by Tanya Ronder
Tanya Ronder
FUCK THE
POLAR BEARS
NICK HERN BOOKS
London
www.nickhernbooks.co.uk
Contents
Title Page
Original Production
‘The Age of Loneliness is Killing Us’
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Dedication
Characters
Fuck the Polar Bears
About the Author
Copyright and Performing Rights Information
Fuck the Polar Bears was first performed at the Bush Theatre, London, on 11 September 2015. The cast was as follows:
GORDON Andrew Whipp
SERENA Susan Stanley
BLUNDHILDE Salóme R Gunnarsdóttir
CLARENCE Jon Foster
RACHEL Bella Padden / Eléa Vicas
Director Caroline Byrne
Designer Chiara Stephenson
Design Associate Nina Patel-Grainger
Lighting Designer Tim Deiling
Sound Designer Josh Anio Grigg
Assistant Director Mark-Stuart Flynn
The Age of Loneliness is Killing Us
George Monbiot
The age we are entering, in which we exist apart, is unlike any that has gone before. This is the Age of Loneliness. We were social creatures from the start, mammalian bees, who depended entirely on each other. We are shaped, to a greater extent than almost any other species, by contact with others. But now, social isolation is as potent a cause of early death as smoking 15 cigarettes a day; loneliness, research suggests, is twice as deadly as obesity. Dementia, high blood pressure, alcoholism and accidents – all these, like depression, paranoia, anxiety and suicide, become more prevalent when connections are cut. We cannot cope alone. Yet what counts now is to win. The rest is collateral damage.
British children no longer aspire to be train drivers or nurses –more than a fifth say they ‘just want to be rich’: wealth and fame are the sole ambitions of 40% of those surveyed. A government study in June revealed that Britain is the loneliness capital of Europe. Who can be surprised, when everywhere we are urged to fight like stray dogs over a dustbin?
Our most cutting insult is ‘loser’. We no longer talk about people. Now we call them individuals. Competition drives growth, but growth no longer makes us wealthier. Figures published this week show that, while the income of company directors has risen by more than a fifth, wages for the workforce as a whole have fallen in real terms over the past year. The bosses earn – sorry, I mean take – 120 times more than the average full-time worker. (In 2000, it was 47 times.)
Yet, a survey by Boston College of people with an average net worth of $78m found that they too were assailed by anxiety, dissatisfaction and loneliness. Many of them reported feeling financially insecure: to reach safe ground, they believed, they would need, on average, about 25% more money.
And for this, we have ripped the natural world apart, degraded our conditions of life, surrendered our freedoms and prospects of contentment to a compulsive, atomising, joyless hedonism, in which, having consumed all else, we start to prey upon ourselves. For this, we have destroyed the essence of humanity: our connectedness.
This is an extract of an article originally published by the Guardian in October 2014. Reproduced by kind permission of the author.
www.guardian.co.uk
www.monbiot.com
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Madani Younis and his team at the Bush for their priceless parenting of a young idea – they are truly a writer’s theatre.
Grateful thanks to those who stoked the fire along the way – Sophie Wu, Monica Dolan, Mark Lockyer, Kobna Holdbrook-Smith, Karen Cogan, Michael Shaeffer, Richard Hawley, Lyndsey Marshal, Katie West, Danny Webb, Isabella Laughland, Jessica Sian, Chook Sibtain and Roger Michell.
And for reading – Darragh, Jules, Ruth, Rose, Louis, Deborah, Rufus, Emma Jane and Nick Hern.
To crucial and open conversations regarding the facts – Juliet Davenport, Lavan Rubasingam and Alastair Harper, thank you; thanks also to Tipping Point, and for the inspiration of writers Naomi Klein, George Monbiot and Elizabeth Kolbert.
And my deep thanks to Caroline Byrne and her team, who engaged with such forensic precision and huge open hearts with everything that the piece asks.
T.R.
Most of us can read the writing on the wall;
we just assume it’s addressed to someone else.
Ivern Ball
To the shared art of keepy-uppy
Characters
GORDON, Communications Director of a big energy company
SERENA, his wife
BLUNDHILDE, their au pair
RACHEL, their young daughter
CLARENCE, Gordon’s brother
This ebook was created before the end of rehearsals and so may differ slightly from the play as performed.
ACT ONE
Scene One
Friday evening
A smooth car pulls up on gravel. The central hallway/open living area of an ostentatious house in North London. Large enough to house a backless divan/daybed, all the action takes place in this space. We hear the front door close, the inner door open, a slight curse, then GORDON arrives with a door handle in his hand. He is laden – doorknob, briefcase, pizzas, off-licence bag. SERENA calls.
SERENA (off). Is that you?
GORDON (calls back). Hello, lollipop.
SERENA (off). Hi, I’m just…
GORDON. Don’t worry. Rache?
(Calls.) Rachel?
SERENA (off). She’s at Helen’s.
SERENA dashes in with a girl’s bag. These two are down-to-earth people come to money late, not posh at all. SERENA, younger than GORDON, has a strong Irish or regional accent, GORDON is from London or the regions. Their conversation is fast and pinched.
You’re late.
He puts down his stuff to help.
GORDON. What can I do?
SERENA. Did that just – ?
GORDON. Clarence can –
SERENA. Yep.
Beat.
You got my text?
GORDON. What did he say?
SERENA. That we’re being gazumped, in his agent way…
GORDON. Don’t panic, Serena…
SERENA. It’s reasonable panic, Gordon, I don’t know why you’re not.
GORDON. It’s my job not to.
SERENA. This is home, Gord, not work, your serenity’s all wrong here.
GORDON. Can’t help it, when stress comes up I just say no.
SERENA. Whereas I actually make huge efforts to feel uptight all the time.
Beat.
Did you get it?
GORDON. I’ve come straight from a meet.
SERENA. Via Pizza Dome…
GORDON. With a pretty spectacular outcome.
SERENA. But no bonus.
GORDON. I didn’t want to ask for what is essentially a Christmas present in September.
They start talking over each other.
SERENA. Nearly October –
GORDON. You know what I’m saying –
SERENA. Why did you say you were going to, then?
GORDON. Because –
SERENA. You went this morning saying you would ask.
GORDON. Were there no alternative. A bonus is finite.
SERENA. I know it’s fucking finite – yes I know I swore, I’ll put a pound in the box –
GORDON. I’m getting you your house, my love –
SERENA. What if we get another offer, lose that buyer too, and it’s not my fucking house. (Swear box.) I know.
GORDON. Serena,
listen, I know it’s not in the bank –
SERENA. Which is where it needs to be –
GORDON. But, but it will be by Monday. Trust me, we’ll come in, bang, with anything they need, blow everything else out the water.
SERENA. How?
GORDON. I’m in a completely different scenario than I was twelve hours ago.
SERENA. Did you molest someone, you been arrested?
He appreciates her humour.
GORDON. What time are you leaving?
SERENA catches sight of the time.
SERENA. Oh God, where’s Blundhilde… (Calls off.) Blundhilde?
BLUNDHILDE replies from upstairs.
BLUNDHILDE (off). Coming!
GORDON. We’re safe, my sweetheart, trust me.
SERENA. Apart from having to find several million over the weekend.
GORDON. High streets are not the only option.
SERENA changes her mind, calls back up to BLUNDHILDE.
SERENA. In fact, not yet, don’t come down yet, five minutes, Blundhilde, okay? Blundhilde? Come down in five.
BLUNDHILDE (off). Okay, Serena!
SERENA (to GORDON). Hold there just one sec.
SERENA runs to the utility room, the sound of a tumble dryer opening.
(Off.) Shit.
The tumble dryer closes, starts up again. GORDON shouts through to her.
GORDON. What time are you back?
SERENA (off). Clarence is here later.
SERENA comes back in.
What’s the crux?
GORDON. Salary increase.
Beat.
Can we have coffee tomorrow?
SERENA. I’m not here tomorrow.
GORDON. Course.
SERENA. We could at midnight or dawn.
She dashes into an adjacent room.
A walk in the park is like some dream from the past.
She emerges with a brush.
I’m so crap, I always forget her hairbrush.
GORDON. D’you want some pizza before you go?
SERENA. Maybe, it’s just a bit…
She makes a face.
But, it’s Friday.
GORDON. Is that why you only have me on Fridays? Bit –
He returns the face.
SERENA. You can talk, Mr Distracted…
GORDON. I’m never not up for nookie.
SERENA. Huh.
GORDON. With my beautiful wife.
He approaches her.
SERENA. Not now, Gord, everyone’s… everything’s…
GORDON takes the pizzas and crosses to the kitchen.
I’ve just sorted in there.
He turns back.
GORDON. It’s why I got pizza instead of Chinese or…
SERENA. What flavour?
GORDON. Sloppy Giuseppe.
SERENA. How many?
GORDON. Six.
SERENA. Six?
GORDON. Plus…
He reveals the champagne, gets two flutes.
SERENA. What’s the increase?
He pops the cork.
GORDON. Substantial. I have to go against Wiggie but that’s not a problem, I can do that, I can do anything.
His confidence deflates SERENA. The upstairs toilet flushes. GORDON pours champagne.
SERENA. I’m not drinking.
GORDON. Why not?
SERENA. Driving.
GORDON. Course you are.
SERENA looks at her watch.
What do we have to do?
SERENA. ‘We’.
She says this almost to herself.
GORDON. Do you want me to get her?
SERENA. It’s fine, Blundhilde can go, they just eat so early in that house, as if I needed that detail. Do you know what Helen’s mum’s mother’s name is?
GORDON. No.
SERENA. Or that she has a colostomy bag?
GORDON. I didn’t, no. I thought you liked Helen’s mum.
SERENA. I do, but I don’t need to know where her mother hangs her…
SERENA puts toothbrushes in Ziploc plastic bags, etc.
GORDON. You’re plugged into the world, my love, which is a good thing.
SERENA. I’ve got the surface stuff covered, which was the height of my ambition…
GORDON. That’s why you’re doing your Body Balance, babe.
Eating pizza.
It’s like a working dinner.
SERENA. Fuck off, Gordon.
GORDON. I’m trying really hard here, Serena…
SERENA. Your work is awesome and complicated, so how is being home like work?
GORDON swallows his feelings, tries to calm her.
GORDON. I know it’s a pressured time. Moving house is –
SERENA. More stressful than divorce. I need the dryer to finish.
He doesn’t understand, she whispers fiercely.
Before Blundhilde comes down.
Beat.
Sorry for telling you to fuck off. I know. (Swear box.)
GORDON. Unusual response to being guaranteed the house of your dreams.
SERENA. Don’t talk guarantees. And it’s not for me we’re doing these things, it’s for us, isn’t it, you need it more than any of us.
GORDON. I want you to be happy.
SERENA. Do you know how lonely that makes me feel, you buying a house to cheer up miseryguts me.
GORDON. I’m not saying you’re miserable, I just want us to enjoy our lives.
SERENA. And so we should, lucky beggars, with our Sloppy Giuseppe and our champagne.
BLUNDHILDE comes downstairs.
GORDON. Evening, Blundhilde.
BLUNDHILDE. Hi.
GORDON. Would you like some pizza?
SERENA. Rache might want a slither in the car, actually, would you mind doing that, Blundhilde? There’s new foil in the kitchen.
BLUNDHILDE. Is that the tumble dryer?
SERENA. It’s just a really quick blast…
BLUNDHILDE. It was beautiful today –
SERENA. And there’s miles of line out there, I know.
BLUNDHILDE. You should have said, I would have hung it out for you.
SERENA. But I opted for the high-energy option, okay, is that okay?
Beat.
It’s her skull-and-crossbone pyjamas, I forgot to wash them earlier, she’s not seen her godmother since she gave them to her last Christmas.
BLUNDHILDE. Is everything all right, Serena?
SERENA. Fine, why?
BLUNDHILDE. Are you annoyed about something?
SERENA. Just knackered, Blundhilde. Why don’t you pop and get Rache, then we can head off.
BLUNDHILDE. Of course.
BLUNDHILDE gets out a reusable sandwich-wrap to put the pizza in.
Did you find Phoebe?
SERENA. No, that’s the other thing…
GORDON. Phoebe?
SERENA. Can’t find her.
GORDON. What do you mean you can’t find her?
SERENA. She’s disappeared.
Beat.
BLUNDHILDE breaks the moment to quietly ask.
BLUNDHILDE. Should I take some for you too, Serena?
SERENA. No, I’m fine. Is that your petite or your grande Snack-Taxi?
BLUNDHILDE. It’s the big one.
She packs the pizza away.
Okay, see you.
GORDON makes an effort to be friendly to make up for SERENA.
GORDON. See you soon, Blundhilde.
BLUNDHILDE leaves.
SERENA (speaks under her breath). I’m such a bitch.
GORDON. You’re not a bitch.
The front door slams.
SERENA. She winds me up.
GORDON. She’s great with Rache…
SERENA. I know, or I’d have sacked her by now!
Half beat.
They’re so damn rare, those houses, every day more people are asking, it’s still on all the websites, they won’t take it off.
GORDON. That’s why we’re going all out.
<
br /> SERENA. For me.
GORDON. For you, for me and for our beloved…
Beat. He can’t mention RACHEL in this sentence.
SERENA. Little girl. Do you know what a bridging loan costs?
GORDON. No more than we save from having Blundhilde instead of a nanny.
SERENA. A French woman from class is paying twenty-seven thousand a month, I’m not joking, show me a nanny who charges that.
GORDON. Thirty grand a month, Serena, will soon be an irrelevance to us.
Beat.
SERENA. You’re going to have to work even harder, come home even less.
GORDON. It’s what we want, isn’t it?
They move towards one another. SERENA sees his jacket.
SERENA. What’s that?
He hides the stain.
GORDON. I thought I’d got it off.
SERENA. Who threw eggs at you?
GORDON. Some anti-fracking munter.
SERENA. Again? Where?
GORDON. Westminster.
SERENA. Egg’s a monster to clean because it’s protein.
GORDON. I know.
SERENA. It clings.
GORDON. Don’t mention it to Rache.
SERENA. Blundhilde told me that when you get clothes home from the cleaners the chemicals linger in the house and penetrate your lungs.
GORDON. How should we get it off?
SERENA. I’ll take it to the cleaners on Monday. Did I leave a blue plastic bag in your car with Rachel’s Banana Guard in and a bottle of flaxseed oil?
GORDON. I love you, lollipop.
SERENA. Why? D’you expect no more of me than this?
GORDON. Than what?
SERENA. This piece-of-shit kind of life.
He exhales, drinks.
I can’t have sex now, Gordon, please don’t look disappointed.
Beat.
GORDON. Looking forward to your training?
SERENA. It couldn’t have fallen on a worse weekend, plus they’ll all be younger and fitter than me.
GORDON. They don’t come much fitter than you.
SERENA. You live in cuckoo land.
She goes off, the sound of the tumble dryer opening and slamming.
(Off.) They take for fucking ever, these dryers.
(Shouts through to GORDON.) Yes, the box, for God’s sakes don’t tell Rache.
She comes through.
Are you talking CEO, Gord?
Beat.
Honestly?
GORDON. Honestly.