The World Cup - Part 3

SCENE: BEDROOM

A woman is in bed. Next to her on the bedside table is a bottle of eyedrops and some antibiotics. She is unwell, but still, she has lovely hair. The telephone rings – the woman’s friend is calling from abroad.

Woman: (croakily) Hello?
Friend: Ugh. You sound dead.
W: I nearly am.
F: What have you been up to?
W: Sleeping, mostly. Whining quite a bit. Trying to remember to take far too many tablets and not scratch my eyes out.  Ooh, but I have watched two Michael Cera movies this week. His face has been a beacon in my fevered state.
F: He’s from Toronto.
W: Don’t you love it when awesome people are Canadian? I’m pretty sure I’m developing a small crush on him. I have spent a disproportionately large part of today wondering whether he actually tastes all ‘tangy and delicious’ from Orange Tic-Tacs like Juno says he does in ‘Juno’.
W & F: (together) Mmmm.

There is a brief pause in the conversation.

F: So, how is the state of the country?
W: What, because of the Tories?
F: No, dumbass. Because of the football.
W: Oh, that. Yeah, well, we’re all basically doomed. But that’s nothing new. There is nothing as English as disappointment.
F: I’m just sad that Steven Gerrard’s not going to be on the TV any more.
W: Ew, are you kidding?
F: Shut up! He’s cute!
W: Or NOT! Anyway, it’s ‘Steven GER-rard’ not ‘Steven Ger-RARD.’
F: Whatever. You guys also say ‘addy-das’ and ‘jaggew-ar’ when you really mean Adidas and Jaguar.
W: Hey! I’m only trying to help. If you met him and said his name wrong, it would certainly be damaging to your campaign to convince him to initiate a clandestine affair.
F: True.
W: You can have him. I’m quite happy with Frank Lampard and David James. Especially without shirts.
F: Frank Lampard? Whatever. Anyway, he has a cowlick at the back of his head, like me.
W: You're a loser.  Don’t judge Frank for his cowlick. I’m friends with you despite yours, aren't I?

A man (with a beard) enters.

W: Lindsay fancies Steven Gerrard.
F: There’s nothing wrong with him!

The man's facial expression turns to a mixture of alarm and disgust.  (it is barely noticeable behind his fucking giant beard.)

W: Jason just made a face.
F: Fuck off with his face.
W: She wants to be seen as his WAG on his arm.
M: I wouldn’t want to be seen with him dead on my arm after Sunday’s performance.
F: True.  But he’s still cute, though. And Michael Cera, obviously.
W & F: (together)  Mmmm.

There is a brief pause in the conversation.

F: How old is he, anyway?
W: I dunno, probably like 25 or 26.
F: Well that’s okay, we’re 33 and 34 so he’s not that young.
W: Wait. I will Google him from my iPhone.
F: Good idea. I am going to Google Steven Gerrard.
W: Fuck! He’s like... 22. He was born in 1988.
F: Damn. No Tic-Tacs for you.

There is a brief pause in the conversation.

F: Oooh, but he has a BIG pile of junk.
W: MICHAEL CERA? Michael Cera has a big pile of junk? Where?
F: No, cradle snatcher. Steven Ger-RARD.



Click here for The World Cup - Part 2.

Click here for The World Cup - Part 1.

The World Cup, Part 2

SCENE: A KITCHEN. EARLY APRIL.

A mobile phone beeps on a worktop. A man, who is sporting an unsightly beard, picks it up. A woman with very lovely hair enters.

Man: Claire’s just sent you a picture of her new kitten on your phone.

Woman: Oh! Lovely. Er... what are you looking at my texts for?

Man: I wasn’t – on your new phone it flashes up on the screen when you get a picture message.

Woman: Oh? (picks up phone) Ah... lovely. Isn’t she cute?

SCENE: BATHROOM. AN EARLY JUNE EVENING.
A woman sits on the bathroom floor. In front of her is a cupboard, the door of which is open.  She is surrounded by jars and bottles of varying levels of emptiness – bubble bath, shaving foam, moisturiser. She is looking in a zippered bag, filled with makeup. She extracts a lipstick from the bag, removes the lid, and twists the tube.

W: “Scarlet Fever.”

The woman gathers her hair (which is breathtakingly lovely) into a loose knot at the base of her neck. She chuckles.

SCENE: LIVING ROOM. AN EARLY JUNE EVENING.
A man is sitting on a sofa. He is overdue a shave. On the television in the corner there is football. It is the World Cup.

M: (calling upstairs) I said I’ll come up in a minute, I just want to watch the rest of this.

A woman descends the stairs.

W: I thought of a way to make you look away from the football.

The man looks up. He looks back at the television. He looks at the woman again. He stands up.

M: Well, those are certainly... patriotic.

W: Thank you.

M: How did you... er... get the St George’s Cross so straight?  I mean, despite the... er... curvature?

W: It was a tad tricky, to be sure. Especially in the mirror.  You know, backwards and all.

The man cocks his head to one side.

M:  Would have been easier if we were Japanese, I suppose.
W:  Indeed.

M: Well, credit where credit’s due. It is very nice work. EN-GER-LAND.

W: I’m glad you like them.

The man climbs the stairs.

W: Where are you going?

M: To get my phone – I’ve got to get a picture of them.

W: NOT ON YOUR LIFE.

M: Come on.

W: Up yours.

M: Well it’s not as if I’m going to show it to anybody.

W: Not for a million quid.

A few moments pass.

M: From the neck down?

W: Well hurry up then, I’m getting cold.

SCENE: BEDROOM. A JUNE EVENING.

A woman and a man are both looking at a mobile phone. The woman is agitated, yet her hair is inexplicably attractive. The man sports a beard.

Woman: You’re taking the piss!

Man: I’m telling you, I sent it!

W: Well, I haven’t received it. Are you sure you sent it to me?

M: (giggling, progresses to laughter) I hope I sent it to you – who’s name is next to yours in my contacts list?

W: Oh, my holy god. Get. Your. Phone. CHECK IT! CHECK IT NOW!

The man leaves the room. After a while, he returns with another mobile phone.

M: It’s definitely gone. Look, it’s in my ‘sent’ messages.

The woman investigates the phone.  After a moment she appears relieved.

W: (laughing) What a relief!

M: It’ll probably come through later. The second half’s about to start -- shall I open another bottle?

W: Mmm.

SCENE: AN OFFICE. MID JUNE. FIVE DAYS LATER.

Two men and two women are sitting around a table in a room. They are having a business meeting. They are co-workers. One of the women has excellent hair. In the centre of the table are various pieces of paper, and a mobile phone.

The mobile phone vibrates – a picture message has arrived.

The World Cup

SCENE: BEDROOM

A voluptuous woman lounges on a bed. She is very tired, but she has great hair.

A bearded man is next to her.

On the television in the corner is football, with 30 minutes on the clock. It is the World Cup. The contented rhythmic breathing of the couple’s children, who are – at length - finally asleep is, tragically, lost beneath the unrelenting drone of tens of thousands of vuvuzelas.

Woman: Aren’t you going in the bath?

Man: In a minute.

Woman checks weather report on iPhone.

W: When are you going in the bath?

M: After this.

W: But there’s an hour left. You said ‘in a minute.’

M: Mmm.

The woman gets up.

M: Where you going?

W: In the bath.

SCENE: BATHROOM

The woman runs the bath. She catches her reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet. She cannot hear any vuvuzelas. She smiles -- has great hair. The woman gets in the bath. She applies a face pack. She shaves: legs, armpits. She reclines. She exhales,slowly.

The man enters; sheepish. He is still bearded. He has a newspaper tucked beneath his arm.

W: I should have married for money.

M: Oh?

W: Would that I lived in a house in which I could have a bath without someone coming in to shite while I’m exfoliating.

M: Hard luck, that.

W: Indeed. Do an interim flush as soon as it hits the water, if you love me at all.

A few moments pass.

W: Wash my back?

M: But I’ll miss the football.

W: Hard luck, that.

The woman sits forward. She hands the man a small, orange jar.

M: What the...? Why am I standing in sand?

W: It is Papaya Body Scrub. Now get a handful and scrub my back with it.

M: But I don’t like this stuff. It feels wrong. And also, I’m missing the football.

W: Do it, already.

The woman smiles, slyly. The man leaves, muttering. The woman reclines. She exhales, slowly. Some time passes.  The man with the beard enters; animated.

M: Michael Schumacher is ‘The Stig’!!

W: I know.

M: Oh? I’ll leave you to it, then.

W: (through gritted teeth) Spiffing.

The woman reclines, eyes closed. A few brief moments lapse. The man (bearded) enters again.

M: Australia’s had a man sent off; the Germans are scoring goals all over the place!!

W: Mmm.

The man leaves the room.

SCENE: BEDROOM

The television still displays the football match. The woman dresses.

W: Well, I am as soft as soft can be.

M: Mmm.

The woman retrieves a notebook from a drawer and climbs up onto the bed, next to the man.

The final whistle blows. The man touches the woman’s leg.

M: Are you Professor Softison, who has just recently graduated with Soft Honours from McSoftie University in Softville, and who, being so gifted in the art of Softitiousness now has jam-packed lectures, standing room only, filled with others who can only aspire to such dizzying heights of softillism?

The man’s hand moves up the woman’s leg.

W: Bugger off. I’m writing something.

FIN