Archive for the ‘Monologues’ Category


Posted: February 29, 2012 in Monologues

Here’s a short monologue from one of the plays I’m working on, Black Berry. The character is Trojan9x9 – a businessman…or is  he?

Health. Family. Work.  In that order. When you’ve got your balls on the line and I’m standing over you with a claw hammer, you’re gonna need your strength to fight.

Family. Work. Health.  In that order.  When my hammer’s done its dirty business and you’re limping home with a ball sack as blue as a nun, you’re gonna need a hot mouth to help you forget.

Work. Health. Family. In that order.   We are the wired generation.  If you fuck up, there’s a hundred people waiting to replace you at the click of a button. Never forget that you are dispensable. Don’t lose focus. Ever.

Work. Health. Family. It’s all about juggling those three balls. Your balls.  My balls. Crystal fucking balls.  You can’t afford to drop any of them.  It’s all about getting the balance right.  I’ve got you teetering on a wire as thin as your dick and I’m telling you to perform.  Cirque de freak, cirque de chic, cirque of the fucking week; I don’t care if you’re Moscow State or council estate, this ain’t no fucking act.  Do what you’ve got to do to keep your balls in the air.

Walk the wire and don’t stop juggling. Do that and we won’t have a problem.



Posted: January 20, 2012 in Monologues

It’s the beat. The rhythm. The pulsing. It throbs. It gets in your head. Makes your skull vibrate. Makes your brain wanna squeeze through your eye sockets and join the party.  The sweat. The heat. Makes me horny as a dog with two dicks; makes me wanna fuck. The grinding. The glistening skin. Makes me wanna lick it. Taste it. Taste you. Lick you. Consume you. Drink you up. Every drop. Inhale you. Breathe you in. Suck you into me.  You know what? At this precise moment, I love you.  Let’s make our own music, yeah? Get lost in the pounding. Lay your melody over me and we’ll make a masterpiece. 

You know, they said I wouldn’t make it, yet here I am. Dancing. Laughing. Living.  Seven months lying flat on a bed, metal twisting out of my bones.  Seven fucking months. A bed bath was the closest thing I got to a wank.  I was reborn in that bed and this, this beat, this is my first gasp of air. Oh yeah, Mummy, this is the start, the beginning. There’s no going back now the music’s started. This is it. Once upon a time, they said I wouldn’t be here.  But I am. Fucking look at me now. I’m here. Dancing.  If you’re not dancing, you’re dying.

Can you feel it? The boom, boom, doof, doof of that bass throbbing in your veins. Filling your arteries with the sound…the sound…the sound of the past, the future, the here and fucking now. I want to bottle this moment. Bottle it and sniff it, take it in, perk me up like poppers. The heat rippling through me, tickling, trickling through my veins, over my flesh, making my brain pulse. Goose bumps, bubbling across my skin, keeping my hairs on end. Makes me feel alive.

Christ, that sound…that sound…that sound of the over, under, bend-over-ground, sound as a pound of flesh. Bodies mesh. A full on sesh that I never want to end. Not now. Not ever. Never. Everlong the throng of the crowd dancing to the beat. Never forget that we were here. Cut it with a knife, the buzzing electric. I’m gonna skip the light fantastic and click my heels three times. I heard the death bell chime, but I fucking ignored it. I’ve soared through the sky and dropped through the black into forever. But that was then. This is now. I wanna be in this moment until the light fades, the tunnel darkens. Because this is the dawn, the scorn, the fucking horn and porn of life. Right here, playing out in the beat. I’ve got a stiffy. I’ve got a stalk on the size of the empire state. I can’t wait; I need to fuck. I need to fuck to keep this rhythm going. If I’m not dancing, I’m dying. Please. Just one more time. I’m not high, I’m just alive. Still. Baboom, baboom, baboom; the beat, it pumps to the rhythm of my heart.  I can’t stop now. I’ve danced so much I can’t feel my legs.  Listened so long, I can’t hear your words. But I know you’re there. Watching. Don’t pull the plug or flick the switch, keep my beat going. Because you know what? At this precise moment, I fucking love you.

Beat was produced as part of ‘Ave It at the Old Vic Tunnels in July 2011, and published in Hearing Voices (October 2011) 

This is my gift to you all. Merry Fucking Christmas  – a monologue I wrote a few years back, which has since been produced for radio. When I get my act together, I’ll publish an audio version of it too. I hope you enjoy it…

I hate Christmas.  I’m not talking about a mild dislike here. I’m talking full on fucking loathing. I hate baubles, brandy and Bing Bastard Crosby.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate it because I had an unhappy childhood or because I think the ‘true religious meaning’ has been lost, oh no, I hate it because of one man.  Good ol’ Santa, St. Nick, Kriss Kringle, Papa Noel, Father Bloody Christmas. And do you know why I hate him?  Because he stole my husband.

Every December for the past four years it’s been the same. Dick leaves his early retirement to dress up in a stupid red suit and pretend to be Santa. He’s always been adamant that he’s a  ‘serious actooor’, so for the whole of December I have to put up with him practicing his ho ho ho’s, whilst I have to pretend that I actually give a shit about his Christmas career.

When I first met him down the local, he told me he was an actor, so obviously I thought he was a poof. Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong. When I did eventually find out what type of acting he did, it was too bloody late coz I was already up the duff and halfway up the aisle. You see, Dick isn’t your ordinary type of Santa. Oh no.  Put it this way, if he was in the Debenhams Christmas Grotto he’d be arrested, the stuff he gets up to. He’s not for the kids, my Dick…he’s a triple x-rated porno Santa.  Well, he used to be anyway- he quit the business after a messy Come Doink With Me experience involving a German and a plate of her bowel movements.

He was very successful  before he retired, though, in fact you may have seen him in films such as: Edward Penishands; Shaving Ryan’s Privates;  Lord of the Cock Rings; Bride of Wankenstein? No?  Anyway, he’s got a very big fan base, so to make us a bit more cash for Christmas, he makes a one-off festive special. So whilst I’m here looking after the bloody kids, he’s dressed up as Santa, porking a load of trollops.  But his job has never really bothered me that much, you know. Honestly. You see, I’ve always classed myself as a ‘doggy position’ kinda girl – you know, a little bit dirty but nothing too pervy. I’m not frigid or nothing, in fact I think I’m very open minded, but Dick…well… he’s something else.  He’s all butt plugs and nipple clamps, not my cup of tea at all.

Now don’t get me wrong, ‘cause I do love my Dick, I wouldn’t have stuck around for fourteen years if I didn’t, but he’s not a great looker. In fact, he looks a cross between Ron Jeremy and John Prescott – kinda half-man, half-toad with a fat stomach, podgy, sweaty hands…mullet.  But of course, his success doesn’t lie in his looks, does it?  It’s all about what he’s got in his pants, and the only way I can describe that, ladies, is ‘butcher’s knob’ – big and fat, like a Cumberland sausage. It’s just a shame he doesn’t use it on me more often. But, I suppose it’s a bit like if you work in a chip shop all day, the last thing you’re gonna want for your tea is a battered sausage.  

He’s had more sex with more women than you can imagine. In fact, I’m surprised his willy hasn’t dropped off by now.  But, I don’t mind.  Honest. What I do mind, though, is how these Christmas specials take over my life.  As a ‘serious actooor’, he takes his part very seriously and he spends weeks getting into character. And of course it’s not just his ho ho ho’s he has to perfect. He has to make sure his little elf’s up to the job as well. So if it’s not bad enough that I hardly ever get laid, when I do it’s just a bloody rehearsal for him. I feel like a fucking fluffer. It’s so boring and it always starts of the same. I sit on his lap and he asks me if I’ve been a good girl and I have to say, “Oh no Santa, I’ve been a very naughty girl and I don’t deserve any presents this year. What I really deserve is a damn good spanking.” As you can see, the script is really crap this year. Carry On films have got nothing on this tosh. Oh, it’s full of all the classic Christmas innuendos like, “Come here and empty my sack”, and “Oh Santa, stuff me like a turkey!” But, I don’t mind. Honest. Because he comes home to me, right?  I’m the one he cuddles at night, right? I’m his wife.

Will you do me a favour, though? If you wake up on Christmas morning with a copy of ‘Santa’s Cumming’ starring Dick Upper in your stocking, please spare a thought for me. Whilst you’re tucking into your Christmas pud and listening to the Queen’s speech, I’ll be sat at a table full of slags he’s shagged. I’ll have to be all nice and friendly when all I wanna do is scratch their eyes out.  Because, you know what? I do mind. Honest.