Girl: Ever get unaccountably sad?

Boy: Sure I do, we all do.

Girl: Which is worse, do you think? Unaccountable sadness or sadness for a reason?

Boy: Who cares? Cheer up, you miserable bint!

THE END

*

Late Night Arts Show Commentary on Short One Act Play.

Knowledgable Theatre Critic In Black Polo Neck In Dark Studio Making Him Look Like Just A Head: Hmmnyes mmnyes. I see. Mnyesyesyesyes. An interesting treatment of an age-old puzzle in PCB’s newest play. I like the way Sam has voiced a pointless question and then very cleverly failed to answer it. That’s a very post-meta-ist thing to do, and although it’s an incredibly easy and mindless technique, that only adds to its post-metaism. In addition she has trivialised the whole question of despair using the common enough trope of forced incongruous humour. This is an old trick but in juxtaposing the old with the ultra modern post-metaism she is, I feel, commenting on society today in the larger sense of its meaninglessness.

Interviewer: You don’t think she’s just writing down any old crap and seeing where it ends up then, do you?

Knowledgable Theatre Critic In Black Polo Neck: Aha, well, you see, lack of thought in plays is the newest thing, the very newest, darling. She’s being extraordinarily brave and avant-garde, I feel. Clearly, Tom Stoppard, or anyone with any real clue about the theater would think it was rubbish, but being rubbish is not the point, you see. Indeed it is hardly ever the point. This is exactly the sort of cutting edge tripe work that keeps people in black polo necks like me in a job. I think she’s marvellous and I shall be saying so tomorrow in my highly influential newspaper column.

Interviewer: Uh-huh. Do you not see any irony in the fact that this commentary has already gone on longer than the actual play?

KTCIBPN: My dear fellow, I could go on all night in this grating tone of voice.

Suddenly Grey and Defeated Looking Interviewer: Some might say she just couldn’t think of a post tonight and was a bit gloomy for no real reason so she desultoraly typed out something unutterably stupid.

Smirking KTCIBPN: Well, you see, that’s where you need me. To explain to you why you’re wrong on almost every point, and to make you and all your viewers feel stupid and inferior, sitting at home on their inelegant sofas with their high-street garments and not getting the high, high pop art that Sam has accomplished here.

Interviewer, Pinching Bridge Of Nose: You mean she was on some sort of illegal drugs when she penned this.

KTCIBPN: No, if you look at Sam’s past interviews you’ll notice she has always regretted not taking nearly enough illegal drugs.

Interviewer, Emboldening: I would submit that, after this…frankly disappointing effort, she probably needs a little something to raise her standard of work a little.

KTCIBPN: If by frankly disappointing effort you mean the crowning achievement of her blog and nascent theeyater career, then I concur.

(Interviewer stares at Knowledgable Theatre Critic In Black Polo Neck for some time).

Sombre Interviewer Turning To Camera: That appears to be all the time we have for this topic. Thank you so much, Mr. Knowledgable Critic, for your illuminating insights… Now, after the break we will be speaking to Ms. Diaphonous Scarves In Her Hair about some idiot thing or other… my God! Is this what I got my English PhD. for? To nod mindlessly at overstuffed wankers every night in an ill-lit room? Why are we sitting in a black room, anyway? Where do they find these ludicrous wind-bags? And why do they blink so much? I mean, what the hell was that bloody awful Short One Act Play all about anyway, eh? I’ll tell you what - nothing, that’s what, nothing...

(Begins to unmike, continues to rage, and foam slightly)

...I’m seriously losing all motivation to exist here talking night after night about this desperately Godawful crap. I haven't seen daylight in weeks, my wife says I'm irritable and try to strangle her in my sleep. Look, see how pale I am! I'm chronically dyspeptic, my motions are irregular, it's been months since I could...

(Screen goes to commercial advertisements)

"Unkempt? Unkempt!!?" I sputtered when the inimitable Lucy Pepper said she'd like to recruit me to her unkempt fold. "But I'm not unkempt, am I?" And I rushed off to the bathroom mirror to check. There I noticed my eyebrows were in need of a , slight, weeish pluck and I was dressed like a person who prays to the God, Fade. But that is hardly un-flaming-kempt is it? Is it? I decided to take umbrage because it is common medical knowledge these days that umbrage is better for the glands than self-doubt. And, ANYWAY, I fumed, Lucy (who I'm now seriously thinking of down-grading to imitable) has never even seen me in the flesh! I could be ravishing for all she knows. In actual fact, I am ravishing. Also I'm polished and, twice a week, I'm waxed and buffed by a rather splendid young illegal immigrant called Juan from the car-wash who specialises in me and vintage finishes. Well, umbrage will only take you so far, especially when there's nobody home to appreciate it and the cat eyes you with such withering boredom you wish you'd picked the pitiful one with ear mites and something scabeous in the next cage at the animal shelter. A creature that might have shown more gratitude. I decided that flattery was the way to go, mostly because I enjoy it and somely because that Pepper woman, she's brilliant, you know, and I feel lucky to be included. The rest of us don't know each other (I don't know anyone anyway) which is sort of a good thing starting out in something like this, I reckon. I think what we have in common is that Lucy knows or strongly suspects we don't like to iron much. As for me, I am a Hebridean-American, or person of pallor, as we're known. I hail from The Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland and now I live and dont iron much in Ojai, California. There are some children here insisting I am their parent and that they need nourishment in order to grow and thrive, and that if I want anyone to bring me soft fruits and gin in my dotage then I'd better feed them straight away. I really think gin and soft fruits are going to help a lot when I'm old so I'm going to go now and, as our mothers have done before us since time immemorial, ensure the next generation feels guilty enough to keep me in them. Be seeing yoos.