Who's Afraid of the Working Class?

Andrew Bovell, Patricia Cornelius, Melissa Reeves, Christos Tsiolkas, Irine Vela

• Verlag: Currency Press
• Jahr: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781760621711
• Thema: Littérature
• Thema: Théâtre

Five plays are intertwined in one in this story of fringe dwellers living in an age of social, economic and moral deprivation. Mostly without work, and politically disengaged, they work at survival.'With intelligence, well-judged humour and the searching qualities of truly memorable theatre, the play peels away political propaganda and notions of correctness to present a candid, difficult, searing portrait of the poor and marginalised.' — Sydney Morning HeraldWho's Afraid of the Working Class? was adapted into the feature film Blessed.

SUIT

KENNETT BOY MONOLOGUE

A YOUNG BOY in his mid-teens comes onto the stage.

I love Jeff Kennett. I think he’s a good guy, a sexy guy. I like it that he’s tall, I like it that he’s smart, I like it that he doesn’t give a shit about anyone. He’s an arsehole, I know that. He’s a cunt. It’s obvious. He’s a silver-spoon-up-his-arse cunt, he can’t hide that, but I don’t care. He’s not whingeing all the time, not bludging, not making excuses. He’s got style; he looks good and he knows it; he’s got class. It’s written all over him. But, he’s not soft. He’s not soft at all.

Not like my dad. No, not at all like my dad. My old man is one of those guys who’s wasted his whole fucking life. He works a shit job, has for thirty fucking years, since he was a kid, pouring concrete. And, man, you should listen to him, listen to him go on about it. ‘I’m so tough, we brickies are so special.’ Yeah, right. Hasn’t done a fucking thing with his life. Hasn’t seen the world, hasn’t had an original thought. Nothing tough about him except his mouth and his forearms and even they’re going to fat. My mum’s no different. She’s brain-dead as well.

My father hates Jeff Kennett, calls him scum, says he’s destroying the unions and the working class. But I can tell that deep down inside he respects him. You’ve gotta. Kennett doesn’t give a shit about anyone, does whatever he likes. He even stands up to that ugly piece of shit, Howard. And that’s the leader of his fucking party! Kennett is a legend. Bet my old man wouldn’t mind being like that, instead of following orders all his fucking life. Weak cunt! Just a day, just one day, I’d like to see my father be like Kennett. Just fucking once.

I want to go down on Kennett. When I do go down on a guy, when I come to that, it’ll have to be someone like him. Tough. Arrogant. Knows what he wants. That’s my favourite wank dream. I’m with school, an excursion to Parliament House. Somehow—I skip over this bit while I’m pulling off—Kennett and I end up in a lift. It’s him and it’s me. Sometimes there’s this other guy, some suited, young, wog guy I saw on the Channel Nine News, some wog guy who hangs around Kennett. Sometimes he’s there, banging away with us, sometimes he just watches. And then sometimes he’s not there at all.

The lift stops. There’s a moment that the light flicks off, then it flickers back on again. Kennett puts a hand on my shoulder. He’s way tall, way taller than me. He notices I’ve got a stiffie in my school pants, I’m stretching the cotton. He’s dressed real fine. Beautiful suit, slim tie. He winks at me and then it’s on. Every time I wank to this, it changes. Sometimes he’s hairy, blonde curls, all over his chest and stomach. Sometimes he’s smooth. He doesn’t take off his clothes, just opens his shirt, unzips the pants. I dream that his dick is squat and thick, and that when he comes, he comes in fucking buckets. Just pours the come over me, over the wog guy. That’s my favourite wank.

Fuck! I could come now. Man, I could come all over this fucking stage.

I wish I could tell my father about this dream. Maybe that would get the cunt alive. Poofter son...