This entertainment was created from the book, All the World's a Pub!, and is designed to be performed in pubs or pubs' function rooms. It is available free of charge in performence script form by e-mail. If the entertainment is performed before a paying audience we request that we be given the date and venue of the performance and a fee of £10 per performance is required. To obtain a copy of the script contact JGP through the contact section of this web site. Performance payments should be by cheque, made payable to James Green and sent to JGP, LCB Depot, 31 Rutland Street, Leicester LE1 1RE.

ALL THE WORLD'S A PUB!

An entertainment.

LIST OF CHARACTERS

NARRATOR (MALE OR FEMALE)
BARMAN/WOMAN*
2 ACTORS*

* ONE OF THESE SHOULD BE A MUSICIAN OR A MUSICIAN IS NEEDED IN ADDITION TO THE ABOVE IF A MUSICAL INTERLUDE IS TO BE INCLUDED.

THE SET IS VISIBLE ALL THE TIME FROM AUDIENCE ENTRY. NO SPECIAL LIGHTING EFFECTS ARE NEEDED
THE SET THROUGHOUT WILL BE A PUB BAR WITH TABLE AND CHAIRS. THE BAR MUST HAVE AT LEAST TWO BEER ENGINES WHICH CAN PULL WHAT APPEARS TO BE BITTER AND DARK MILD.

SCENE 1

INTRO MUSIC.

ENTER A BAR STAFF (MAN OR WOMAN BUT FROM NOW ON REFERRED TO AS BAR) WHO GOES BEHIND THE BAR AND BEGINS POLISHING A GLASS. THE NARRATOR (MAN OR WOMAN BUT 'HE' IN THE SCRIPT) ENTERS AND GOES TO THE BAR.

BAR: Yes sir?
NARRATOR: A pint of bitter please.

(TURNS TO THE AUDIENCE WHILST THE BEER IS BEING PULLED)

Poetry. What is it, why is it, who does it and where do you go to get it? Do you care? Probably not, most people don't. Poetry books aren't usually best sellers are they? Almost no poets make money and those that do are usually dead. But does even death stop poets? Apparently not.

BAR: (PUTTING A PINT ON THE BAR) There you are sir.
NARRATOR: (PAYS) Thanks.

THE NARRATOR DRINKS FROM HIS PINT AND TURNS TO THE AUDIENCE.

(HE DRINKS AS THE ACTOR FEELS LIKE FROM NOW ON).

There are probably more people writing poetry at this very moment than all the novelists, playwrights, scriptwriters and biographers put together. Most of this poetry never even gets read never mind published but does that stop them? It does not.
If you were to put end to end everyone living today who has ever written a poem (BEAT) you would be as mad and futile as those dreamers who delude themselves into thinking that writing poetry can bring them fame or be a way of earning a living.
So, why does poetry go on? Well, every so often a poetic form comes along which captures the essence of great literature, which marries art with reality, which speaks to people in a way both compelling and beautiful and, more importantly, sells. We are going to look at just such a rare phenomenon tonight, not good poetry but great poetry, poetry you can understand, poetry which actually means something. (BEAT) Beer Poetry!

LINK MUSIC AS THE TWO ACTORS COME ON. ONE OF THEM GOES TO THE BAR TO BUY A ROUND. S/HE TALKS ACROSS THE ROOM TO THE OTHER ONE WHO HAS SAT AT THE TABLE. THE NARRATOR TURNS HIS BACK TO THE AUDIENCE AND CONCENTRATES ON HIS PINT.

ACTOR 1: Thank God that's over. I felt lucky to come away in tact.
ACTOR 2: All turned a bit nasty did it?
ACTOR 1: It bloody well did. It's a vicious beast, kept nipping at my ankles. I had to move very sharply more than once I can tell you.
BRINGS TWO PINTS TO THE TABLE, SITS AND BEGINS TO TELL HIS STORY.
We should get rid of it. It all started at that difficult bit at the top of the front lawn where the herbaceous border sort of widens...
THE ACTORS FREEZE. THE NARRATOR TURNS TO THE AUDIENCE.
NARRATOR: S/He was telling a two-pint story,
the sort that rambles, gets lost
and then will re-appear.
A story that goes well with beer.
It was a summer Sunday story
told to a friend over cool pints
in the easy pub shade
before the midday meal,
a story you don't so much listen to as feel.
It featured an epic struggle
with a lawnmower,
a clash of Titans on the front lawn.
It was told in a drowsy summer haze
when friends sit quiet
and listen in a happy daze.
The way s/he told it everyone could see
that great things
had been done on that lawn,
that right had triumphed
in the face of might.
No blood spilt, true, but honour upheld - quite!
And, at the end,
they'll go their separate ways.
To summer Sunday lunch
and perhaps a glass of wine.
But they'll have enjoyed
their two-pint story.

THE ACTORS COME BACK TO LIFE AND CHAT WITHOUT ANY SOUND. THE NARRATOR FINISHES HIS DRINK AND GOES AND PUTS HIS GLASS ON THE BAR.

NARRATOR: Thanks. Cheerio.
NARRATOR: COMING TO THE FRONT OF THE STAGE.
So where is the true home of poetry? Is it the slim volume lost on a bookshop or public library shelf or is it the words of Shakespeare declaimed from a theatre stage? Does the daring verse of the political dissident written on a police state wall have, as a distant cousin, the rhymed obscenity scrawled by a disturbed mind in a public toilet? Why can't poetry ally itself to normal life? Why can't it talk of the happy pint, the convivial bar, the good pub, the dreamy drink, the way things should be, not the way things are…Why can't poetry be about beer?
BAR: (THE NARRATOR AND THE ACTORS FREEZE. THE BARMAN HAS PULLED A PINT OF BITTER AND HOLD IT UP.)
Why beer? you ask.
Why favour the liquid from the cask?
Why ale? You say.
Is It the drink that makes your day?
But why not wine?
Why not the red divine?
Why not a rare white?
Why not a pale delight?
Well, you ask 'why?'
So I reply. Beer it must be.
Beer for me.
Beer in all its varied glory.
Beer for a rambling, pub-told story.
Beer laughs, beer's jolly.
Beer is for gentle folly.
Beer's friendly and takes no airs.
Beer doesn't count the years.
No '98 or '82.
No silly cost, no premier cru.
Beer is honest, beer is fun.
Beer is beer for everyone.
All drinkers equal under the sun.
So, don't ask 'why?'
Just get some in.
Bring on the pints
And let's begin.

(MUSIC BEGINS. EVERYONE COMES TO LIFE AND LEAVES THE STAGE.)

SCENE 2.

THE NARRATOR RETURNS WITH A SINGLE PIECE OF COSTUME IN HIS HAND.

NARRATOR: OK, where and when did Beer Poetry, begin? Well, I think we can give the wine-bibbing Greeks and Romans the miss in baulk. To find the origins of Beer Poetry perhaps we should stay in Britain, but go back a bit, (BEAT) say, to the Middle Ages.

THE NARRATOR PUTS ON THE PIECE OF COSTUME AND THE MUSICIAN COMES ON WITH A HAT (OR SOMETHING) FROM THE PERIOD AND CAPERS AROUND AS S/HE SINGS USING EARLY ENGLISH PRONUNCIATION.

SINGER: Summer is icumen in. Lude sing cuccu. Groweth sed and bloweth med and springth the wude nu. Sing cuccu. Sing cuccu.
NARRATOR: Summer is icumen in. Lude sing cuccu, or as we would say, summer is a-coming in. Loud sing cuckoo, is one of the rare remaining examples of 13th century drivel and from the sound of the spelling it uses was written after several pints. But by the later Middle Ages they had learned to write their poetry before drinking and were producing songs like this:

MUSICIAN: (JOINED BY THE OTHER ACTOR/S. THEY SING)
Oh bring us in no brown bread,
for that is made of bran,
Nor bring us in no white bread,
for therein is no gain,
But bring us in Good Ale!
But bring us in Good Ale!

Bring us in no beef,
for there are many bones,
but bring us in Good Ale,
for that goes down at once,
And bring us in Good Ale!
And bring us in Good Ale!

Bring us in no bacon,
for that is passing fat,
But bring us in Good Ale,
and give us enough of that,
And bring us in Good Ale!
And bring us in Good Ale!

Bring us in no eggs,
for there are many shells,
But bring us in Good Ale,
and give us nothing else,
And bring us in Good Ale!
And bring us in Good Ale!

THE NARRATOR INTERUPTS THE SINGERS.
NARRATOR: Enough, enough, we've got the gist, get off.
MUSICIAN: But there's more.
MAKES AS IF TO SING BUT THE NARRATOR HUSTLES THEM OFF THE SET.
NARRATOR: Oh no there isn't.
RETURNS TO THE CENTRE.
There are about thirty more verses of that song covering most foods known to mankind including rice pudding and curry but I think get the main thrust of the thing. They want Good Ale, and why not?
It was from such songs that early Beer Poetry sprang and by the time the first Elizabeth had become Queen Beer Poetry had a settled place in literature and, with the work of Bill Shakespeare, Beer Poetry became the vehicle through which all of man's deepest emotions were given dramatic expression.

(NARRATOR LEAVES THE STAGE.)

SCENE 3.

THE CAST COME ON WEARING RUFFS OR BITS AND PIECES OF ELIZABETHAN COSTUME. THE BARMAN GOES BEHIND THE BAR ONE ACTOR AND THE NARRATOR BRING TANKARDS TO THE TABLE AND SIT DOWN. THEY ROISTER! NOISILY AND THEN SILENTLY AS THE NARRATOR TURNS TO THE AUDIENCE.

NARRATOR: So let's see how, by the 1600s, Beer Poetry was dealing with the really great issues of the day, life, death, love, and most importantly religion - or as we know it today football

(CALLING TO THE BAR AS THE ROISTERING GOES ON NOISILY)

Bill Shakespeare not in yet?
BAR: Nay good sir, he hath gone to the match betimes but should return right soon although methinks his mood will be of the darkest hue.
NARRATOR: Stratford on Avon United not having a good season then?
BAR: The vilest, Sir, the strikers could not hit the wall of a privy, nay, not even if they were in it. I doubt me they could score if the goal were the size of the Globe theatre itself.

AN ACTOR COMES ON STAGE WEARING A STRATFORD ON AVON NITED SCARF AND A RUFF OR DOUBLET AND STORMS TO THE BAR AND LOOKS AROUND ANGRILY

BILL SHAKESPEARE: Eftsoons, ecod, but give me beer,
the team's gone down
and I need cheer.
The ref. was blind
the linesmen bent.
I wish they were to hell
quick sent.

(THE BAR PLACES A TANKARD ON THE BAR AND BILL TAKES A DRINK)

For first half forty minutes
we were best.
Their defence so weak
we took it for a jest.
Yet could we score?
But for the vilest luck
we should have had four.
Then, one short minute
before the half-time whistle blew
their goal-hanging centre-forward
wriggled through.
The long ball from the middle sent
and we, as one, rose and the air was rent
and all good men stood up and cried,
Offside! Offside!
'Not so,' the white-sticked whistler said
and pointed to the centre spot instead.

(BILL BREAKS DOWN, SOBS, TAKES A DRINK AND WITH AN EFFORT CONTINUES)

And so it was
for all the game.
How hard we played,
how well we stayed.
I tell thee what,
it's a crying shame how little we got,
it's all part of a **** plot. (BLEEPED OUT BY A WHISTLE BLOWN BY THE BAR. BILL DRINKS AGAIN AND CHEERS UP)
And so I say, give me beer
and tell me of things that are good cheer.
Of other teams, better served,
of wins deserved.
Well, what of the play?
Someone must have won today.
And if deserving
Let us raise our beers and say,
Tomorrow is another day!

(LOUD CHEERING)

NARRATOR: Better luck next week, Bill, who are you playing?
BILL: Away to Spittalfield Rovers. We'll slaughter them mate.

(HE LAUGHS DERISIVELY)

Frankie 'the pen' Bacon, couldn't manage a ticket booth in a brothel that man.
NARRATOR: If you say so Bill, . See you.

BILL MAKES HIS FAREWELLS AND EXITS. CAST EXITS REMOVING THEIR BITS AND PIECES OF ELIZABETHAN COSTUME AND ALSO LEAVE. THE NARRATOR COMES TO THE FRONT OF THE STAGE REMOVING ANY COSTUME.

And so it went on. Over the years various people had a go at Beer Poetry and in a minute you'll meet some of the better known ones. But now the actors are going to take a short break and, just so that no-one can claim that this little celebration of beer is an encouragement to excessive drinking, ours will be a tea break. While we are taking our break you will be entertained by Mexican Jimmy the Gay Caballero. I thank you.

The following may be omitted or the song changed as required.

EXIT NARRATOR. ENTER MEXICAN JIMMY IN A SOMBRERO WITH A GUITAR.

MEXICAN JIMMY: (IN AN EXAGERATED BBC ACCENT) Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I am so happy to be here tonight and to perform to such a cultured audience. It seems only yesterday I was in my home town of Guadaloupe singing for pesos in the dusty streets and now here I am, an illegal immigrant, with the chance to work my way up to be a failed asylum seeker, singing in a real English pub to the British middle classes, what a country! The song I would like to sing to you is, Taking Tea in Tijuana, which I submitted to the BBC for the Eurovision Song Contest. They turned me down and chose a song which went on to achieve a new UK record, nul points! So you see, the BBC is not perfect.

Taking Tea in Tijuana

A happy chappy in a flappy serape,
whom I met one sunny summer's day,
invited me to tea in Tijuana
if I was ever down Tijuana way.

Now, I'd never taken tea in Tijuana
because I'd never been down Tijuana way.
They put mescal in the tea in Tijuana
so I decided to go and make a stay.

The tea I took, on down in Tijuana,
made me forget my problems for while.
I drank tea for days in Tijuana
In louche cafés and hotels crammed with style.

But an ending comes with every new beginning
and taking tea in Tijuana was the same.
So I left my friend in Tijuana,
and it was sadly home to Leicester that I came.

But if you wanna
Take tea in Tiju-wanna
Then go on down to Tiju-wanna
And take the tea and take the blame.

If a happy chappy in a flappy serape,
whom you meet one sunny summer's day,
asks you along to tea in Tijuana
If you are ever down Tijuana way.

Then I suggest you go to tea in Tijuana,
but, after tea, if like me, you're not the same,
there will always be the memory of your visit
When you sadly find yourself back home again.

(Repeat refrain varying first word as felt)

Thank you, thank you all so much. You've been a wonderful audience. Thank you.

EXITS

THERE IS AN ANNOUNCEMENT THAT THE BREAK WILL SOON BE OVER. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR SEATS. ONCE EVERYONE IS SEATED

THE NARRATOR RETURNS.

NARRATOR: Right then, back to the Beer Poetry. As I said before the tea-break many very famous names have indulged in Beer Poetry it is by no means a purely modern phenomenon. Some of the greats who actually wrote beer poetry might surprise you but I assure the poems they speak are genuinely their own work, like the great Dr. Samuel Johnson. Take it away Sam…

EXIT NARRATOR

(ENTER DR. JOHNSON IN COAT AND OR WIG.)

DR. J: Hermit hoar, in solemn cell
Wearing out life's evening grey;
Strike thy bosom, Sage, and tell
What is bliss, and which the way?

Thus I spoke, and speaking, sigh'd
Scarce repressed the starting tear,
when the hoary sage replied,
Come in my lad, and drink some beer!

(BOWS AND EXITS. NARRATOR RETURNS)

NARRATOR: Thank you Sam Johnson, very good, and miles away from that dictionary he was always working on but it shows he got out to the pub occasionally. Robert Browning had a go after his wife Elizabeth Barrett Browning snuffed it and he was able to leave Italy and wine and come back and live in London and drink honest beer.

(ENTER ROBERT BROWNING SUITABLY DRESSED HOLDING A TANKARD. EXIT NARRATOR)

R. BROWNING: Here's to Nelson's memory!
'Tis the second time that I, at sea,
Right off Cape Trafalgar here,
Have drunk it deep in British Beer.
Nelson for ever - any time
I am his to command in prose or rhyme!
Give me of Nelson only a touch,
And I save it, be it little or much:
Here's one our captain gives, and so
Down at the word it shall go!

(DRINKS AND EXITS CHEERING. NARRATOR RETURNS)

NARRATOR: All very patriotic of course but not perhaps the stuff that a really good Friday night is usually made of. Now here's an interesting one written by George Canning and J. H. Frere. It's a spoof this time on the poetry of Robert Southey and aimed at supporters in England of the French Revolution. It features a Needy Knife-grinder and a well-off (BEAT) Friend of Downtrodden Humanity.

(ENTER NEEDY K.G. WITH A GRINDING- WHEEL AND WELL-DRESSED FRIEND OF D. H. IN COSTUME)

F.O.D.H.: Needy Knife-grinder! Whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order -
Bleak blows the blast;
your hat has got a hole in it,
So have your breeches!

Weary knife-grinder!
Little think the proud ones,
who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-road,
what hard work 'tis all day crying,
Knives and Scissors to grind O.

Tell me, Knife-grinder,
how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyranically use you?
Was it the squire,
or the parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

Was it the squire for killing his game?
Or the covetous parson
for his tithes distraining?
Or the roguish lawyer
made you lose your little
all in a lawsuit?
Have you not read 'The Rights of Man'
by Thomas Paine?
Drops of compassion
tremble on my eyelids
ready to fall as soon
as you have told me your
pitiful story.

KNIFE GRINDER: Story! God bless you,
I have none to tell, sir.
Only last night a-drinking
at the Flag and Bottle
this poor old hat and breeches,
as you see,
were torn in a scuffle.
Constables came up
for to take me into custody;
they took me before the justice.
Justice Pepperpot put me
in the parish stocks
for a vagrant.
I should be glad to drink
your honour's health
in a pot of beer,
if you will give me sixpence;
but for my part, I never meddle
with Politics, sir!

F.O.D.H. I, give thee sixpence!
I will see thee damn'd first -
Wretch! Whom no sense of wrongs
can rouse to vengeance;
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate; degraded, spiritless outcast!

F.O.D.H. KICKS THE KNIFE GRINDER OFF THE STAGE WITH HIS WHEEL

F.O.D.H: Take that you rogue, and that, and there's for your damn' wheel.

(F.O.D.H. EXITS ANGRILY AND THE NARRATOR RETURNS.)

NARRATOR: Now an interesting thing is if the name of George Canning who co-wrote that piece seems familiar to you it is because it is the same George Canning who was Foreign Secretary in 1807 and 1822 when Napoleon was making such a nuisance of himself and upsetting all right-minded people across Europe. I somehow get the feeling that politicians must have been a little different in those days from what we get off the production line today. Oh well. Now Beer Poetry, though its natural home is Britain, has, of course, crossed the pond and Edgar Alan Poe, that great American script-writer for Hammer Horror Films, was known to take a break occasionally from his more Gothic stuff to produce things like this.

(ENTER E. A. POE LOOKING SUITABLY GOTHIC WITH A PINT)

E. A. POE: Filled with mingled cream and amber,
I will drain
that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chambers of my brain.
Quaintest thoughts, queerest fancies
Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today.

(CRAZED LAUGHTER)

Ha, ha.

(EXITS AND NARRATOR RETURNS)

NARRATOR: Hmm, I hope he's managing all that only on beer. Anyway so it went on and even a 20th century classicist scholar like A. E. Houseman found sufficient inspiration from Latin and Greek poets like Virgil and Hesiod to produce these immortal lines while he was out in a Wenlock Edge pub doing research for his famous poem, A Shropshire Lad.

(ENTER A. E. HOUSEMAN)

A. E. HOUSEMAN: Why, if it's dancing
you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.

(EXITS AND NARRATOR RETURNS)

NARRATOR: 'Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think.'
What great lines and so true, so true. But the past is the past. What about the present? Where do you find today's Beer poets and today's Beer Poetry? Well, before we find out we'll have the next interval because, after that stream of poetry celebs. I'm sure you're all ready for a drink. But after the interval join me and the rest of us in a little pub I know, a little pub which may be (BEAT) somewhere near you.

(EXITS)

INTERVAL

THE BARMAN IS WIPING A GLASS. THE NARRATOR ENTERS WITH A NEWSPAPER AND A PAIR OF BINOCULARS. HE GOES TO THE BAR PUTS THE PAPER AND BINOCULARS ON THE BAR AND ORDERS A PINT.

NARRATOR: Now what I want you to imagine is that we are in a typical quiet local, not a themed pub or a food pub but the public bar of a little old fashioned back-street pub. The sort of place where the locals pop in for a quiet drink at the end of the day.

(HE PICKS UP HIS BINOCULARS AND SCANS THE BAR. THEN HE SPEAKS IN THE HUSHED VOICE OF A NATURAL HISTORY TV PROGRAMME AS IF AWAITING A GLIMPSE OF SOMETHING RARE)

Well, ladies and gentlemen, here we are in the local. I'm hoping that If we're lucky we may spot some interesting local beer poets and maybe even one or two migratory types.

(LOOKS AROUND AGAIN WITH THE BINOCS.)

Nothing yet but I'm sure that if we just wait very quietly and don't disturb them they may come and settle. I'll just put up my hide and we'll wait.

HE PUTS HIS NEWSPAPER UP. AFTER A SHORT PAUSE AN ACTOR DRESSED AS AN MAN IN A CLOTH CAP SCARF AND MAC ENTERS (OR THE FEMALE EQUIVALENT), THERE IS STORM NOISE FOR A MOMENT. THE MAN SHAKES HIS MAC AS IF WET THEN BUYS A HALF PINT AND GOES TO THE OTHER END OF THE BAR FROM THE NARRATOR. THE NARRATOR FOLLOWS HIM FROM BEHIND THE PAPER WITH HIS BINOCULARS. THE MAN SIPS HIS BEER PAUSES THEN COUGHS. THE NARRATOR LOOKS OUT AT THE AUDIENCE.

Yes, we're off, a Common Maudlin Half Pint, I think, but definitely a Beer Poet.

OLD MAN: Once, when I was young and hot
I wanted fame and money,
I wanted the lot.
I wanted drinks
that came in funny glasses,
I wanted to score
when I made passes.
Now, when I am not so young,
and cool,
I'll settle for good beer, good pubs,
good friends
and be myself,
happy, who was once a fool.

NARRATOR: Well, now that one's actually settled and started things may hot up, once the poetry starts you never know what you're in for.

(SOUND OF A DOOR OPENING AND MORE WILD WEATHER OUTSIDE. ONE OF THE ACTORS ENTERS. HE GOES TO THE BAR)

ACTOR: It's foul out there. A pint of mild please.
BAR: Right-oh.

(SERVES A DARK PINT. THE ACTOR DRINKS AND THEN TALKS TO THE BAR IN A CHEERFUL VOICE)

ACTOR: So what if the wild winds threaten?
What if the rain pours down?
I laugh to scorn the branches torn
and the tiles thrown round the town.
For I have peace a plenty
inside while the night is wild.
I'm safe and snug in my local pub
with a pint of delicious Mild.

HE/SHE TAKES OUT A NEWSPAPER AND GOES TO THE TABLE AND BEGINS TO READ. THE SOUND OF THE PUB DOOR BEING SUDDENLY BANGED OPENED, STORM SOUNDS AND A MAN/WOMAN COMES IN QUICKLY OUT OF THE WEATHER. HE/SHE COMES TO THE BAR AND ELBOWS THE ELDERLY MILD DRINKER ASIDE.

JOURNALIST: Make room please, room for the press, thirsty journalist coming through. (TO THE BAR) A pint please.

(BANGS MONEY ON THE BAR. THE NARRATOR IS WATCHING ALL THE TIME WITH HIS BINOCULARS FROM BEHIND HIS PAPER)

BAR: Right-ho.
NARRATOR: I'm afraid it's is just a Journalistus Vulgaris, a very loud and common variety. They get everywhere.

(THE JOURNALIST RAPS ON THE BAR AND LOOKS OUT AT THE AUDIENCE)

JOURNALIST: Your attention please. (PAUSE)
Gentlemen, ladies,
may you all go to Hades!
I do not like what you pay me to do
I do not like being untrue
to the artist, myself.

(GETS THE PINT AND TOASTS HIMSELF)

Myself, me, my health.
You see
I do not like being a literary whore
and, what's more,
I won't, not any more.
I'll write what I want
and if I don't like it, I won't,
so there.

(DRINKS)

I won't, can't, shouldn't -
admittedly did -
but now the tin lid.
I won't any more.
I'll write…I'll write….something.
Something great and good,
I'll write what I should.
I'll write -well I will, you'll see.
I may even write poetry.
You wait, you'll surely hear from me.

(TURNS BACK TO THE BAR)

Got the time?

BAR: Eight thirty
JOURNALIST: Really! Time for one more then after this.

(DRINKS)

Another pint please, when you're ready.

THE BAR GOES AND PULLS A PINT. THEN HOLDS IT UP AND GAZES AT IT. THE NARRATOR SNATCHES UP THE BINOCS.

NARRATOR: Great Heavens! I wouldn't have believed it, a Bar Staff Beer Poet and here all the time. Now that's very rare..
BAR: Some beer is truly beautiful,
it has a taste, such a taste,
and such a colour.
Some beer is wonderful.
I know it has the same sad side effects
as its poor relations, wines and spirits.
But its company is so different.
Some beer is truly beautiful.

(TAKES THE PINT TO THE JOURNALIST)

There you are.

(TO THE ELDERLY HALF PINT)

JOURNALIST: Sorry if I barged you out of the way just now only it's been that sort of day and I'm glad it's over.
ELDERLY DRINKER: No problem. Nothing spilt so no damage done.
SEES THE MILD DRINKER AT THE TABLE AND GOES ACROSS AND SITS DOWN
JOURNALIST: Looking at the sports pages, the football, reading my stuff perhaps? I write for that comic.
MILD DRINKER: No, the obituaries actually. I'm interested see. I think about that sort of thing.

(STANDS AND TAKES UP A SOLILOQUY STANCE. THE NARRATOR HAVING FOLLOWED ALL THIS GETS EXCITED)

NARRATOR: Great heavens. I think we've got a Lesser Talented Soliloquiser, very rare these days, in fact I thought they were extinct.

MILD DRINKER: When I die, please can I go
to a place I've seen quite often,
to a place I feel I know?
It's a place of peace and perfection,
a place of laughter and light,
where the days are always sunny,
and the future's always bright.
I don't want to go to heaven
and play a harp or sing.
I don't want to sit
with a crowd on a cloud
or any of that sort of thing.
Can I go where I'll be happy,
where goodness will abound ?
A summer Sunday lunchtime pub,
when it's somebody else's round.

(SILENCE FALLS AND ALL ON STAGE GO STILL EXCEPT THE NARRATOR WHO PUTS DOWN HIS PAPER AND GETS UP AND COMES TO THE FRONT OF THE STAGE)

NARRATOR: Well, there you are, Beer Poets in their natural habitat. Wonderful.

(THE CAST EXIT)

Night all.
ALL: Night, see you, etc.

THERE IS THE SOUND OF THE BAR DOOR OPENING AND THE NOISE OF THE FOUL NIGHT . THE DOOR CLOSES.

NARRATOR: You know I sometimes wonder if it's worth living in a country with weather like we get even allowing for the beer and the Beer Poetry. I sometimes tell myself there must be a better way, somebody must get something out of it at one time or another.

(EXITS)

FRENCH MUSIC. A PARASOL IS PUT OVER ONE TABLE AND AN ACTOR IN A SUMMER SHIRT AND SUN GLASSES COMES ON AND SITS AT THE TABLE. THE REST OF THE CAST MAKE THE SOUND OF WAVES GENTLY AND RYTHMICALLY BREAKING ON THE BEACH JUST OFF STAGE. THE BAR, NOW DRESSED AS A FRENCH WAITER/WAITRESS BRINGS A GLASS WITH A LONG EXOTIC DRINK IN IT ALSO WITH A LITTLE PARASOL.

WAITER: M'sieur, votre absinthe frappé.
POET: Merci.

(HE TAKES A DRINK AND THEN LOOKS OUT AT THE AUDIENCE)

I'll settle for sitting in Nice, forgotten.
I'll settle for success
however ill-begotten.
I'll settle for staying in print
though now thought of by critics as rotten.
I'll settle for being the past
as long as the royalties last.
I'll settle for another sunny long drink,
I'll not write any poetry now,
,just think.
I'll settle for what I can get -
and yet, and yet…

(THE SOUND OF THE WAVES TURNS INTO…)

CAST: Draught Bassss…draught Bassss… draught Bassss

HE STANDS AND LOOKS OUT TO SEA

POET: I hear the beer calling me back.

RETURN TO WAVE SOUNDS. HE SITS.

No, don't be silly, don't fret.
Just settle for what you can get.
Settle for sitting in Nice.

(RE-ENTER NARRATOR)

NARRATOR: Which just about brings us to the end of our little tour of Beer Poetry (BEAT) but before we leave you to go and have a pint and write a few more poems perhaps we should hear at least one example of something a bit more main-stream, from someone and somewhere you would expect to find poetry.

NARRATOR AND MODERN POET EXIT. THE STAGE IS CLEARED DURING WHICH THERE IS THE SOUNDS OF AN AUDIENCE SETTLING DOWN BEFORE THE CURTAIN GOES UP IN A THEATRE. THE AUDIENCE SOUNDS GO SILENT THEN APPLAUSE. AN ACTOR DRESSED AS OLIVIER'S RICHARD III ENTERS. THE APPLAUSE FADE TO SILENCE. THE POEM IS DELIVERED IN THE MANNER OF OLIVIER'S PERFORMANCE…

ACTOR: All the world's a pub
and all the people drinkers.
They have their exits and their entrances
and one man in his time
drinks many pints.

First the youth
boastful and unsure
who orders odd drinks
that taste like sweet manure.
Then the young man
bearded like the pard
who drinks often and hard.

Then the man of middle age
who in beer has become more sage
who learns by care
the nature of each brew
and settles to drink just a few.

DURING THE VERSE THE PITCH RISES

Finally the oldie
sitting in his place
who gently drinks his pint
with joy and grace
and watches youngsters
muscle to the bar
and grins and remembers times afar

And mutters what we
all eventually know

LOUDLY DECLAIMED FINALE

'twas ever thus,
'twas always, e'en so.

FANFARE OF TRUMPETS. ELIZABETHAN MUSIC.
ACTOR BOWS AND EXITS

NARRATOR: And that, ladies and gentlemen is that. The show is over. The cast will now retire to the bar where I hope some or all of you will join us. Thank you and goodnight.

CURTAIN CALL

FINIS