en
Chris Thompson

Albion

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God bless this country, God bless karaoke

and God save the Queen


It’s Saturday night at The Albion, a proper East End boozer and the unofficial home of the English Protection Army. Get your names in early: it’s karaoke night and it’s gonna be big.

Little brother Jayson’s out front smashing it on the mic but

behind the scenes the leadership of the EPA is falling apart.

Paul knows the public won’t listen to a bunch of hooligans but

his deputy Kyle wants a fight. Christine’s sure that the key

to success is in the company you keep and the language you

speak.


This is England and it’s time to take it back.

This explosive new play examines the turbulent rise of the new far right in modern-day Britain. When they embrace diversity, just how far can the far right go?
Denne bog er ikke tilgængelig i øjeblikket
96 trykte sider
Oprindeligt udgivet
2014
Udgivelsesår
2014
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Citater

  • Rachael Pennellhar citeretfor 8 år siden
    JAYSON: Karaoke? Fucking love it, mate.

    What can I say? I’m an Englishman.

    Take the piss if you want, fair enough, but I fucking love it. The best thing is, right, you don’t have to be like the best fucking singer in the world or nothing and you still sound good. You just got to stick to the rules, that’s all.

    First rule, right, is no slow songs. If you sing a slow song you’re a twat. Simple as.

    The second rule is don’t sing a song that someone else has already sung. It don’t look good. Just so you know, to avoid any difficult conversations later, my song is Don’t Stop Me Now, I’m known for it in here, that’s all I’m saying.

    Now the third rule is by far and away the most important. The third rule of karaoke is don’t be a cunt. Got that? If you think karaoke is shit, don’t fucking do it. Don’t be one of them people that gets up on stage and sing bad deliberate just so they can show everyone how shit they think karaoke is. I hate people like that. Cos karaoke ain’t shit. It changes people’s lives.

    It’s tough out there, mind you. Fucking hell, it’s tough. You got to learn to keep your nerve. You put your song in and then there’s the wait. You could be waiting hours but you got to carry on as normal and not let people know you’re secretly bricking it, but you feel your heart beating faster, cos you know it must be your turn soon – she put hers in just before you, so it must be you next – it has to be – and so you try not to look nervous or nothing cos you’re supposed to be enjoying yourself and it’s just a night out, but it’s more than that, and it’s getting closer: it’s any minute now, your throat is so dry and you can’t even drink, then that’s it. They call your name, your mates cheer.

    And it’s just you and the song.
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