Audition Pieces

These are split into two sections, just scroll below for the appropriate pieces

Boys Audition Pieces

Two contrasting pieces must be learnt by heart before the first day of the course. You must also have read the plays the pieces come from! Copy and paste in to Word to have your own copy to work from!

William Shakespeare


But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!


Do not think so; you shall not find it so:
And God forgive them that so much have sway'd
Your majesty's good thoughts away from me!
I will redeem all this on Percy's head
And in the closing of some glorious day
Be bold to tell you that I am your son;
When I will wear a garment all of blood
And stain my favours in a bloody mask,
Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it:
And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights,
That this same child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,
And your unthought-of Harry chance to meet.
For every honour sitting on his helm,
Would they were multitudes, and on my head
My shames redoubled! for the time will come,
That I shall make this northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;
And I will call him to so strict account,
That he shall render every glory up,
Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,
Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.
This, in the name of God, I promise here:
The which if He be pleased I shall perform,
I do beseech your majesty may salve
The long-grown wounds of my intemperance:
If not, the end of life cancels all bands;
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.


Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law
My services are bound. Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me,
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moon-shines
Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?
When my dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as generous, and my shape as true,
As honest madam's issue? Why brand they us
With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?
Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take
More composition and fierce quality
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,
Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops,
Got 'tween asleep and wake? Well, then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land:
Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund
As to the legitimate: fine word,--legitimate!
Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed,
And my invention thrive, Edmund the base
Shall top the legitimate. I grow; I prosper:
Now, gods, stand up for bastards!


You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate
As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do corrupt my air, I banish you;
And here remain with your uncertainty!
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,
Fan you into despair! Have the power still
To banish your defenders; till at length
Your ignorance, which finds not till it feels,
Making not reservation of yourselves,
Still your own foes, deliver you as most
Abated captives to some nation
That won you without blows! Despising,
For you, the city, thus I turn my back:
There is a world elsewhere.


Sweet mistress--what your name is else, I know not,
Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,--
Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not
Than our earth's wonder, more than earth divine.
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;
Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,
Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,
The folded meaning of your words' deceit.
Against my soul's pure truth why labour you
To make it wander in an unknown field?
Are you a god? would you create me new?
Transform me then, and to your power I'll yield.
But if that I am I, then well I know
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,
Nor to her bed no homage do I owe
Far more, far more to you do I decline.
O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,
To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears:
Sing, siren, for thyself and I will dote:
Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
And as a bed I'll take them and there lie,
And in that glorious supposition think
He gains by death that hath such means to die:
Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!


Who will believe thee, Isabel?
My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life,
My vouch against you, and my place i' the state,
Will so your accusation overweigh,
That you shall stifle in your own report
And smell of calumny. I have begun,
And now I give my sensual race the rein:
Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite;
Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,
That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother
By yielding up thy body to my will;
Or else he must not only die the death,
But thy unkindness shall his death draw out
To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow,
Or, by the affection that now guides me most,
I'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you,
Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your true.



By De Filippo

Doctor, look at that girl you’ve just examined. Look at her. She’s just a bit of skin and bone strung together, just a bit of rubbish anybody might pick up off the floor … (Pretends to pick something up) and say: This is useless rubbish … Away into the dustbin. Look at her. Is she wearing smart clothes? No, sir. What about silk stockings? Oh, no. Does she go to the hairdresser’s? She doesn’t. And yet that little bundle of skin and bone, just as it stands, with those lovely eyes … that bit of rubbish is … my woman. And look at me. Look at me. Look at my shoes. (Lifts a foot and shows the underside of his shoe. This sole is in shreds) Look at this suit … (Bends his arm and lifts it, showing a gaping tear at the elbow) would you care to look at my shirt? (Takes off his jacket and shows the innumerable repairs and patches on his shirt) What would you say I am? Another useless heap of rubbish? Yes. The sort of thing one shoves to one side in the street. (Moves his foot forward rapidly, scraping it against the floor tiles as if pushing away a nauseating object) Into the dustbin with you as well! And yet, do you know what this revolting sight represents for her? Her man. I occasionally do portering work at the docks … but more often than not, as there is so many of us, they shut the gates in my face. I turn my hand to anything when there’s work going, I’ve been a labourer, porter, watchman, odd-job man, lavatory attendant … I give her what little I earn. We share food when we can afford it, and when we can’t, we go without.


By Peter Shaffer

When the horse first appeared, I looked up into his mouth. It was huge. There was this chain in it. The fellow pulled it, and cream dripped out. I said, “Does it hurt?” And he said – the horse said – said – (desperately) it was always the same, after that. Every time I heard one clop by, I had to run and see. Up a country lane or anywhere. They sort of pulled me. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Just to watch their skins. The way their necks twist, and sweat shines in the folds … (pause) I can’t remember when it started. Mum reading to me about Prince who no one could ride, except one boy. Or the white horse in Revelations. “He that sat upon him was called Faithful and True. His eyes were as flames of fire, and he had a name written that no man knew but himself” … Words like reins. Stirrup. Flanks … “Dashing his spurs against his charger’s flanks!” … Even the words made me feel – … Years, I never told anyone. Mum wouldn’t understand. “My grandfather dressed for the horse,” she says. What does that mean? The horse isn’t dressed. It’s the most naked thing you ever saw! More than a dog or a cat or anything. Even the most broken down old nag has got its life! To put a bowler on it is filthy! … … No one understands! … Except cowboys. They do. I wish I was a cowboy. They’re free. They just swing up and then it’s miles of grass … I bet all cowboys are orphans! … I bet they are! No one ever says to cowboys, “Receive my meaning!” They wouldn’t dare. Or, “God” all the time. (Mimicking his mother) “God sees you, Alan. God’s got eyes everywhere-“ I’m not doing this anymore! … I hate this! … You can whistle for anymore. I’ve had it!


By Alan Ayckborn

Excuse me. Just taking refuge. Nut case over there. Bloody woman prattling on about her dog. Ought to be locked up. Thinks every man’s after her. I mean, look. Look at it. After her? She’d have to pay ‘em. You know the sort though, don’t you? If you let her talk to you long enough, she’ll talk herself into thinking you’ve assaulted her. Before you know it, she’s screaming blue murder, you’ll be carried off by the fuzz and that’s your lot. Two years if you’re lucky. I mean, I came out here to get away from the wife. Don’t want another one just like her, do I? I mean. That’s why I’m in the park. Get away from the noise. You got kids? Don’t have kids. Take my tip, don’t get married. Looks all right, but believe me – nothing’s your own. You’ve paid for it all but nothing’s your own. Yap, yap, yap. Want, want, want. Never satisfied. I mean, no word of a lie, I look at her some mornings and I think, blimey, I must have won last prize in a raffle. Mind you, I dare say she’s thinking the same. In fact, I know she is. Certainly keeps me at a distance. Hallo, dear, put your money on the table and she’s off out. Don’t see her for dust. Sunday mornings, it’s a race to see who can get out first. Loser keeps the baby. Well, this morning I made it first. Here I am in the quiet. Got away from the noise. You know something interesting? Most of our lives are noise, aren’t they? Artificial man-made noise. But you sit out here and you can listen-and-well, there’s a bit of traffic but apart from that – peace. Like my mother used to say. Shut your eyes in the country and you can hear God breathing.


By Joe Penhall

How dare you! What’s funny? Stop laughing! Shut up! You stupid fecker. What are you laughing at? Shut up! For feck’s sake! You won’t be laughing when you get home. You won’t be laughing when you start losing your marbles all over again and hearing voices and jabbering like a lunatic and shatting yourself because you think your fecking zombie neighbours are coming to eat your brains you mad b%stard! You idiot! They’re black! All your neighbours are. It’s a black neighbourhood. You, you, you moron. You stupid fool. Are you retarded? Jesus! This is the thanks I get for rotting in this stinking hell hole, pushing shat up hill, watching what I say, tiptoeing around, treading on egg shells, kissing ar%@ while you sit around laughing and squawking and barking like a freak. You didn’t know if you were Arthur or Martha when you came in here and this is the thanks I get. Now you’re upset. Now I’ve upset you. Good. Good. See how much you like it.


By Jonathon Harvey

You ain't the first. She’s not a slag or nothin’, but you aint the first. There was Colin the barber, Alfie the long distance driver, and Richard the barman.She turn you on?She’s thirty five!Mum said you was a painter. I know why she chose you. She wants the lounge doing. Only put the paper up last year and she already hates it. Bloke what selled it her said it her said it got velvet in it, but it aint, it’s imitation velvet. She feels gutted. Like that, my mum, goes off things fast .
When I was ten, my mum met this bloke called Richard. He was a barman like her. I used to... pretend he was my dad. Didn’t realise he was only about eighteen. I used to tell people...and that.
And then one night I went in the kitchen for a glass of water. And there’s my mum, sat on the floor, tears pouring down her face. Two black eyes. I never saw Richard again.
I used to sit on his knee. He used to put his arm around me when we walked down the street and that. Called me trouble. And’s weird innit? When somin’ can just stop like that. But things do don’t they? They just stop happening. Don’t they? Feelings and that. The way...the way you feel


By Steven Bloomer

On Voicemail) Hi. It’s me. Erm, I know you said not to call you, or e-mail, or...and I know you’re probably not listening to this but I think it’s important, and I think you’d want me to call you because, well, what I’m really trying to say is, I found some of your pants. And I was thinking of throwing them out but they’re a nice pair, one of your nicer pants I think, and I thought you might be missing them. So I’ve got them. I’ve not washed them. I didn’t know if you wanted me to wash them, I can. So call round and get them, whenever, I think you’ve still got a key, you can call round or I can post them to you or your sister or, you know, maybe we can meet up sometime and I can give them to you in person, whatever, it’s just, they’re one of your nice pairs so...why do we say a pair of pants? Do you know? Because there’s only one, it’s not like socks...They’re here, anyway, and that’s all I wanted to say. I’ve got your pants. And I still love you.


By Renee Taylor and Joseph Bologna

Please don’t make me marry you! I know this wedding is costing your parents a lot of money, but I’ll pay back every penny of it. Please stop looking at me like that. You shouldn’t take it personally. It’s nothing against you.
All right, Susan. I’ve got to put my cards on the table. I didn’t want to tell you this because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You’re just not dream girl. I’m sorry. I wish you were, but let’s face it, Susan. My heart doesn’t beat when you come into a room. I don’t get goose pimples when I touch you. I’m just not nervous when I’m with you. You’ve got too many problems. And, Susan, there’s something about you that really bothers me. Susan, you have very thin arms.
So, don’t think I could be faithful. I mean, I want to be faithful, but I just don’t think I can. Ever since we got engaged, I walk down the street and I want to grab every arse I see. That’s not normal. Don’t you understand, I need somebody more perfect, then it wouldn’t be so much work for me to love and be faithful. I could just show up.
Look, you’ll get over me. After a while, you’ll find another boy. Just promise me you won’t sleep with anyone until you get married. Will you promise me that, Susan? Will you?


By Renee Taylor and Joseph Bologna

Please don’t make me marry you! I know this wedding is costing your parents a lot of money, but I’ll pay back every penny of it. Please stop looking at me like that. You shouldn’t take it personally. It’s nothing against you.All right, Susan. I’ve got to put my cards on the table. I didn’t want to tell you this because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You’re just not dream girl. I’m sorry. I wish you were, but let’s face it, Susan. My heart doesn’t beat when you come into a room. I don’t get goose pimples when I touch you. I’m just not nervous when I’m with you. You’ve got too many problems. And, Susan, there’s something about you that really bothers me. Susan, you have very thin arms.So, don’t think I could be faithful. I mean, I want to be faithful, but I just don’t think I can. Ever since we got engaged, I walk down the street and I want to grab every arse I see. That’s not normal. Don’t you understand, I need somebody more perfect, then it wouldn’t be so much work for me to love and be faithful. I could just show up.Look, you’ll get over me. After a while, you’ll find another boy. Just promise me you won’t sleep with anyone until you get married. Will you promise me that, Susan? Will you?


By David Greig

The whole nun thing...the whole, you being one. Does that utterly forbid sex? I know there’s the praying and so on. But does it utterly demand that you don’t have sex at all? Is that like a stipulation? I only ask...Well I only ask because we haven’t...and...Look. I know there’s a hell of a lot of suffering in the world...Jesus you don’t have to tell me about it, and I admire what you’re doing, I really do, but seriously babe, I don’t think God would mind, would he? I mean, he made us sexual beings, after all, didn’t he? We have to conjoin in union...blessed union, isn’t it? It’s a form of a prayer in a way, isn’t it? Don’t you remember when two people lose themselves in each other’s bodies; it’s sacred, isn’t it? I think that, if you asked him, God would make it very clear to you that he actually wants you to have sex. With me. Now. Besides, you look fantastic in the habit.

The Picnic

James is 24. Although he is not religious, he has wandered into a church whist out walking and seeing that a Priest is taking confession has gone into the booth. We can see James but not the Priest.
I used to go up the Glen when I was young… well, younger. I like it… he corrects himself liked it in those woods. They were cool on hot days. Families liked them too. There’s lot’s of clearings for picnics. Her family wasn’t like the other ones. No thin sandwiches in tin foil or litre bottles of generic fizzy pop. No bags of crisps in bright blue packaging left behind… detritus from the local Co-Op. Her family had a picnic hamper… like characters from one of those costume dramas. They had proper plates, and metal knives and forks… and napkins. She went down by the stream, They called after her “Don’t go too near the water darling”. Voices round and rich, like mahogany. She did what she was told. She walked down stream to the point where the water dwindles to a patch of swamp… and then she crossed over… to my side. She was wearing a cotton dress, decorated with big, child like flowers. Pink and yellow daisies on a white background. She had blonde hair and blue eyes… quite the little cliché, like a drawing from a Mabel Lucy Attwell book. My Mum loved Mabel Lucy Attwell.
I hadn’t intended to hide, but I was hidden, nonetheless. She was almost on top of me before she saw me. On top of me… now there’s a thought. I heard the breath catch in her throat. Her hands went instinctively to her throat. She was clutching a bedraggled bunch of daisies and buttercups. She looked at me with big, grey blue eyes and a badly misplaced expression. Trusting. Open. “Do you like butter?” She just continued to stare at me. “If you give me one of your buttercups I can tell you" “Tell me what?” Her voice inquisitive. “Whether or not you like butter.” My voice verging on desparate… eagerness reigned in. She takes a step towards me. Holds out a buttercup. She smells of grass… and sunshine. As I held up the buttercup under her chin, my hand so near her throat, she was a mouse, and I was a man. I only wanted to love her… and squeeze her… and tell her I loved her.

Girls Audition Pieces

Two contrasting pieces must be learnt by heart before the first day of the course. You must also have read the plays the pieces come from! Copy and paste in to Word to have your own copy to work from!

William Shakespeare


Since what I am to say must be but that
Which contradicts my accusation and
The testimony on my part no other
But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me
To say 'not guilty:' mine integrity
Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,
Be so received. But thus: if powers divine
Behold our human actions, as they do,
I doubt not then but innocence shall make
False accusation blush and tyranny
Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know,
Who least will seem to do so, my past life
Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,
As I am now unhappy; which is more
Than history can pattern, though devised
And play'd to take spectators. For behold me
A fellow of the royal bed, which owe
A moiety of the throne a great king's daughter,
The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing
To prate and talk for life and honour 'fore
Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it
As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour,
'Tis a derivative from me to mine,
And only that I stand for. I appeal
To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes
Came to your court, how I was in your grace,
How merited to be so; since he came,
With what encounter so uncurrent I
Have strain'd to appear thus: if one jot beyond
The bound of honour, or in act or will
That way inclining, harden'd be the hearts
Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin
Cry fie upon my grave!


Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner
As Phaethon would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway's eyes may wink and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them.


O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent
To set against me for your merriment:
If you we re civil and knew courtesy,
You would not do me thus much injury.
Can you not hate me, as I know you do,
But you must join in souls to mock me too?
If you were men, as men you are in show,
You would not use a gentle lady so;
To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,
When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.
You both are rivals, and love Hermia;
And now both rivals, to mock Helena:
A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,
To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes
With your derision! none of noble sort
Would so offend a virgin, and extort
A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport.


O, were that all! I think not on my father;
And these great tears grace his remembrance more
Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him: my imagination
Carries no favour in't but Bertram's.
I am undone: there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one
That I should love a bright particular star
And think to wed it, he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table; heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here?


Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment
And state of bodies would bewray what life
We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself
How more unfortunate than all living women
Are we come hither: since that thy sight,
which should
Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance
with comforts,
Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow;
Making the mother, wife and child to see
The son, the husband and the father tearing
His country's bowels out. And to poor we
Thine enmity's most capital: thou barr'st us
Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort
That all but we enjoy; for how can we,
Alas, how can we for our country pray.
Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory,
Whereto we are bound? alack, or we must lose
The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person,
Our comfort in the country. We must find
An evident calamity, though we had
Our wish, which side should win: for either thou
Must, as a foreign recreant, be led
With manacles thorough our streets, or else
triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin,
And bear the palm for having bravely shed
Thy wife and children's blood.


Once we were Mothers

By Lisa Evans

ALI: All I knew of Down's people were adults in institutions in awful cardigans and now one of them was mine. Ours. Jim couldn't talk to me for weeks. He told me later all he could think was 'That is not coming home'.
'She's going to need constant stimulation' is what the doctor said. And oh boy was I going to make sure she got it. Just so long as it didn't involve leaving the house. I'd tried that - it was like something out of Grimm's Fairy Tales. I could have had a sheep in a bonnet in my pram and got a more favourable reception as they peeked under the hood. All those well intentioned people. It was the pity I really couldn't take.
I had never been so tired or depressed in my life. And all along I knew it wasn't because Flora had Down's Syndrome or because she was also the slowest Down's Syndrome girl in the group. It was because of my secret, which I kept wrapped up like a first tooth under the pillow of my dreams. I was a mother, and didn't, couldn't, love my baby.


By Shelagh Stephenson

I went to this counsellor – did I tell you this? – or a therapist or something and she said I had this problem and the problem was, I give too much, I just do too much for other people, I’m just a giving person, and I never get any credit for any of it. I haven’t even got any friends. I mean, I have but I don’t like most of them, especially the women, and I try really hard, it’s just I’m very sensitive and I get taken for a ride, nothing ever goes right, every time it’s the same – like with men. What is it with men? I mean, I don’t have a problem with men or anything. I love men. I’ve been to bed with seventy-eight of them, I counted, so obviously there’s not a problem or anything, it’s just he didn’t even apologise or anything and how can he say on the phone he doesn’t want to see me any more? I mean, why now? Why couldn’t he have waited? I don’t know what to do, why does it always go wrong? I don’t want to be on my own, I’m sick of people saying I’ll be better off on my own, I’m not that sort of person, I can’t do it. I did everything for him, I was patient and all the things you’re supposed to be and people kept saying don’t accept this from him, don’t accept that, like, you know, when he stayed out all night, not very often, I mean once or twice, and everyone said tell him to fuck off, but how could I because what if he did? Because they all do, everyone I’ve ever met does, they all disappear and I don’t know if it’s me or what. I don’t want to be on my own, I can’t stand it, I know it’s supposed to great but I don’t think it is. I can’t help it, it’s no good pretending, it’s fucking lonely and I can’t bear it.


Well I don’t know, it’s getting me down a bit now this. I mean it’s been three months. I never thought we’d last out. I mean I was never very physical, you know, didn’t even like Postman’s knock when I was a kid or going on the hobby-horse in the playground, but I think I’m starting to feel a bit frustrated now. You know this morning I was reaching for something on the top shelf in the kitchen and I was leaning up against the washing machine it started going spin dry and all the vibrations went through me and it got me – Well I don’t know how to say really, I mean, I thought, ooh that’s nice and I just sort of stayed there and kept it on fast hot wash and spin. Well, then there was a knock at the door and I knew it was the Co-op dairy for his money, and well me legs were all shakin’ and that and you know I told you about him, him with the red ‘air and the moustache, the really ‘andsome one that looks like Jess Conrad, you know the one that keeps smiling at me – he’s just got divorced you know by the way. Well, I went to the door and I felt like I was in a dream, I was all twitchy and, well, hot and shaky and I opened the door and, ooh I feel stupid. Well, it was the other one, his little bandy mate with the squint and no teeth, so I just burst out crying and said “No yoghurt on Saturday” and ran back in.


By Peter Shaffer

Look doctor, you don’t have to live with this. Alan is one patient to you: one out of many. He’s my son. I lie awake every night thinking about it. Frank lies there beside me. I can hear him. None of us sleeps all night. You come to us and say who forbids television? Who does what behind whose back? – as if we’re criminals. Let me tell you something. We’re not criminals. We’ve done nothing wrong. We loved Alan. We gave him the best love we could. All right, we quarreled sometimes – all parents quarrel – we always make it up. My husband is a good man. He’s an upright man, religion or no religion. He cares for his home, for the world, and for his boy. Alan had love and care and treats, and as much fun as any boy in the world. I know about loveless homes: I was a teacher. Our home was not loveless. I know about privacy too – not invading a child’s privacy. All right, Frank may be at fault there – he digs into him too much – but nothing in excess. He’s not a bully…no, doctor. Whatever’s happened has happened because of Alan. Alan is himself. Every soul is itself. If you added everything we ever did to him, from his first day on earth to this, you wouldn’t find out why he did this terrible thing – because that’s him: not just all of our things added up. Do you understand what I’m saying? I want you to understand, because I lie awake and awake thinking it out, and I want you to know that I deny it absolutely what he’s doing now, staring at me, attacking me for what he’s done, for what he is! You’ve got your words, and I‘ve got mine. You call it a complex, I suppose. But if you knew God, doctor, you would know about the Devil. You’d know the Devil isn’t made by what mummy says and daddy says. The Devil’s there. It’s an old fashioned word, but a true thing…I’ll go. What I did in there was inexcusable.I only know he was my little Alan, and then the Devil came.


by John Osborne

It doesn't matter! I was wrong, I was wrong! I don't want to be neutral, I don't want to be a saint. I want to be a lost cause. I want to be corrupt and futile! Don't you understand? It's gone! It's gone! That - that helpless human being inside my body. I thought it was so safe, and secure in there. Nothing could take it from me. It was mine, my responsibility. But it's lost. All I wanted was to die. I never knew what it was like. I didn't know it could be like that! I was in pain, and all I could think of was you, and what I'd lost. I thought: if only - if only he could see me now, so stupid, and ugly and ridiculous. That is what he's been longing for me to feel. This is what he wants to splash about in! I'm in the fire, and I'm burning, and all I want to do is die! It's cost him his child, and any others I might have had! But what does it matter - this is what he wanted from me! Don't you see! I'm in the mud at last! I'm grovelling! I'm crawling! Oh, God!

Completely Fecking See-Through

by Francesca Beard

Look at that cow, on that hill. All the others are by the fence, and he’s just there, hanging out by himself. Why? That’s cool. If I were a cow, I’d stand on top of that hill. I bet you get a great view up there. You know just before, I heard all these cows mooing, but really loud, I mean they were bellowing and I thought shit, I wonder if they’re being slaughtered. You know, you go into Burger King and your Happy Meal all comes in this neat little wrapper and you never have to think about some poor cow screaming its tits off in a shed. And I imagined men in green wellies with electric cattle-prods, sticking them up the arS%@ of those poor cows – ’cause that’s what I think about the countryside – it’s a nasty violent place where stuff goes on that you wouldn’t want to know about, stuff that’s hidden away in all this open space. Mind you it’s nice to have open space around. In London, there’s no space it’s all bought up and scrawled on. See, to me, that’s nature, that hill. It just Is There. So real. No one owns it. (Beat) Except, actually, some fucker does probably own it.


By Dennis Kelly

I’m going. I’m out of here, I’m gone, I’m, I’m, this is it. I’m running away, Phil. (Phil says nothing). Where am I going? I dunno. Wherever the universe decides that I should be. It’s a big world, Phil, a lot bigger than you, it’s a lot bigger than you and me, lot bigger than all this, these people, sitting here, a lot bigger, a lot bigger.
(Pause. Phil starts to butter his waffle).

Don’t. No words. There’s no point, so... what’s the point? “Why are you going? Is it me, is it us, is it what we’ve done, is it what we’re becoming, why, Lea, why, is it me, is it the impossibility of ever saying exactly what you mean?” There’s no point, Phil. So don’t even try. I’m outta here. I’m gone. I am a part of history, I’m on a jet plane, I’m moving, I’m discovering, I’m, I’m, sayonara baby, sayonara Phil and hello discovery and, yeah, don’t try and stop me, because, because, exit stage left Lea, right now. Right now.(Phil stops buttering the waffle. Opens the jam. Starts putting on a thin layer of jam on the waffle).Right now. Right now, Phil, right, fucking...I mean it! I really, really...
(Pause. Phil continues with his waffle).
You’re not going to stop me, are you? You’re not even thinking of stopping me. You’re not even thinking of thinking of stopping me. The only thing in your brain at the moment is that waffle. Your brain is entirely waffle, single-mindedly waffle and maybe a bit of jam, I don’t know how you do it. I admire you so much.
(Phil decides that the waffle needs more jam. Lea sags. She drops her suitcase and sits with Phil).
Did you see Jan at Adam’s memorial? Floods of tears. It was wonderful, everyone felt wonderful, I felt terrible of course, but everyone felt wonderful. It’s incredible. The change. This place. You’re a miracle-worker. Everyone’s happy. You know that? You notice that?

Last Easter

by Bryony Lavery

Fecking Dead Loss Boyfriend Howie continued to be dead.The second year of anybody’s death
is like . . .
okay, the joke’s over give me a ring drop by run into me in fecking Covent GardenAlright, we’ve had all the Drama
The Funeral the Ash-Scattering . . . Now, come round let’s go out for a drink I’ve so much to tell you . . . Your funeral for one . . . You’ll never guess who turned up! That choreographer bitch from Chester you said you never slept with! Pinned her in a corner, your dad’s best malt. Well . . . Who’s a liar? Chester. Derby. And Liverpool! And after all the fecking whining about me and that Holby City lighting cameraman! But a nano-second after the thought comes the other thought . . . oh yes feck!. . . you took that big pile of pills! Mr Fecking History! I wake up I think where are you Then I remember oh yes dead God, I hate fecking Dead People! June, you have to fucking promise not to come back and fecking haunt me . . . Love and Money

Get Free Updates

Find out about our up and coming shows, audition opportunities and much more.
Thank you for subscribing. Look out for our next Newsletter soon.