my hair out. Look at my hair. It’s so dry, so sadly dry. I’d cry, but I don’t think tears would come, and there’s nothing worse than an empty cry. It’s like choking.
Why do we do it? Why do I stay? Why the why why-o? You can cover yourself in questions, but you’re none the wiser, ‘cause you’re too tired to answer.
Always scrimping and scraping. He just takes the jar out and does what he wants with it. Oh, he leaves a couple of pound on the table corner sometimes, sometimes, but you never know when, and if you ask him he chops you one. That’s why I have to borrow, borrow off everyone. I’m like a bony rat, going here, going there, trying to sniffle something out. They help me, though I bet you they hate me really, despise me really, because I’m always there, and I keep asking, asking, and they can’t say no, just open their purses, and I says “Thank you, thank you” about a thousand times till we all feel sick. (laughs) God, I can’t wait till the kids are older. Then I can send them.
He’ll come in soon, pissed drunk through, telling me I should do more about the place, eating whatever is in the house, pissing and missing the bog, squeezing the kids too hard, shouting, then sulking, then sleeping, all deep and smelly, wrapped over and over in the blankets.
Drink’s a bastard. Drink’s a swilly brown bastard, smelling stench sea and he’s the captain with his bristles wet through, swallowing and throwing, swallowing and throwing, white brown water all over me.
Oh, what am I saying? It’s a nightmare, all of this. I blame him, then I don’t blame him. It’s not his fault there’s no work. He’s such a big man. He’s nowhere to put himself. He looks so awkward and sad at the sink. The vacuum’s a toy in his hand. When he’s in all day, he fills the room like a wounded animal, moving about, trying to find his slippers, clumsy with the small things of the house, bewildered. I see this. I see the poor beast in the wrong world. I see his eyes, sad and low. I see him as the days go on, all damp sacks one on top of another. I see him, the waste, the human waste of land, but I can’t forgive him. I can’t forgive the cruel, the big fucking clumsy ape. He’s so big and hunched and ugly. Oh my man, I hate him now, and I didn’t use to. I hate him now, and I don’t want to.
Can we not have before again? Can we not? Can we not have before again? Can we not?