Leaving Ben Gurion

LEAVING BEN GURION

a small play about small victories

Characters:

ALEXANDER, a young, clean-shaven man, who has spent the past week and a half in Palestine.
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE, the voice inside ALEXANDER’s head. Dressed in a poorly-made parrot costume.
SECURITY OFFICER, a stern young Israeli woman.
SEVERE MAN, a youngish, bespectacled man wearing a suit and tie. He has never ever ever ever smiled in his life.

The setting is a terminal hall in Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion International Airport, on July 30th. SECURITY OFFICER stands behind a large, horseshoe-shaped desk in the centre of the hall. ALEXANDER is at the desk- his big rucksack atop it. INTERNAL MONOLOGUE stands at his shoulder. In the background, SEVERE MAN paces around, looking important and severe. Further still behind him is a long queue of passengers, waiting to have their passports checked.

SECURITY OFFICER: Open the bag.
[ALEXANDER opens bag, while SECURITY OFFICER puts on a pair of surgical gloves]
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: She’s going to look at everything. She’s going to put everything on the desk. Everyone is going to see my pair of Woody Woodpecker briefs. And she’s going to see the textiles I bought in Hebron. The ones that say “Al-Khalil” in Arabic. She’s gonna love that.
SECURITY OFFICER: Unpack the bag.
[ALEXANDER begins to unpack the bag. He tries to place his various pairs of briefs away from public view. SECURITY OFFICER starts to sort through everything, swabbing the items with a toilet brush-like tool that detects explosive material. From the bag, ALEXANDER takes the decorated book and Palestinian textiles, and places them on the desk. SECURITY OFFICER immediately takes an interest in them. She turns them over, and looks at the Arabic script.]
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: I’m done for. Why did I think this would be okay to bring? She may as well have found coke in my bag. But I’ve got a cover-story. I’m just going to say that I bought it in the Old City of Jerusalem. That’s believable. That’s a safe bet. Tourists buy lots of rubbish there.
SECURITY OFFICER: Where did you get these?
ALEXANDER: East Jerusalem.
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: WHAT THE FUCK? WHY WOULD I SAY THAT? That’s entirely the wrong thing to say. Why couldn’t I just stick to the script?
SECURITY OFFICER: [looking surprised] East Jerusalem?
ALEXANDER: [innocently] Uh, does the Old City count as East Jerusalem?
SECURITY OFFICER: [sarcastically] I don’t know, does it?
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Nice one.
[SECURITY OFFICER steps back from the desk, and walks over to SEVERE MAN. The two converse in Hebrew briefly, glancing over at ALEXANDER, who looks back at them. INTERNAL MONOLOGUE begins to mime a rigorous cavity search. SEVERE MAN approaches the desk, where the textiles lay.]
SEVERE MAN: [severely] How long have you been in Israel?
ALEXANDER: Since the 19th.
SEVERE MAN: [severely] Where have you been staying?
ALEXANDER: In Jerusalem.
SEVERE MAN: [severely] What were the names of the places you stayed?
ALEXANDER: I stayed at the Hashimi Hostel, and th-
SEVERE MAN: [interrupting, severely] What was the name?
ALEXANDER: Hashimi.
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: I’m going down, man. So far down.
SEVERE MAN: [severely] And you said you bought these in East Jerusalem?
ALEXANDER: I bought them in a textiles shop in the Old City, yes.
SEVERE MAN: [severely] Do you know anyone in East Jerusalem?
ALEXANDER: No.
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: Haha! Yes I do! But I’m not telling you that!
SEVERE MAN: [severely] Have you been doing any volunteer work or taking part in any projects in the time that you’ve been here?
ALEXANDER: No.
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: That one’s actually true, you know.
SEVERE MAN: [severely] I’m not airport security, I’m not immigrations, I’m just asking you some questions for your own...
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: You’ve lost me, man. I’ve zoned out, and I’m just staring over your shoulder. You're a nasty little man, going through the motions. I'm lucky enough not to be taken seriously by you. Because if I had brown skin, I'd already be being interrogated alone somewhere. Just like everyone I spoke to at Hashimi, who only came to Jerusalem so they could pray at Al-Aqsa, and had to sit through seven-and-a-half hours of questioning at the border. Just like the British girls in the queue behind me, who had to be asked where their surnames came from.
ALEXANDER: [pretending to be understanding and cooperative] Okay.
[SEVERE MAN and SECURITY OFFICER step back and talk again. ALEXANDER looks around at the other passengers waiting in the queue. One woman meets his eyes, and smiles- a “You’re screwed, and it’s probably your fault” smile. SEVERE MAN and SECURITY OFFICER finish their conversation- SEVERE MAN nods and walks away. SECURITY OFFICER returns to the desk. After swabbing every single thing that has been taken from the rucksack, she returns the gunpowder toilet brush to its place behind the desk, but does not say a word.]
ALEXANDER: [expectantly] Can I put everything back now?
SECURITY OFFICER: [shrugging] Yeah, okay.
INTERNAL MONOLOGUE: I MADE IT THROUGH. I successfully lied my Palestinian gifts past airport security. I’m so cool. I’m like a spy. I’m James fucking Bond. I’m Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction. I’m 1970s Michael Jackson, in space. I’m through.
ALEXANDER: [trying to suppress a self-satisfied smile of relief, in a bright, friendly, and innocently grateful voice] Thank you.

fin

"Gossip Gone Toxic"

I was strolling through the web one day (earlier today), and followed a link posted on Twitter straight to 3am, the Daily Mirror's sub-site devoted entirely to the shit-and-glitter world of celebrity gossip. Needless to say, my delicate sensibilities were appalled, and after my manservant had brought me 'round with the aid of smelling salts, I decided to turn my pen to recording exactly what I thought. My blog has been languishing neglected ever since my paean to TheRoyalWedding, so I thought it time I showed it some lovin'.

I shan't be delving too deeply into the matter- Lord knows I daren't click on any of the strange stories with which I am presented- rather, this is simply my own simple, fleeting analysis of what appears immediately before visitors to the site. I went there, so you don't have to. Without further ado, we're going in.

Here's the top of the homepage:



Note the strange tabs entitled "Ooh...", "Gasp!", "Phwoar!" etc. This website won't bother telling you what exactly you're clicking on, preferring instead to suggest your responses to the material hidden within. Aside from being a rubbish way to signpost content, it introduces the whole affair as seeming very haphazard and aimless- that is to say, the visitor is essentially susceptible to whatever trite 3am wants to throw at them, in any way it chooses to do so. The site wants us to lean back and be shocked, derisive or, um, turned on, but shies away from granting us the opportunity to do this freely. But wait...there's a "Celebrity Finder A-Z"! So you can zoom straight in on what Ceryl Chole and the poorly trained actors on The Only Way Is Essex have been up to. 3am wants us to believe that we have a right to dissect the private lives of those it places in the public eye, yet it patronises us with its ridiculous subheadings. We have control, but not control.



Scroll down the page (past the MASSIVE PROMO OFFER) and you're met by the stories of the day. Nice big pictures, bigger, bolder headings- as with all newspapers and magazines, these are doing all the work. If you don't bother to read any of the stories (I didn't), you can just as easily cast your aspersions on the persons concerned, whether or not you have "the whole picture". In a way, the strangely labelled "Care? Read on" links suggest that you take this very approach. "No, I don't care," you say- but we've already been lured in by the big headers telling us that Dannii Minogue is woeful, strained, and that her sister wears silly dresses for her. 3am wants us to be misinformed about misinformed non-stories, because that's how you engender thoughtful and eloquent discussion. There's also a cheeky joke about a one-piece outfit (Teehee!) being an impractical faux pas. If 'Tulisa' is appearing on The X Fascist Factor, that means it's likely her clothes have been chosen for her, based on what the viewing public will respond to positively. But we don't get to laugh at the wardrobe people, just their victim. Again, the story within might say otherwise, but on the surface, that's not an issue. If you don't care, you don't read on. But you know Tulisa is silly. Meanwhile, Danni "apepars [sic] to be carrying a comfort blanket"- lazy, slapdash writing and/or subbing. You could almost believe that the heading "This is where we're meant to comment on Dannii's strained face" was a writing guideline mistakenly left unchanged. But the writers of 3am aren't that stupid. That is the kind of comment they're expected to make, but they're letting us in on a little secret by implying that they are too predictable. In context, however, it's not all that funny or ironic, due in part to the inclusion of "strained" (doesn't look all that strained to me, but 3am has already implanted the judgment), and to the self-referential absence- a comment isn't there, so it is imperative that one is made. Don't care, don't read on.

(Don't forget about Paris Hilton, though! And that sex tape that everyone keeps bringing up again! Poor Paris, it was eight years ago, and now it's out of hand/Silly Paris, if she didn't want it to recur then she shouldn't have done it [delete as appropriate])

And so, to the final section I can be bothered looking at right now:



More stories, directly below an ad for various high street brands with the tagline "Get the Celeb Look now! Steal their Style" (it belongs to us, remember). Below "the most misleading magazine cover of all time" (to be honest, I thought it was TIME magazine's 2006 Person Of The Year cover) story- I'm guessing Kim Kardashian is not having a baby- is the equally misleading "Cheryl Cole breaks silence yadayadayada", accompanied by a picture of Not Cheryl Cole and an explanatory subheading. Deception! Hypocrisy! Yeah, whatever. Just another reminder of our collective dwindling attention span. Here, the gossip press is ridiculing itself, then playing the same gag for cheap laughs or momentary interest-ceding-to-deflated-disinterest. But we've already forgotten about OK's misleading magazine cover, and we're scrolling down the page until we reach another story about Catherine "Kate" Middleton (there is one).

Don't care, don't read on.

Friday (29th April)

Oooh oooh oooh
Oh yeah yeah
Yea-yeah
Yee-ah
Yee-ah
Yee-ah
Yea-yeah

4am waking up in the morning
Gotta be fresh gotta go downstairs
Gotta have my bowl gotta have grapefruit
Seeing everything the time is going
Ticking on and on, everybody’s rushing
Gotta get down--to the forecourt
Gotta catch my Rolls Royce Phantom VI
I see my chauffeur
He sits in the front seat
I sit in the back seat
My mind is already made up
I have no choice in the matter

It’s Friday, Friday
Gotta get wed on Friday
Everybody’s looking forward to the wedding, wedding
Friday, Friday
Getting wed on Friday
Everybody’s looking forward to the heirs
Nuptials, nuptials (Yeah)
Nuptials, nuptials (Yeah)
Fun fun fun fun
Looking forward to the wedding

12:45 we’re driving down the Mall
Cruising appropriately slowly
I want time to fly
Fun, fun, taxpayer-funded fun
You know what it is
I got this, you haven’t got this
My husband is by my right
I got this, you haven’t got this
Now you know it
Kicking in the back seat
Sitting in the back seat
This is the 1902 State Landau coach
There is no front seat

It’s Friday, Friday
Gotta get wed on Friday
Everybody’s looking forward to the wedding, wedding
Friday, Friday
Getting wed on Friday
Everybody’s looking forward to the heirs
Nuptials, nuptials (Yeah)
Nuptials, nuptials (Yeah)
Fun fun fun fun
Looking forward to the wedding

Yesterday I was a commoner, commoner
Today I am royalty, royalty
I I I so excited
I so excited
We gonna have a ball today
Tomorrow is Saturday
And Sunday comes afterwards
I don’t want this weekend to eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennndddd

[The generic rap section is substituted for a verse from Jay-Z’s “Big Pimpin’”, to be performed by HRH Price Harry. Harry is, however, blind drunk by this point, and as he is clumsily led away by a fiendish Paul Burrell disguised as the Princess Royal, the wedding party resumes the chorus]

It’s Friday, Friday
Gotta get wed on Friday
Everybody’s looking forward to the wedding, wedding
Friday, Friday
Getting wed on Friday
Everybody’s looking forward to the heirs
Nuptials, nuptials (Yeah)
Nuptials, nuptials (Yeah)
Fun fun fun fun
Looking forward to the wedding

Suspended Disbelief, A Short Poem.

Suspended Disbelief

Clean shine shaven face sculpted like a Grecian
Stares down evil
Down the barrel of the gun pointed at his chest
Peppered with pellets and small-scale smoke effects
He stands, unafraid, undaunted by the intergalactic menace
Fires straight and true and fatal with a deft flick of the wrist
And turns, dark and compelling,
Eyes, unblinking, eyes that could stun a man at fifty paces,
Turns, composed and unfaltering
Steps out from the shadows ---
And clatters down the street like a bow-legged ostrich.

One man fate has made indestructible
Captain Scarlet.

A Poem Composed Beside the River in Hampi

Salvaged from the delirium and euphoria of my India diaries.

While the ferrymen climb the steps for tea
And passengers amass either side of the river
Some whistling themselves dry with impatience
The water wanders idly by
Speaking softly to the rocks with gentle caress
The rocks, worn grey and speckled pink
Like the ears of the elephants that are bathed beneath them in morning light
The rocks that, thousands of years and thousands of driven water buffalo ago
Were deposited like so much sediment
Across the great boulder fields that punch ham-fistedly into the panorama
When all this was river
Its silence shaped the earth.

Poem in progress(?)

A work, as of yet without a title, that may or may not be finished.



I sing a shallow selfsong of the man
The man of twists and turns
The mind that cantered through a dozen different successes
And decided that none was adequate.
The man whose head held him high
The man whose eyes walked up the carpeted walls of a nearly-there house
And hung above in stasis, comfortably hesitant
With umber cataracts of streetlight screenburn.

Somewhere inside, upstairs, and beyond, a door let itself open
Inviting in the bad dreams and movie scenes
Of too many late nights and white noise.

Walking up the walls further still
The stairs slide away into crowds of darkened laughter
And I light a flame just to cast a shadow.
In the melee below, they’re shouting.
Loud and voice-proud, they’re shouting loudest
They’re thrusting in leaps and bounds, and coming on far faster
Than I’d expected. Than I’d hoped.

I fall out into the hall
With blue thunder running down my face
And a melancholy mistaken for indifference
Like an empty can crushed underfoot
Like a liberated gaze longing for capture
Like cigarettes between lips, or
An asymmetrical pair of hands on hips
Falling through the floor.

Shining a violent green,
Risen above like a jealous totem
With many masks smiling and laughing and raging in fury
Talking of anger, money, sex, and the French
Walking on stolen paths in commandeered shoes
And still the transcendent blue eyes climbing to the ceiling
Refusing to be laid to rest.
If this all evolves into catastrophe then that’s probably for the best

You said
“This isn’t some kind of fucking odyssey”
And you took your coat and left.

Avast, a poem.

The Underground Pirate

In this, the turning tube of inertia, disjointed through the terra firma
On the Metropolitan line, at some kind of time
Between the braying invasion of the strategic pubs
And the neon halo atop the bald doorman’s head
We are ferried below the city’s swollen belly.
We clatter to a halt, the doors slide away to let the people fall out
And he boards, the clock of his crutch-leg deafening the dumb.
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen...”
He crows, and the chipped beech parrot on his shoulder affirms.
“I’m only getting off at Moorgate” he explains,
Holding us at ransom to our copies of the Metro,
Shifting his weight from one spindle to the other, splintering the easy deck.
Blinking in the white noise from within sallow hollows
The clearest blue eyes circling like gulls over a torrid blackbeard sea.
“If you can spare anything...”
The underground pirate, sailing from station to station
Recommencing his beaten demands to all and to each
While the luvvies roll their eyes across the floor
Turning blind.
“Thank you for your time. Have a safe journey home”
And with that-
He disembarks, plots a course, and disappears-
As we rumble onward,
Onward into our own green seas of guilty duvet dreams.