SANDY: They banned that name. They’re called Scallywags now.
JOHN: Can I take you out for a meal? To say thank you?
SANDY: Lunch with a corny, cute convict?
JOHN: You think I’m cute?
SANDY: I think you’re corny.
JOHN: I thought you thought I was an overactor.
SANDY: Jim Carrey’s an overactor. But he’s still hot.
JOHN: So you think I’m hot?
SANDY: I don’t even know you. I better head back to work.
JOHN: Hey, thanks.
SANDY: For what?
JOHN: For sticking up for me. No-one ever sticks up for me.
SANDY: I’m sorry about your job. What are you gonna do for work now?
JOHN: I’ve got an audition for ‘Bondi Parade’. It’s the best show ever, hey?
SANDY: You’re weird.
JOHN: Bondi’s the best.
SANDY: Are you from Bondi?
JOHN: No.
SANDY: Where are you from?
SCENE FIVE
BRONWYN enters and sets up a phone camera to film herself. She presses record.
BRONWYN: Hi, Olivia. It’s me, again. Bronwyn Green. I hope you’ve been getting these video posts on your fanpage. I wish you’d write back to me. I’ve been in the front row of all of your concerts in Sydney since the seventies. The merchandise at your last one was just divine. I treasure my O.N.J. clock. It’s broken, but reminds me of you: timeless. Olivia. You’re the most beautiful person on this planet. Those black pants, O.N.J.! So svelte. I wish I had a figure like yours. My caesareans ruined my waistline. My son still lives at home. My daughter’s ten, going on thirty. I named her after you, remember? My son’s still unmarried. Such a black sheep. Olivia, when you performed ‘I Love a Sunburnt Country’ at Expo 88, I had a transcendental experience. I felt so … connected to you. You look so good for your age, Olivia. I hate the way I look! I wish I looked like you. I dyed my hair blonde. Like yours. If I win the lottery, I’ll get plastic surgery to look like you. Then maybe you’ll respond to me. Let me know when you’re in Sydney next and I’ll take you for lunch at Greystanes RSL. I love you, Olivia. You’ve saved me in so many ways. I cried for months when I—
Pause.
When I get migraines, I cry. Your music soothes me. You’d be the best grand-MILF. I just wish you’d respond to my posts. Why won’t you acknowledge me? Why are you cruel?! You said on ‘Sixty Minutes’ that you loved interacting with your fans. Well, I’m your biggest fan and you’re a liar, Olivia!
She calms down. She presses stop on her phone.
Damn. I can’t post this. Erase. Erase. Delete. Start again.
She presses record again.
Hi, Olivia.
SCENE SIX
DANNO enters. JOHN takes his convict outfit off to reveal shorts and a hypercolour t-shirt. He wraps himself in his towel.
DANNO: How you going to get discovered, Johnno, if you come to the beach and just sit in the shade?
JOHN: Danno, do you think it’d be a tremendous act of imagination to cast me in ‘Bondi Parade’?
DANNO: Not at all. When I’m a famous director I’ll cast you in everything.
JOHN: Thanks, man.
DANNO: Dude, since you and Janelle hate Valentine’s Day, wanna hang out with me?
JOHN: My audition’s on the fifteenth. I have to prep.
DANNO: It’s just that it’s Ginger Pride Day and I was—
JOHN: There’s a Ginger Pride Day? That’s hilarious.
DANNO: Why’s it hilarious? It’s a big global issue now. Redheads get together around the world to march against the adversity we face.
JOHN: I always bashed anyone that teased you, Danno.
DANNO: Will you come with me?
JOHN: Sure! We can go op-shopping and I’ll dress up.
DANNO: It’s actually more of a dress down thing.
JOHN: What do you mean?
DANNO: Have you ever heard of Guillaume Guillotine? He’s a French photographer that travels the world and takes protest photos of large groups of people in major cities naked. He’s doing one at Waterloo on V Day for Ginger Pride.
JOHN: Really?
DANNO: We should go and maybe get nude together. You know, for art.
JOHN: I’m into it. Can’t stay out too late though,
DANNO: I’m so glad that your agent’s finally getting you auditions.
JOHN: She’s useless. She’s a retired porn actress that makes spiritual erotica.
DANNO: I admire her work.
JOHN: The last audition she wanted me to go for was a film called Deepak Throat.
Suddenly ANIL DIXIT THE THIRD, a tall Indian director, enters. He has a strong Indian accent.
ANIL: Ladies and gentlemen. Please don’t be deterred, I am Anil Dixit … the Third.
DANNO: Right on time.
ANIL: Actually, according to Standard Indian Time, I’m quite early.
DANNO: Mr Dixit. Thank you for squeezing us in. I know you must have a busy schedule.
ANIL: Schedule? I’ve heard of this useless foreign concept. We Indians prefer organised chaos. [To an assistant] Parmeet, we don’t need a permit to shoot. I’m not afraid of the local council. Get the cameras ready.
JOHN: Danno—
ANIL: You, you must be Daniel. Now where is this southern star you said I must meet? You got two minutes, my Maggi noodles are cooking.
DANNO: Call me Danno. Anil—this is John Green, your southern star. John—this is—
ANIL: Mera naam Anil Dixit the Third. But don’t be deterred.
JOHN: I am deterred. I’m outta here.
DANNO: John, he’s here shooting a movie.
JOHN: I don’t care.
DANNO: My online Pakistani pen pal told me about it.
JOHN: You have a pen pal?
DANNO: Yeah. We play online Scrabble. They speak better English than us, you know.
JOHN: As if.
DANNO: His name’s Hasif.
ANIL: Hasif, I have time for all of this tamasha! Eh, Baloo, where are my Pali-G biscuits? I can’t eat these crappy Scallywags. My glutes are grandiose. From today I go gluten-free. So Bondi.
DANNO: Johnny, Mr Dixit is a big deal, and he’s looking for new talent. I thought I’d surprise you and arrange a meeting.
JOHN: This is bullshit, Danno.
DANNO: I thought you’d be excited.
ANIL: Kya bakwas hai? I don’t have time for this. Kanti, no need for continuity, let’s continue the shoot. Bunty, what do you mean you can’t swim!? I couldn’t care less, you’re not in Kerala anymore! Put the shark fin back on, get back in the water. No floaties. You know my policy—no H and S! You’re supposed to be a great white, not a wussy wobbygong. Aunty! The koala. Why is he sleeping? We’re not paying him to sleep. Wake him up. Sachit—the kangaroo? He’s jumping, he’s supposed to hop. Hoppity-hop! … Teach him the difference. Hey, Preeti—where are my bikini babes! I need babes! Ooh, not them—we need white girls, with pale translucent skin like a jellyfish, not a glowing orange. Manoj, something’s missing. Where’s Ashok? Go get Ashok out of his trailer. Wake him gently, you must get Ashok, not him. Quickly, everyone, the light is fading. Sunny, get the fake sun on standby. Ooh, Ashok! You look so dark and roasted! I asked you to slip, slop, slap! Make-up! Wake up! Baby powder for Ashok’s face. Think, guys, think! Put on some zinc! Okay, places. Quiet on set. Take two. Lifesavers, go! Lift him. Higher. Hold that move. Keep lifting. Lift him higher. Arrey, Ashok—go, son, go. Dancers, pop your pelvis, while you lift him, pop, pop, pop. And move to the water. Leap over the sandcastle. Pop your pelvis. Hold him. Kanti—keep your head in the water! Kanti, hold the shark fin in position. Eh, Speedo boys. Speed up or Kanti will catch you. Don’t step on the bluebottle—careful with Ashok. Hold him! Hold him! Aunty! Bunty! Kanti! Oh, my gods! Ashok! You dropped him, you mutha chodes! Ashok. What’s happened to you, my friend? Have you broken your patella? Oh, my gods. Arrey bap re bap! Manoj?! How will we manoj? Uncle!
His ankle! I think he’s broken his ankle, Uncle, and his patella. He can’t shoot the rest of the film. My Bollywood classic has turned into a Greek tragedy! Uncle, call an ambulance. Tell them Ashok Patel has broken his patella! How can we ever replace you? Ashok. It’s such a shock. Uncle. Aunty. Bunty. Kanti. Vaat ve’ll do?
ANIL sees JOHN.
Oh, my gods. Is it my lucky day? Have the clouds parted and sent me a beige angel? Come here, Southern Star. Aaja. Come come.
DANNO pushes JOHN forward.
You, you showed me no manners before. But manners have no place in India. We are shooting a Bollywood blockbuster with the Ashok Patel …
DANNO: Pretty awesome, hey Johnny?
ANIL It’s called Bindhi Beach: Bollywood to Bondi! I’m India’s number one director. And you, you must replace Patel while Patel’s patella gets a replacement. What is your good name?
JOHN: John Green.
ANIL: No, not your stage name. Aapka asli naam. Your real name?
JOHN: That is my real name.
ANIL: What sort of a name is that? Harshit! Teach him the curry-ography! Hardik! Make up his make-up. Kanti! Can’t you hear me? Put some ice on Patel’s patella!
JOHN: Thank you, but I’m not interested in your Bhindi Beach film.
DANNO: What?
ANIL: You’re not?
Pause.
JOHN: No. I’m an Aussie.
ANIL: Do you know what you’re giving up? Look at me. In my turd eye. You’re turning down the opportunity to star in the most important movie made for the biggest film industry in the world?
JOHN: Sorry—it’s just not me. It’s not what I want. It’s … not who I am.
ANIL: Tell me then, Mr Green … who are you?
SCENE SEVEN
BRONWYN joins JANELLE BURNS shopping. JANELLE has a broad Australian accent. HEATHER, a sales assistant, enters. She has a sort of British accent and works as a receptionist.
BRONWYN: How cute are these baby booties, Janelle? Should we buy them with the matching bib?
JANELLE: I prefer the clothes at the baby warehouse in Castle Hill.
BRONWYN: Trust me. City stores have better quality clothes. It’s worth the RiverCat ride in. It’s a lovely day out.
JANELLE: I wanna get that Bee Gees for Babies CD. Hmm. Mr Squiggle versus The Wiggles. Old school, new school or ‘Play School’. Oh, I get so anxious every time I leave the Hills District.
BRONWYN: Janelle, let me buy them all for you. To celebrate your business award and our future grandchild.
JANELLE breaks down.
Don’t be upset, Janelle. It’s a wonderful achievement that Burn Baby Burn’s been nominated for an award. It’s the best barbecue warehouse in Western Sydney. You’ll win the award for sure.
JANELLE: It’s not that, Mrs G. Of course I’m gonna win the award. It’s just …
JANELLE sighs.
BRONWYN: What’s the matter, Janelle?
JANELLE: I don’t know, I’ve just been totes emosh these last few weeks, Mrs G.
BRONWYN: You have? Have you been feeling sick too? In the morning?
JANELLE: No. Thank the Good Lord. I don’t want a baby right now, Mrs G.
BRONWYN: Of course you do, Janelle.
JANELLE: Burn Baby Burn’s my baby. I don’t have time for an immaculate conception.
BRONWYN: You can run a business and have a child too, darling, look at Lisa Kenny!
JANELLE: You mean Lisa Curry-Kenny. She got married.
BRONWYN: Well, she’ll always be Lisa Kenny to me.
JANELLE: But she was born a Curry.
Pause.
Mrs G, Johnny would freak out if he knew we were scouting different baby stores every week. I’ve stashed all of the accessories at the back of the warehouse. I hate keeping secrets.
BRONWYN: Me too.
JANELLE: Mum and Dad are putting pressure on me. Worse still, Chillsong are threatening to cancel my Gold Membership. I don’t want to blow this up into biblical proportions, but it’s just so wrong to be having sex out of wedlock.
BRONWYN: There’s nothing wrong with it, Janelle.
JANELLE: There is. I’m on a highway to hell.
BRONWYN: Is John still insisting on wearing condoms?
JANELLE: Yes.
BRONWYN: Idiot.
JANELLE: That’s it, Mrs G. No more condoms.
BRONWYN: Wonderful.
JANELLE: No, Mrs G. No more sex before marriage. I think this baby planning is messing with my morals. It’s making me schizo. I love sex. I really do. I wanna have it all the time now, but I know it’s wrong. I’m a sinner and a saint, Mrs G.
BRONWYN: Janelle, open your base chakra. Let your kundalini run free.
JANELLE: My Chillsong sisters are calling me Mary Magdelene.
BRONWYN: Marriage is overrated, honey. Olivia Newton-John’s marriage to Matt Lattanzi failed and her second partner got lost at sea.
JANELLE: Mrs G, I just want a white wedding.
BRONWYN: Janelle, I just want a w— I just want a baby.
JANELLE: Sometimes I wish I lived in a country which was free enough to force us into an arranged marriage.
BRONWYN: What rot.
JANELLE: Look, Mrs G, I appreciate your coaching, but I’m gonna do this the traditional way. I’m gonna force John to marry me. I’ll propose to him on the awards night. It’ll be perfect. Then we can have a baby, not a bastard.
BRONWYN: Darling, let’s be realistic. You and John have only been together for three years. Modern men take an average of six to eight years before they’ll even think about proposing. Ring and dress shopping takes another year. Finding a venue, inviting the guests. It’ll take another decade before you become a mum. Your eggs are on a timer, darling. If you don’t turn them over easy, they could get scrambled.
JANELLE: But you had Livvy when you were forty-five.
BRONWYN: Ah yes, but not every woman has been blessed with a wondrous womb like mine.
HEATHER: Excuse me. Can I help you? Bronwyn, it is you!
BRONWYN: Janelle—to the RiverCat.
HEATHER: I haven’t seen you for nearly thirty years! Heather Diaz. You look so different now.
BRONWYN: I’m sorry. I don’t … know you.
HEATHER: It’s me. Heather. My uncle sponsored you when you—
BRONWYN: I think we should go, Janelle.
JANELLE: What about the bibs and the booties and the Bee Gees?
HEATHER: Bronwyn. My daughter was the flower girl at your wedding.
BRONWYN: I didn’t have a flower girl at my wedding.
HEATHER: How could you not remember? My husband gave you free counselling when you were depressed. I helped you paint over the graffiti at the front of your house the night after the Olivia concert. How could you forget that?
BRONWYN: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
HEATHER: I’ll never forget that night … Do you still own that silver sweatband?
BRONWYN: I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.
HEATHER: It’s me. Heather. We went to accent correction classes in the seventies.
BRONWYN and JANELLE start to exit.
BRONWYN: Come on, Janelle. Let’s go. We’ll be late for the beautician. You must be curated for consummation.
HEATHER exits.
JANELLE: Okay. I’ll try for a few more weeks. I’ll prick holes in the condoms again, but if it doesn’t work this time—you need to arrange the marriage. Deal or no deal?
BRONWYN: Deal.
SCENE EIGHT
French photographer, GUILLAUME GUILLOTINE, enters. DANNO and JOHN enter. JOHN is dressed as Ginger Meggs in a red wig.
GUILLAUME: Bonjour, tout le monde. Bienvenue to Waterloo. Today, I’m proud to say we have hundreds of beautiful, sexy, tête rouge flambée. So I need to split you like carrot tops julienne. A gauche les Gingers, à droit les rangas, et au centre … tout les Fanta Pants.
He organises the audience.
JOHN: Do you think this guy w
ill mind if I just take my Fanta pants off and keep my shirt on?
DANNO: You’re still embarrassed about your pepperoni tits, aren’t ya?
JOHN: Shut up, Danno. Not everyone has perfect pink nipples like you do.
DANNO: I’d prefer to have your big brown areolae any day.
JOHN: I still think you should have dressed as Annie.
DANNO: You should have dressed as Annie.
JOHN: I’m happier as Ginger Meggs.
DANNO: You know they made a black remake of Annie.
JOHN: What’s that got to do with me?
DANNO: It’s a great film.
JOHN: Blannie? Sounds ridiculous.
DANNO: It was an important cultural statement.
JOHN: I can’t believe you asked that guy to wash the whiteface off.
DANNO: It’s offensive.
JOHN: It was just a tribute to Ronald McDonald. Red-dy to red-gister?
DANNO: Stop making ginger jokes, man. Only redheads can make those jokes.
GUILLAUME: Okay, les fire-crotch, les ginger minges, les rusty crutches, les strawberry blondes et les blueys … your backsides will be the backdrop. Bald butts to the back, and to the front, the hairier derrières.
SANDY enters, dressed as Ginger Spice in a British flag dress and wearing a red wig.
Ah oui, Ginger Spice, you come with me. You will be my cause célèbre! All the other tributes—Nicole Kidman, Ed Sheeran, Little Mermaid—to the front!
JOHN: Look, Princess Fiona from Shrek is wearing greenface! Is that wrong too?
DANNO: You’re such a hypocrite. You’ll celebrate Ginger Pride Day, but you refuse to come to Parramasala Festival with me … I created a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you, and you turned your back on Dixit.
JOHN: I’m just not into Dixit.
DANNO: You support Anglophilia, but reject any other culture. You’re completely colour blind, but not in a healthy way. You’re nothing more than a chromophobe!
JOHN: I am not a chromophobe.
DANNO: Worst of all, you dare to bludgeon Blannie!
JOHN: Blannie is a terrible concept. Annie is, was and always will be a redhead. By supporting Blannie, you’re turning on your own kind. It’s a bashable offence around here.
DANNO: You need to wake up.
JOHN: You need to wake up. You’re happy to come to Ginger Pride, but when I suggested we go to Mardi Gras together—computer says, ‘No!’
Lighten Up Page 2