he: we’ve been dating for 9 weeks now, and I thought by now our relationship would have gone further
She: er, well no.
he: FOR GOD’S SAKE LET ME STAY THE NIGHT
She: Er, no. I don’t think I want to see you again. You shouldn’t really shout such things in the middle of Macdonalds.
he: I thought we could BUILD A FUTURE TOGETHER!
She: I think it’s time for me to go home.
Creepy bloke drives woman home. She stands on the doorstep saying goodbye.
She: well, I guess this is bye then.
He: Ok, see you later
He drives off in his stupid audi. He then returns 5 minutes later and starts hammering on the door.
She: What are you doing?
he: Can I come in for a cuddle?
She: No. See you later. Bye.
So you’re in love with your new fella, he’s probably called Terry or Keith or Steveo or Dazza. The love you have for him is bubbling up inside you like a well and you want to express this love. But how?
If you’re like me, you’ve probably thought of expressing it in the form of contemporary dance or by writing it on the inside of your geography exercise book (you may even like to work out the percentage of your love by using an ancient and scientifically verified mathematical formula) but it’s more than likely that you’ve settled on the idea of tattooing your loved one’s name upon your person. What better way is there to express love. I can’t think of any and I’ve tried.
But wait! What happens if the unthinkable occurs? Your loved one’s eye roves and before you know it, Steveo is stepping out with the girl studying childcare at the local college!
Well, fret no longer, save the heartache and literally thousands of pounds in expensive tattoo removal costs, simply write your loved one’s name in biro on your person (it’s probably your arse or chest you were getting tattooed wasn’t it, ‘cos it’s a bit ‘sexy’ isn’t it. Woo).
When the love ends, simply wash the name away. You can write your new lover’s name in biro when you think to ask it the morning after.
Another thrilling installment of my short plays. This time, I thoroughly explore the genre of the quirky, tortured romance. I think I may have made up this genre, but you know the sort of film. It would probably have that Cera fello in it or that girl from Juno or the fat one from Superbad (noone can accuse me of not doing my research).
I first explored this genre as part of Milk Bottle Manifesto (learn more about it here http://poursomegravyonme.co.uk/2010/06/03/mbm-team-extreme-squashy-face/ ) a cause championed by my good friend, and writing partner, Sherby57. I was tentatively experimenting with the genre and hit on something quite profound, I’m sure you’ll agree, unless you’re some kind of mental sub-normal. On bended knees, Sherby implored me, like a man posessed to develop this life changing dialog, and I was compelled to comply, to at least save Sherby’s mental wellbeing.
So here it is. Tissues at the ready.
She: I can’t help but love you even though you have a squashy face!
He: Maybe you love me because I have a squashy face.You won’t realise this until you date a normal faced fellow and find yourself missing my haunting visage.
She: OK, I’ll get back to you after that.
He: OK. See you later
You look like you’re getting undressed. Can I help you with that?
Here we see Clippit. Sexy and fascistic. Oh he’s so proud! He’s an absolute nightmare to date though. You may have seen me talk about (drunkenly) on Sherby57’s blog http://sherby57.co.uk/2010/01/23/clippit/. Oh he’s an absolute beast! When we went to the pub as soon as you even go to stand up he’s all “you look like you’re going to the bar, can I help you with that?” and I’d be like “Jesus clippit, I’m going the bog”.
If I spend too much, he gets all bent out of shape, turns into an exclamation mark and tells me to ‘save’ what I’m doing. When he’d come around to mine, we’d be watching TV, I’d have a hard day at work and just want to lie, comatose, on the settee. Oh he wouldn’t like that. He’d be tapping me all the time. Then I’d lose it with him and start shouting at him for tapping me with his little wiry finger thing. He’d reply “you look like you’re getting angry. Can I help you with that?” The sarcastic bastard. Then he’d say “Do you want me to rub your feet? Do you want to turn into your mother? Do you want to take out your issues with your ex-boyfriend on me? Would you like to bring up the incident from the past when I wet the bed that you always bring up when we have an argument?”
He knows me so well. Darn Clippit. Anyway, see a lovely portrait of him that I did. I know it’s a bit risqué, with me doing a nude portrait of him, but he really is quite proud of his body. He is an overbearing piece of stationary, but swit-swoo!
If you and I wrote a bad romance, what would be in it? I’m sure we could write one. I’ve had enough bad dates to be able to bring a significant amount of ‘research’ to the project. I reckon if we did have a bad romance, eggs would feature quite heavily in it. The romance would probably start in an abattoir or a tattoo parlour. I’d be getting a packet of tampax tattooed on my upper arm. I’d felt left out cos everyone in work had a ‘tat’. That’s what you’d call it. A ‘tat’. That would piss me off immediately.
We’d go for a meal, at a carvery, even though you know I’m vegetarian. You’d have a wee next to the table. You’d forbid me from saying the word ‘romp’. You would say it gave you horrific flashbacks from when you saw ‘The boat that Rocked’. You’d have a point, but just mentioning that film would piss me off. Seeing the cover of that film in the video shop ruined my day yesterday. The boat that sucked a big fat dick. At some point in the date you’d probably cry. You’d tell me some long-winded tale about how you got Legionnaire’s disease on holiday in Corfu with your ex-girlfriend. You’d mention her quite a lot and say that she looks like Jennifer Aniston. You’d mention that you had the shits very badly. I’ll imagine you having the shits. The image will haunt me for three and a half months. I was also eating when you mentioned it. You won’t take off your crag hopper anorak throughout the date.
Later on in the romance you’d wear a jump suit. Constantly. You’d say ‘It makes my arse look like J-Lo’. You mean Joe Longthorne. His arse is nearly as amazing as Sisquo’s. You will let me see your thong and you will also dump like a truck. In view of Lord Rhomboid. You absolute tease. You would cover the walls of my house with painted ‘proverbs’ in italics like ‘There are no strangers, only friends we are yet to meet’ and ‘if you want to drink longer, come earlier or ask for a bigger glass’ and ‘My jeans are very snug around the gentleman’s arena’.
What a bad romance. Perhaps we shouldn’t get off with each other at the local underage disco? Yes, I know you arranged it after Science class, but come on, it doesn’t sound like it’s going to be good. I’m sorry, but the boat that rocked is a truly awful film. And I’ve got an appointment for Wayne Carriger to touch my arse at 9.15 at the community centre.