Sinbad, Arrr!

Possilpark Town Hall, 14th February 2008
Sinbad IV, The Final Scene

The cast, ensconced in a cave made dutifully by the peasant folk from papier mache and fibre-glass, are being attacked by a fearsome beast, played by an obese Scottish woman in a dragon costume. Sinbad, cutlass between his teeth, swings in on a specially adapted grape vine, smashing through an inexplicable stained-glass window that is totally out of keeping with ancient Arabic times. Meanwhile two luscious wenches are screaming like damsels, and one of them takes a theatrical swipe at the enraged beast, tearing a shallow wound in the cheek of the beast. In keeping with scenes of such reverence, an ageing man with a hallowed beard that has done the rounds of vessels throughout the ages, imbuing with a salty essence of adventures past. He weeps quietly, wondering how he has lowered himself to performing in plays with little merit and even less universal appeal.

Beast: Raaar!
Wench #1: Why, why is he doing this to us?
Beast: Raaaar!
Wench #2: I think he must be hungry.
The wenches scream and shield their faces from the hideousness that is the beast.

Sinbad: Don’t worry, my wenches, I shall save you. Here, take this sword!

The sword is thrown by Sinbad but tragically remains uncaught, thrusting itself right through the bosom of Wench #2, the lesser wench who up until now has had little point in the play but to make muted expressions of horror, and show off the glamour of her legs while needlessly rock-climbing over the amateur set.
The death is expertly conveyed to the adoring fans through liberal use of tomato puree mixed with Tabasco sauce, and a dashing and charismatic smile flashed by Sinbad to cover his error. Wench #1 wipes a tear from her eye at the demise of her wenching companion, but moves swiftly on.

Old Man With Beard: Here, Sinbad, joust it from behind! It is the only manner by which this beast will be killed!
Sinbad: I will do no such thing, Sir! I am a man of honesty, dignity and…
At this point, the beast makes a lunging moment towards the orating Sinbad, biting a large chunk out of his left leg, which is a prosthetic one for this purpose. His real leg is tucked up behind his arse. Sinbad screams and staggers slowly towards the audience to deliver a tearful soliloquy.

Sinbad: Why do such things happen? I have toiled across Arabia, through desert storms and icy winds of the night, beneath the screeching vultures, those vampires of the sky, and above the piranha-filled pools of black water so deep that it were as if staring into the gates of hell, the bowels of treachery through which one might follow the avenue of vanity. I have defrauded my way through checkpoints, and seared my name with bloodied arm into the rocks strewn across my path. All that I might seek the end, the glorious and justified happy end for my wenches… Looks around at dead Wench #2, her hand outstretched as if beckoning for a last dance… Err, my wench. And now, you see before you this hideous beast, this abomination before the eyes of you, the faithful watchers. Can the clouds of terror be lifted from this ropey scene by a single swing of the scythe, or will the fight have to continue, long into the night, excreting casualties like a diarrhoea-infested viper, venomous and frothing? Will I have to continue this speech before you, so that I might blind my eyes from the terror unfolding behind me, yet knowing, that in the expounding of my awesome theories, the dissemination from the joyous caverns of my heart that in my education of my trusting listeners, I do the wench behind me yet more service that could ever be gained by the risking of my fragile, yet supple body to the causes of victory?

Behind Sinbad, the beast continues mauling the remaining wench. The beast recoils in shock occasionally, as the wench swings a handbag with astonishing force, almost ripping part of the beast’s mask. A papier mache dragon’s tongue lies on the ground being trampled by both wench and beast. In the background, the Old Man With The Beard hums softly while reading excerpts from the Oxford English Dictionary in his characteristic West Country drawl.

Sinbad (continuing): But no, I must do right by my wench, I shall lure the monster with this!
Sinbad pulls a Findus Crispy Pancake from his jodhpurs and bites the end off before tossing it in the direction of the beast like a grenade. There is a flash of purple smoke and the beast, riled with anger, bounds towards Sinbad. Wench #1, exhausted, collapses to the ground, one hand idly scurrying about her handbag looking in vain for her Lipsil.

Sinbad: Ahh, now we must do battle! What say you in your defence?
The beast growls inquisitively, and spits out several litres of watermelon seeds onto the stage.
Sinbad: So it is like this is it?
The Old Man, having finished the dictionary, for it is the abridged version, lights his pipe and puffs away nonchalantly, crossing his legs and draping his robe up over the knee lest there be any undignified insights. Noticing that Sinbad is coming off worse in the tussle, he suddenly leaps down from his rock, leaving a dangerously sagging crack in the ‘rock’ which an underpaid stage-hand, skin drawn over her bones by the onslaught of poverty, sets at repairing with industrial solvent and glue.

Old Man With Beard: Here Sinbad, this fearsome potion should take the edge of him!
Sinbad: What doth it do?
Old Man With Beard: What?
Sinbad: I mean, what does it do?
Old Man: It will sedate the beast! Then we may joust it from behind!
Sinbad: Again, I shall sedate him, but you may joust in your own time, your sordid displays of affection have no place in this cavern.
The potion, contained in a vial that is clearly a halved Coke bottle with cling-film over the sawn-off end, and containing a Radox-style substance bubbling, is thrown to Sinbad, and he grabs the beast about the neck and jars its mouth open, filling it from the vial.

Beast: Gnaaarrrll!
The beast expires, and on cue, the stage-hand and Wench #1, who are now both trying to fix the crack with a sweaty haste, fall through the set and land beneath the hollow stage-rocks with a dull ‘wumph’. A geyser-like wisp of dust erupts through the hole in the rocks through which they have fallen. Sinbad and the Old Man, previously joyous at the beast slaying turn round and look anxiously. The Old Man clutches his hands at his own face and drops to his knees in howling anguish.

Old Man With Beard: Oh, my career! I wanted to emulate Gielgud, I wanted to premiere with the Royal Shakespeare Company, debuting as Hamlet, affixing my name to he, that character of masterful speech. And now look upon my pitiful crumpled body, condemned forever to act out this bloody farce. My mother would be so disappointed!
He sobs convulsively as the audience rise to their feet in raucous applause. Roses are thrown onto the stage which the dead beast, struggling to feign death, snatches at with claws and stuffs into her mouth. Petals drop from her lips and she turns her head away. Sinbad, thinking that the applause is for him, bows deeply, his straggly hair tumbling forward from his shoulders. The crowd erupt onto the stage in a spontaneous display of appreciative violence. Sinbad is levelled with a folding chair wrapped around his head.

Review - By the late Monsieur Launder Ette:

I found this play deeply moving. The casting was exquisite, with latter-day Hollywood hunk-hero Salty Gonadson forming a believable likeness to Sinbad. His hair, even his perfume, seemed to exude the triumphant confidence with which this brave play was executed. The introduction of members of the crew, so often left to languish starving in the sidelines, into a pivotal scene near the end of the play was inspired. There were lesser moments of course. The attempted lynching of Sinbad by members of the audience seemed a trifle unfair, and though I have every faith that the chicken feathers will be plucked and the tar brushed from his overtly-masculine skin, I fear the emotional scars will be harder to overcome. The ceremonially crossing of the fourth wall occurred of course with the nervous breakdown of Old Man With Beard – his name has never been disclosed. On further investigation, it was found that the Old Man was in fact a vagrant plucked from the streets of the Tenth Arrondisement in Paris, and had been shunted from institution to institution before finding his calling in the North Glasgow Community Theatre. He has been a welcome addition to the cast, and for those of us that have had the opportunity to watch his downward spiral into madness night-after-night, it has been a richly rewarding experience of the type rivalled only by settling down in a red upholstered armchair with a freshly-rolled Cuban cigar and a manuscript by Harold Pinter.

My main complaint would be the odious script, clearly written by a fornicating crouton-ingester. I imagine him there, quill in hand, lines of dried breadcrumbs assorted by debt-ridden credit card into tidy lines upon the see-through glass table, feverishly concocting obese beasts in his decrepit mind. That the cast were able to turn such dour fayre into an entertaining spectacle that was both emotional and slapstick is a miracle. It warms my heart that such acting talent still exists. The stage-hand has since retired, I am well informed, and is now making a new living as a greyhound racing commentator following extensive spinal surgery after her fall on-stage.

Monsieur Ette died in a snow-boarding incident in the Mojave Desert in Nevada last week, following diagnosis of acute sand-burn caused by prolonged abrasion. His book, already the source of rioting across the Christian world, will be published in the UK posthumously next month, entitled “Christ’s Second Monkey”.