Fool's Matinee at the Coliseum

By Alex de Suys alex.de.suys@gmail.com @alex.de.suys

An entry for the English National Opera House mini opera competition, based on the seed stories, “The Death of A Government Inspector” by Will Self, “On Paper” by A. L. Kennedy and “The Sweeper of Dreams” by Neil Gaiman.

[A BARE STAGE APART FROM SOME DETRITUS OF A SET RECENTLY CLEARED. LADDERS, BITS OF FLEX ETC.]

[ENTER FOOL PUSHING A BRUSH.]

FOOL:            An open competition

                        To make a new addition

To song and story

                        Pomp and glory

                        Musical rendition.

            But is it bib and tucker?

                        That fails to offer succour,

                        To those without wherewithal,

                        Or the common motherf**ker?

                        Is opera elitist?

                        When all it used to be,

                        Was charming mus’cal theatre,

                        From dear old Italy,

                        And France

                        And…

                        Germany.

[COUGHS:]    Austrians! S’cuse me.

                        So tell me National Opera House

                        If any of it’s true,

                        Is there then some service,

                        I can offer up to you?

                        I’d love to show what English Tongue

                        And baritone can do,

                        So call me, English Opera House

                        For, I love you.

[ENTER THE MUSE WEARING A T-SHIRT WITH THE LARGE PRINT MESSAGE “I AM THE MUSE.” THE FOOL RETURNS HIS BROOM TO ACTIVE DUTY.]

MUSE:            Now I take the reins from that pathetic wannabe,

                        I’m the muse I think you’ll find no better voice than me,

                        For I’m imagination and my voice is therefore pure,

                        And will not be subjected to the bum notes gone before.

[THE FOOL PUSHES THE BROOM OFF STAGE. THE MUSE LOOKS AT HIM GO.]

                       

                        But still…                   

                       

                        Just give him a chance,

                        He might be a fool,

                        But he will make you dance,

                        While the score ebbs and flows

                        There’s no danger that prose,

                         Will spoil the romance.

[THE FOOL RETURNS HOLDING A SCREW DRIVER AND STANDS OUT OF SIGHT OF THE MUSE.]

                        So, please just, do it for me,

                        He’s only a fool, but that fool made me be

                        And as I am the muse, I cannot let him lose,

                        Or then where would we be.

[TO AUDIENCE]                   Unless of course I’m your idea?

FOOL:            [PUTS THE SCREW DRIVER IN HIS BELT] Thanks muse, that’s very helpful.                

[LIGHTS DIM. ENTER INTO SPOTLIGHT A GHOSTLY BEARDED FIGURE IN AN ANORAK]

GHOST: [DIRGE]

                        A government inspector,

                        And I’ve owned up, don’t you see.

                        That some journalistic speculation,

                        Could accrue to me.

                        I stand by the report,

                        That had stated a true threat,

                        To the U.K.s interests,

                        But her person? No not yet.

                        And if we talk “deployment”

                        That’s a subject that is broad.

                        A leap from stores to battlefield.

                        To Britain’s untoward.

                        Now is this mild mannered ghost,

                        Entitled to the cry,

                        That lovers lost on paper,

                        Are more seemly to the eye?

[SCREAMS] Leave me alone.

[LIGHTS DOWN. EXIT GHOST. LIGHTS ON THE SMALL LECTERN WHICH HAS BEEN MOVED ON STAGE UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS LIGHT UP THE FOOL EERILY FROM BELOW.]

FOOL:            For Death is not a hot goth.

                        It is sadness and loss, and my heart goes out to the family and friends that Mr                        Kelly left behind.

                        May the Sweeper of dreams, take the bitterness from my mouth at picking at                         the scab of such pain.

                        [LIGHTS UP.] And all to try and get a writing gig. [FOOL TIPS LECTERN AND                       PULLS IT OFF STAGE.]

MUSE:            It’s not his fault, the man’s a dolt,

                        It’s just the cards he’s dealt.

                        It might be weak, to be so bleak,

                        He could still make you melt.

                        So do not frown, do not look down,

                        On this poor tender soul,

                        It might be fun to humour him,

                        If light op’ra’s your goal. [ENTER FOOL.]

FOOL:            I think I could do the heavy stuff too, you know.

MUSE:            No sweetie. Stick to what you’re good at.

FOOL:            [STRIKING DRAMATIC POSE]

                        Oh, Seven, Five, Seven, then dial Five, Four, Nine.

                        Four, Two, Eight, Two and dear friend,

                        The phone you ring is mine.

                        That’s [WITH BOUNCE]

                        Oh, Seven, Five, Seven,

                        Then dial five, four, nine,

                        Four, two, eight two,

                        And the number is mine.

FOOL AND MUSE: 

                        Oh, Seven, Five, Seven,

                        Then dial five, four, nine,

                        Four, two, eight two,

                        And the number is mine. [MUSE POINTS AT FOOL INSTEAD OF SAYING                LAST WORD.]

                        [REPEAT. FOOL STRAIGHT FACED, MUSE INCREASINGLY MORE                                   SARCASTIC.]

[GUY WITH STOPWATCH/ CAMERMAN ENTERS STAGE OR INTO SHOT:]

GWS/C:          Guys, I’ve got this running at a very generous four minutes. Could be three.                 [GWS/C EXITS]

FOOL:            The second act’s not optional,

                        If we’re to make it functional.

                        I’ve got to turn the heat up,

                        And mix up the rhyme and metre.

MUSE [SCORNFULLY]: Good luck with that.

FOOL:            No seriously, you can help me. We’ll do a duet.

MUSE:            I don’t think so. I’m the muse remember and I have no inkling of any duet.

FOOL:            No, that’s cos I’ve nicked it wholesale. You’ll like it though, because we never                         meet.

FOOL AND MUSE:  I miss you,

                                    I missed you,

                                    Do you miss me?

                                    Did I miss you?

                                    Do I miss you?

                                    Yes I miss you,

                                    But I missed you,

                                    Yes I missed you.

                                    In the night, I miss you,

                                    On the flight, I missed you

                                    When I phoned, I missed you,

                                    When alone, I miss you.

FOOL:	MUSE:
I miss you, I missed you, Do you miss me? Did I miss you? Do I miss you? Yes I miss you, But I missed you, Yes I missed you.	Do I miss you? Yes I miss you, But I missed you, Yes I missed you. I miss you, I missed you, Do you miss me? Did I miss you?
Repeat in varying harmony to crescendo

B.W.S./C:       Time guys, come on.

MUSE:            I bet we get egged by a “hot goth.” Call yourself a Sandman fan?

B.W.S./C        No I reckon you’ll have lost them at “motherf**ker.” How about muddy funster?

FOOL:            Sh. Shut up, really! I want this.

[OVER STRINGS AND KETTLE DRUMS]

                        0757, then dial 549

                        4282 and that number is mine.

MUSE:            I think you’d be better off in Soho, darling.

B.W.S./C        Don’t forget your broom.

FOOL:            Ahh… sod you both. [FOOL EXITS.]

MUSE:            I tease him. I thought it was pretty good.

B.W.S./C        You were certainly…

MUSE:            What time are we running now?

B.W.S./C        Oh crap…

[MUSE AND B.W.S./C EXIT STAGE. IN FILM B.W.S./C JOSTLES CAMERA IN HASTE TO TURN IT OFF.]