Wink (NHB Modern Plays)

Phoebe Eclair-Powell

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2015
• ISBN:
  9781780015743
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Drama
• Index: Literature

An electrifying drama about what happens to personal identity in an age of ubiquitous technology and social media.

John is a twenty-seven-year-old teacher 'who probably wasn't allowed to teach at an all-girls' school' and Mark is his sixteen-year-old 'Olympic porn-watching' pupil. A normal week in their normal lives - school, eat, TV, sleep, repeat.

Except in an age of twisted technology and unfettered profiles, the life Mark really wants is only a click away' but what happens when that life already belongs to John? By Friday, the shit really is going to hit the fan.

Two interlinking monologues, WINK examines two lives veering dangerously close to collision, asking us what separates the man from the boy.

WINK, Phoebe Eclair-Powell's debut play, was first produced by Tara Finney Productions and Theatre503, and premiered at Theatre503, London, in March 2015.

MARK. Today is a normal day. I’ve only been on Facebook five times, the Daily Mash twice and Reddit once. I have also played some COD, some GTA and some Wii Bowling but only because my little brother, Aaron, made me it’s called ‘quality time’… we do it whilst eating Coco Pops and I hope he doesn’t ever grow up because then Mum will probably start buying adult stuff like muesli. Wank.

I look at porn for T-minus two minutes, just Amateur, Gagging and then one second of Gonzo, because I’m trying to time myself now and I’m getting better, more like an Olympic porn-watching athlete. I like to splice the scenes together till it’s like a compilation mix, ‘Now That’s What I Call Really Good Porn ’86’.

Then I catch my older sister trying to copy Nicki Minaj in ‘Anaconda’, which is embarrassing and a bit sick-making and then I get ready for school.

School is a bit crap but it’s also alright. I feel like today might be good, that’s what I think, then I think no, Mark, it will probably be a bit shit like every other day at school. So I decide to stare at the wall for a bit till my eyes hurt and then I think maybe I’ll just hold my breath and die. I try this but I always end up taking a breath and anyway Aaron starts chucking things at my balls.

I check my phone, I have no texts, five Snapchats and no WhatsApps, two Facebook notifications – one to like Animal Farm so that doesn’t count – and two new followers on Instagram which is pretty good.

I put my headphones on and walk to school, listening to shuffle and hoping no one can hear it when something a bit embarrassing comes on, like Jessie J.

I ignore all of the other people going to all the other schools, I listen to music and I feel safe, in a bubble, hand on my phone, texting, talking connected. A girl nearly gets run over, she tells the driver to ‘fuck off’.

I see Mr Martin enter the school gates ahead of me, looking like a bit of shit today, ruffled tie, messy hair but he also totally thinks he’s it, he is, you can see him being checked out by every single girl at the bus stop – he’s what my mum would call ‘a flirt’. I think he probably wasn’t allowed to teach at the all-girls’ school.

I go in.

JOHN. Monday morning and I’ve only been to bed for four hours – the amount of time you have to put in to having an affair – it’s actually pretty intense. I have a fumble of my balls, before I spring out of bed and I think I might still be drunk because I’m not yet hungover. Check Facebook on my phone – just because, then BBC Sports, Guardian comments and a little bit of Daily Mail online because Celeb Big Brother is actually quite good at the moment. I make a coffee not just for me but for Claire also – see I can be an alright boyfriend sometimes, ‘can’t I, darling?’ she takes one sip – spits in the sink – ‘please don’t buy Kenco, you dildo’ and she’s gone and already late for work, but I’m bang on time, baby, I always am. Get in the car and put the radio on loud. It’s only a ten-minute drive but I’m fucked if I’m walking. Get out the car and buy a coffee from the kiosk outside the station – girl at the counter always gives me a smile – bless her she’s got absolutely no tits but she’s worth a good chirps for that extra squirt of espresso, ‘see you tomorrow, darlin’’ – nice touch. Check my phone again and get happn up – who have I ‘crossed paths with’ this morning? – nope not a fitty among ’em – and I swear she’s at the girls’ school ‘twenty-one’ – I wish. The Head comes up, phone away quickly, and says he’s impressed by my latest GCSE results – ‘I’m clearly an excellent addition to the faculty’ – I give him my best – ‘oh please it’s hardly all down to me’. I love the way he takes my sycophancy seriously.

Now this is the bit where I slow down, pretend I’m looking out for all the boys coming in – ‘tuck that shirt in, Oliver’, ‘don’t run like a girl, Stefan, you’re embarrassing yourself’, et cetera. It’s kinda fun. I like to wait till every last little runt has run in – means I don’t have to come in early and prep my classroom – we have TAs to do that shit honestly.

I watch Mr Murphy rock up in his GT, shame my only mate at this school is a bit thicker than I would’ve liked. But he lends me a fag so I can hold off on the e-cigarette. I burp up a bit of sick as I sip on more black coffee but it’s making my eyes itchy. Now I am so fucking hungover.

‘How come – it’s a Monday, mate?’

Sly smile he knows I’ve shagged Anna again.

‘You better watch out that I don’t tell Claire one day’ but I know she would never believe him.

Daniel Wilson walks past with his hand down the back of an Alleyn’s girl’s school skirt – cosy. It makes me think of Claire – same flicked-back fringe that I didn’t like at first – thought she was trying too hard to be trendy. And I miss Claire suddenly.

‘Come on, dipshit, school bell innit.’

I have Year shitting Eleven first today and to be honest I might just be sick on one of their heads.

MARK. First period is French which is actually my favourite lesson because, well, it’s taught by Mr Martin and he’s got to be one of the best teachers in the school because he lets us watch loads of racy French films and doesn’t even bother fast-forwarding over all the sex bits. Nice one. Mr Martin just has a way about it him you know – like this smile he does when he’s sort of taking the piss out of you but he’s also fully noticed you – I think it must be why girls can smell him a mile away – like he’s some sort of animal man.

JOHN. Right Year Eleven, the wankers as I affectionately call them, a pitiful sight, all acne scars and crap stubble. God knows English teenagers are just the ugliest fuckbags in the world aren’t they…

Right repeat after me: ‘nous allons a la bibliotheque avec Dominique’, whoever Dominique is she sounds well fit.

Text message.

MARK. ‘Sir, your phone, sir, you always say we’re not allowed phones.’

JOHN. Shut the fuck up, you little –

‘That’s enough, Mark, I apologise, class, yup my bad didn’t turn it off this morning.’

MARK. ‘Sir, are you hanging?’

And yes I know most of the class are noticing my use of the slang, nice one.

JOHN. Not enough time spent in the shower clearly…

‘Alright, lads, might have had a few beers last night but hey who can tell me what that is in French?’

See I am so down with the kids.

Mark puts his hand up this time, trying to win me back bless him, he’s one of the thickest but he tries hard, on some sort of scholarship for sport, so he’s clearly the povvo one, and God knows he’s hardly winning in the looks department. Good luck to him.

‘Yes, Mark?’

MARK. ‘What’s hangover in French?’

JOHN. ‘Why on earth would you need to know that, Mark, had one have you?’

Ooh they love it when I take the piss and thank Christ the coffee’s kicked in because now I’m on a roll, French verbs, infinitive, past participle and we’re off as one by one I help root out the weak and promote the future Oxbridge tossers, and then the bell. Thank the Lord, one more cup of coffee and I might just make it through – don’t you just love school.

MARK. At lunch I check my Facebook page.

JOHN. I have a coffee.

MARK. And Twitter.

JOHN. Followed by a cigarette.

MARK. And Instagram.

JOHN. Followed by a shitty hummus sandwich because the school’s gone all Jamie Oliver and you can’t get anything with a high salt content.

MARK. I also Snapchat a few people what looks like an ass crack but is just my elbows held together.

JOHN. Fucking apple crisps.

MARK. I talk to Rob and Ashleigh who have only been my mates since Year Nine when I got my scholarship and everyone realised it was for sports and not for something shit like choir or music. Ashleigh is such a gay name but he’s okay. We talk about going paintballing knowing that we don’t really like each other enough to go paintballing.

JOHN. I scroll through Tinder because I like the distraction – see that I have a couple of texts from Anna, ‘last night was seriously crazy’ apparently. I can’t be bothered to reply – she is a great shag though, insecure women always are, eager and kinky. She follows it up with a picture of her in the bathroom mirror – I don’t think grown women should send toilet selfies...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Original Production
• Acknowledgements
• Characters and Note on Play
• WINK
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information