Spin
AFTER a few minutes of pretending to admire the paintings on the wall of the HR reception office, Mark went back to the front desk. “So,” he said.
“I’m sure it will only be a moment,” said Cynthia, without looking away from her computer screen.
“I really like your artwork,” Mark said.
“Thanks.” She smiled politely towards her screen while continuing to type. Then her computer pinged. “Robert can see you now,” she said. “You can just walk in.”
Robert, the head of HR, watched Mark enter with a big, sunny smile. “Mark,” he said, “it’s so good to see you! You’re looking remarkably well today.”
“Thanks,” said Mark. “You’re looking very well, too.”
“I just can’t believe how terrific you look,” said Robert. “Do you know what? I’m going to do a selfie of us both.”
“Erm…” muttered Mark, as Robert jumped up from his chair and ran around the desk.
“Smile!” said Robert, as he put his arm around Mark’s shoulders and held out his smartphone in front of them.
“Look at that! Gorgeous! I’m going to put that on our Twitter feed,” said Robert.
“Wow. Brilliant,” said Mark. “But I’m thinking you didn’t call me in today to take a selfie.”
“God, you’re clever,” said Robert. “That’s why I can see really big things for you in the future.”
“You can? Yes, I mean, that’s what hard work and commitment are for.”
“Take a seat, Mark,” said Robert, gesturing to a chair. “I can’t tell you how impressed we are with your forward-thinking, proactive contribution to our company. You’ve entered the left lane and left everyone behind you.”
“Well, thanks…”
“That why I feel very strongly about your future. I know you’re going to do great things. And in order to facilitate you, I’m going to see to it that you have a lot more flexibility. We’re ensuring that you aren’t hampered by your current position so that you can feel free to pursue new goals.”
“Erm…”
“I’m delighted to be able to launch you into phase two of your career. This is a proud day for us both, Mark. Once you’ve been cut loose, I can see you rocketing into action.”
“Erm, hold on, Robert. Are you saying I’m being made redundant?”
“Yes, Mark, we’re promoting you to customer. I am so happy to be able to deliver a solution that will bring us both the greatest profits.”
“But… but…,” Mark stammered. “But, Robert, you know my wife just had twins…”
“Double return,” said Robert. “God, Mark, you’re an action man everywhere.”
“Robert, you’ve just made me unemployed.”
“You’ll be skiing off-piste.”
“Dammit, Robert, are you listening to me?”
“This won’t be taking effect until the end of the month,” said Robert. “Oh, sorry. I meant the end of the week. Strap it on for a while, see what you think.”
“Strap this on, you bastard!” Mark leapt out of his chair and threw a hard punch into Robert’s handsome square jaw. Mark expected (and half-hoped) that Robert would punch him back. Instead, Robert’s head spun around full circle and snapped back into place, then he fell sideways down on the desk, eyes open, still smiling.
“Holy shit,” said Mark as Robert convulsed on his desk.
Cynthia entered. “Oh, dear.” She walked over to her boss, who lay in spasms on his desk. “He’s late for his check up.”
“Is he OK?” said Mark. “I’m really sorry, I… I don’t know what happened.”
“You punched him. They all do.” Cynthia placed her hand on Robert’s neck to check his pulse. But she didn’t. Instead, she lifted open a flap of skin. Beneath it, little lights flashed. “He badly needs to be reprogrammed.” She pressed a few switches inside Robert’s neck, and his body slumped before coming back into life. “There. I’ve rebooted him.”
“So…” Mark stuttered. “Wait. So Robert is actually Robot?”
“Yes, that’s right. It works much better that way,” said Cynthia, checking her watch. “He’ll be up and running in about 90 seconds.”
“I always thought he seemed a bit unnatural.”
“It’s much better not to get too personally involved,” said Cynthia.
“So,” said Mark, “are you a robot, too?”
A voice came from Robot’s mouth. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “Look at that gorgeous arse. I’d like to slap it.”
“Oh, dear,” said Cynthia, reaching back for Robot’s neck controls. “This often happens. The experimental 1950s vocabulary tends to assert itself after a violent trauma. I’ll just boot him up again.” She operated the switches, and Robot slumped once more.
“Oh, by the way,” she said, without looking up from Robot. “Your redundancy papers are on my desk. Would you pick them up on your way out? Don’t forget to sign for them.”
A version of this story originally appeared in the German magazine Spotlight
Oh holy night
“NAME?”
“Dennis. Dennis Mobray.”
“Age?”
“Six.”
The woman at the desk looked up at him over her glasses. “OK. Slightly bolshy sense of humour. I’ll make a note of that in the character profile. A lot of people don’t like that. But some families do, actually.” She scribbled something lower down on the page. “So, let’s start again. Age?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Thank you. Now, your original family configuration.”
“Is that really relevant?”
“Dennis,” the woman sighed. “We are trying to achieve the best fit possible for you and your host family. Of course the makeup of your original family is relevant in order to assure the success of your holiday visit.”
“But, Shirley,” he started.
‘Christmas was torture. I just want to watch boxsets on TV’
“I’m sorry, my name isn’t Shirley.”
“But the nameplate – ”
“This isn’t my desk. I’m filling in while Ms Nott is away.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. My appointment was with Shirley Nott. Anyway, what I wanted to say was that I don’t want to spend Christmas with anybody. I hated my family. Really, I hated them. Christmas was torture every year. So I don’t want to go anywhere. I just want to sit in front of my TV and watch box sets. Is that so bad?”
The woman sighed again and put down her pencil. “Dennis,” she said, “I understand your anxiety about the situation, but really, there’s no cause for concern. Since the government decided to do something about the increase in suicide during the holiday period by ensuring that everyone had a family to go to, it’s out job to ensure that everyone is paired with just the right family for them. So, if you’ll just co-operate now, we’ll do everything in our power to make your holiday period a happy one.”
“But…” Dennis struggled. “I’m sorry, what is your name then?”
She looked back down at the files on her desk and continued to go through them. “Holly Green.”
Dennis flinched, but continued. “Thanks, Holly. It’s like this. I just don’t want to be with anyone on Christmas Day.”
“Of course you do,” said Holly as she finished with one file and began to study the next. “Everyone wants to be with someone at Christmas. So, let’s see… “I’ve a nice family here, just perfect for you. It’s a lovely elderly couple with two adult children, both with spouses of their own, and the son has two sons of his own who just love to play football. You can all go outside and kick the ball about while gran and the women prepare the meal. The grandad got a replacement hip recently, so he just stays quiet in front of the telly watching the Queen’s speech and Dad’s Army and drinking cider.”
“Isn’t that a bit sexist? That’s exactly what contributed to my mother dying so young.”
‘He doesn’t swear quite as much, will have the four children, his mum, auntie and cats’
“Oh, dear, didn’t I tell you to explain your family circumstances? Let’s try another… Ah, here’s one. Not the same ages, but the father is a foodie, a big Gordon Ramsay fan, so he’ll be preparing a holiday meal special. It does says here he doesn’t swear quite as much as he used to, you’ll be glad to hear. He’s divorced, so I’m afraid his wife won’t be there, but he’ll have the four children, ages three to 12, his mum and his auntie. You don’t mind cats, do you?”
Dennis slapped his hands on the table. “Listen, this is ridiculous. I don’t want to spend the holidays with any family. Nobody. Not even the Holy Family. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry, Dennis, but there’s nothing I can do. It’s regulation. So let me see if I can find another home for you … ”
“No, Holly, that’s it. I don’t want another family. Where is Shirley, anyway? Can I just again when she’s back?”
Holly sighed again. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Dennis. She won’t be back in the office until after Christmas.”
“Oh,” said Dennis. “I’m sorry, is she ill?”
“No. Well, prevention, really. She does go a bit funny this time of year, so the doctors have recommended she travel somewhere where they don’t celebrate Christmas. So she’s in Jaipur until after New Year’s.”
“Oh, good God,” Dennis groaned.
“Oh, that’s just given me the most wonderful idea!” said Holly. “You can go to her family. Her parents have just got back together again and her brother will be on parole starting next week. They’ve actually requested someone open and friendly …”
Dennis stared at her, open-mouthed, as she got out the file. “It says here … oh, by the way, do you know how to disarm someone with a knife?”
A version of this story originally appeared in the German magazine Spotlight
All aboard
Actors Karen McCartney, Lisa Lambe and Sophie Jo Wasson in Connolly Station, Dublin. Photo: Ros Kavanagh
A new musical theatre piece takes a trip to the past on Irish feminists’ Contraceptive Train
GREAT to be in Dublin again during the festival season. During the five-odd weeks of the Fringe and Dublin Theatre Festival in September/October, Dublin city is a magic place. An invitation to be a participant in a panel discussion, Found in Translation, had me once again strolling the streets of city centre in the early evening twilight, enjoying the atmosphere – somehow both easy-going and fizzing with excitement, as only Dublin can do.
The timing was just right to see a new show by my former colleagues at Rough Magic: The Train. Just a decade after his fabulous Improbable Frequency – about a treacherous, but very improbable collusion between espionage and physics during the “Emergency” (the Irish expression for the second world war) – playwright Arthur Riordan turned his genius rhyming wit to another historical event: the Contraceptive Train.
In 1971, when Irish feminists were looking for a new stunt after their headline-making protest in front of Mansion House (the residence of Dublin’s Lord Mayor), they came up with the scheme to flout the ban on birth control in Ireland by taking the train to Belfast and tooling themselves up with contraceptives. They planned to bring back the Pill, coils, diaphragms, whatever they could get their hands on, and enter the Republic, where contraception was still illegal.
The train on 27 May 1971 carried 47 members of the Irish Women’s Liberation Movement, who arranged to meet at a certain chemists for the big purchase. Unfortunately, living in a country where contraception was illegal meant that information on contraception was also thin on the ground, and the women were dismayed to find out you needed a prescription for anything other than condoms or spermicidal jelly. Ingenuity saved the day, though. As well as the jelly, they bought aspirin, reasoning that the customs officials in Dublin’s Connolly Station would never know the difference.
They thought they might well get arrested when they disembarked with their loot. Instead, hundreds of people welcomed them with placards, shouting, “Let them through! Let them through!” The women marched up defiantly with their contraband contraceptives – some swallowing their “pill”, some flaunting their jelly – and the duty officers were pink with embarrassment. It was a blow struck for women’s rights and their freedom and control over their bodies and lives.
Contraceptives only became legally available in Ireland in 1980 – due in great part to barrister Mary Robinson’s strident campaign for legalisation. (In 1971, Robinson was a Senator; she became the first woman president of the Republic of Ireland in 1990, and took office as UN High Commissioner for Human Rights in 1992.) The battle still wages over abortion, with many campaigners, including Amnesty International, pushing to change the law and have it decriminalised. Thousands of women domiciled in Ireland currently travel to the UK for terminations every year rather than face a 14-year prison sentence.
Homing in on the housing shortage
WE’VE all experienced the desperation of trying to find accommodation in a new city. When places are barely big enough to fit the amount of money you’d need to rent them , it’s time for a rethink. Especially if you’re an arriving theatre director looking for a channel to vent your flat-hunting frustration.
Not sure if the new artistic director of the Münchner Kammerspiele, Matthias Lilienthal, has dossed in any of them, but the pre-premiere piece of his first year at the theatre has sprung up across Munich like mushrooms – sometimes looking a bit like mushrooms as well. The project, Shabby Shabby , points a finger at the dismal – and worsening – housing situation in many trendy cities.
The idea isn’t entirely original – Lilienthal presented it before at the Theater der Welt festival in Mannheim – but it feels pertinent and pressing in Munich, a wealthy city with a dire housing problem. Looking for accommodation here is like attending a casting call on Broadway, and a friend of mine swears she’s seen money quietly changing hands between desperate, hopeful tenants and a smug estate agents.
After receiving more than 250 designs from all over the world, the MK chose 23 to develop. The projects were built at various locations around the inner city, and people can book a night in any of them – with the unfortunate exception of one, called Yellow Submarine, that burned down, quite likely due to arson. As a result, they’ve stepped up security, and the remaining dwellings can be rented out until 13 October. If you’ve ever attempted to book a bed in Munich during the Oktoberfest, you’ll appreciate how useful extra shelter can be.
I took a tour of the Shabby Shabby apartments last weekend. Some were clearly cosier than others, but apart from being sturdy enough to spend the night in, they took camping to a new level, a bit like being able to bed down in a cross between a museum installation and a Druid dolmen.
The structures are only temporary – they need to be dismantled and taken down after the 13th. Do they highlight the need for more – and more affordable – housing in Munich? Do they project a sense of what it’s like to have to huddle in a doorway or under a bridge for warmth and shelter? The recent arrival of thousands of refugees amplifies the significance of having to sleep in makeshift – and torchable – accommodation. But most Shabby Shabby punters can go back to their cosy homes the next evening. Hopefully with a heightened awareness of how lucky it is to have a secure roof over your head, and how vital it is to find ways to provide the same for less fortunate members of society.
Best thing about it Reliving that tickle of excitement from childhood when you got to spend the night in a treehouse in your best mate’s back garden
Worst thing about it Obviously, the name – another example of English used in a German context to sound cool, and achieving the opposite.
The dark side
“OH GOD,” cried the man on the park bench, and buried his face in his hands. “God, what am I doing here? What’s the point? What does it all mean?”
The pinstripe-suited woman on the other side of the bench glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Then she wrapped her sandwich, stood up and walked away briskly.
“God, why am I such a loser?” he moaned. “And now I’m even talking to myself.”
“Not entirely,” said a warm and friendly voice. The man looked back at the place where the woman was just sitting. Someone else had plonked himself down. A rather dapper looking man wearing a black leather jacket like his, black jeans like his and black trainers like his. Only the other man’s things looked new. And posh. Like they came from Hugo Boss. Not Lidl, like his.
“Em, do you mind?” said the first man. “I’m having a very private nervous breakdown here.”
“Don’t let me interrupt,” said the dapper, Hugo Boss man. “Only you’re why I’m here.”
“Look mate, I’m not your type. Go hit on someone at the Four Seasons bar.”
“No, I think you’re exactly my type. I’ve been waiting for you for a while.”
‘I deal in the strongest drug of all’
The man looked at Hugo Boss man. Calling the police was not an option. He got up.
“Ah, you don’t want to leave just yet,” said dapper man.
“What do you want?” said Lidl man, suspicious.
“You.” Dapper man smiled. It was an oily smile.
“I told you, I’m not your type.”
“Oh, but you are. You see – sit down,” dapper man said as the other man reconsidered and prepared to make a break for it. “I won’t beat about the bush. I’m Mephistopheles, and I’ve – ”
“You’re messin’ with me?”
“Mephistopheles. Old Nick. I’ve come to help you achieve your wildest dreams.”
“Fuck off.”
“No, really. I can get you anything you want.”
“How about some coke?”
Mephistopheles – formerly dapper man – pulled a small plastic bag out of his smart leather jacket and held it out to his new friend.
“Well, em,” said the first man, pocketing the bag, “actually, I meant Coke. Like in the can? I’m dying of thirst.”
“Don’t go dying on me just yet. We have to seal our bargain first.”
“No bargains.”
Mephistopheles snapped his fingers, then bought a can of Coke from a vendor who instantly walked by them on the path.
“Wouldn’t you like the power to summon everything you want to yourself at any moment? For the rest of your life?”
“Are you a dealer?” asked the first man.
“Of a kind. I deal in the strongest drug of all.”
“Meths? Plutonium?”
“Those are human drugs.”
“Oh, and yours are from Mars, are they?”
“I told you, I’m Mephistopheles. My drug is the human soul. You’re not using yours, and I could certainly make use of it, so how about it? Do we have a deal?”
The first man stared at him, and took a sip of his Coke. “So, you could get me clothes like yours?”
“Better,” grinned Mephistopheles. “Take a look at yourself.”
The first man looked, and widened his eyes. He was now wearing the finest leather, the smartest jeans, the coolest trainers money could buy. Except he hadn’t bought them.
‘That’s like Mary Poppins’s fuckin’ carpet bag’
“Shite!” He took another swig of Coke. “How about a whiskey?”
Mephistopheles pulled a bottle of aged single malt out of his jacket.
“That jacket is like Mary Poppins’s fuckin’ carpet bag.”
“Good old Mary,” said Mephistopheles. “We dated for a while. Then I dumped her for Margaret Thatcher.”
“Sweet,” said the first man.
“So, do we have a deal, Johann?” said Mephistopheles.
“Who?”
“Do we have a deal, Johann?”
“Sorry, my name’s not Owen,” said the first man.
“Yes it is. Johann Faust.”
“No, I’m Nigel. Nigel McPartland. Or Nidge. And Feckface. But at least that’s better than, what was it? Owen Faust? Loser name.”
“But what are you doing here? I’m supposed to encounter Johann Faust on this bench. I’ve been waiting for… well, for ages,” spluttered Mephistopheles, who no longer looked so dapper.
Nidge reached into his new jacket. “Right, it’s still here. This the lad you’re looking for?” He pulled a credit card out of the wallet he retrieved and showed it to Mephistopheles.
“Yes, that’s him. What are you doing with his wallet?”
“I flattened the fucker and stole his car. I was just feeling bad about it when you turned up. I thought you were the fuzz. Nice to see you’re not, though.”
Mephistopheles stroked his chin thoughtfully, and a dapper pointy beard appeared on it beneath his fingers. “Hmmmm.”
“So, deal still on?” asked Nidge. He spat into the palm of his right hand and held it out.
Mephistopheles looked at him. Then he grinned, spat in his hand and grasped Nidge’s. “I think this will turn out just fine,” he said.
A version of this story originally appeared in the German magazine Spotlight
Lola Montez: a superstar ‘not even Madonna can reach’
ONCE upon a time a fine, spirited wee girl was born to her Irish mother and Scottish father in 1821 in Grange, Co Sligo. Or perhaps she was placed in the cradle by the fairies, because little Eliza Rosanna Gilbert grew up to change her name and nationality several times and travel the four corners of the world in search of excitement and adventure. When she died, at the early age of 40, the world knew her better as Lola Montez, the Spanish dancer. As such, apart from gaining notoriety in Europe, Asia, Australia and North America, she became a countess in the central European country of Bavaria, started a revolution there and toppled its government three times.
“Next to Queen Victoria, Lola was the most famous woman in the world,” asserts German director Jürgen Kuttner, whose new production – with co-director Tom Kühnel – of the musical Lola Montez, by Peter Kreuder and Maurus Pacher, has just premiered at the Cuvilliés Theatre in Munich, Germany. “She was a superstar not even someone like Madonna could reach.”
Already a legend during her lifetime, Lola thrust herself into a whirlwind of adventure, excess and scandal that would make a society reporter blush. At 16, Gilbert eloped with a British lieutenant, but the couple separated shortly thereafter. She relaunched herself under her new identity as Spanish dancer Lola Montez and travelled across Europe, trailing scandals in her wake. In 1846, she arrived in Munich, the capital of the kingdom of Bavaria (now a state in the Federal Republic of Germany).
She sought an audience with King Ludwig I and, when he asked if her chest dimensions were real, ripped open her bodice to prove it. The 60-year-old king became besotted with her. He had her portrait painted and placed in his “Gallery of Beauty”. When Lola, reviled by the populace and government alike, wished for more power and acceptance, Ludwig made her first a Bavarian citizen, then the Countess of Landsfeld, an imaginary place. To accommodate her wishes, he dissolved and reformed his government twice. Ludwig presented her with a palace in a chic city-centre location and showered her with money. But rather than keep her head down to avoid further antagonizing an irate and begrudging population, she wore black and smoked openly in the streets – both taboos – while walking her enormous Great Dane.
Eventually finding herself at the centre of public hostility and warring student fraternities, Lola convinced King Ludwig to close Munich’s university. The tumult, fed by the widespread revolutionary spirit of 1848, became so great that Ludwig had to abdicate in favour of his son Maximilian to save the monarchy. Lola fled the country. The cigarette she smoked and flung away when she escaped was scooped up by an eccentric count and is still on display in the Munich City Museum.
Kuttner and Kühnel take the originally twee musical and mash it up with references from popular culture to present Lola Montez, one-time Irish rose, as a sexy, street-smart heroine and role model for contemporary women. “She was the first femme fatale,” Kuttner enthuses. “She broke through the limits of what was possible for women. She was a template for Marlene Dietrich. The first vamp.” Kühnel chimes in: “The first Lola.”
The production conceptualises her as going through a “time-tunnel from the future”, explains Kuttner. “She lands in this bucolic, idyllic Munich where men drink beer and women are at home raising the children, and she blasts into it all like a UFO.”
As an operetta, Lola Montez owes more to music video culture than to Gilbert and Sullivan. The stage Lola has cloned herself – there are two of them, portrayed by Katrin Röver and Genija Rykova – and she/they act/s like a raven-haired Marilyn Monroe playing Lisbeth Salander in a Lady Gaga music video. Lola-Lola belt out sections of the S.C.U.M. Manifesto by Valerie Solanas (the radical feminist who shot Andy Warhol) and ‘I am a Cliché’ by the 1970s punk band X-Ray Spex.
A German pop culture personality in his own right, Kuttner appears on stage as ringmaster with an energetic, mischievous philosophical rant. The Munich-based post-punk singer and musician Pollyester (alias Polina Lapkovskaja) and her band perform electronic/percussive musical backing for the actors. A nod to Montez’s time in India, the two Lolas deliver the song ‘You are my Chicken Fry’ by Bappi Lahiri, with a portly, wigged King Ludwig I jiggling and undulating his rotund figure to the Bollywood hit.
In Kuttner and Kühnel’s production, these slices of pop culture collide with slapstick and Bavarian kitsch, delivered by a lavishly costumed cast. A chamber quartet on stage provides a distressed version of the original music. It’s an uneven success, requiring a bit of the discipline that Lola presumably never had, but still remains an entertaining, hallucinogenic night out. And it presents an Irish adventuress as a feminist prototype for contemporary women while having breathless fun at the same time. If she were alive today, Lola would probably be thrilled with it.
Published in The Irish Times on 4 February 2013: Sligo girl reviled by Bavaria: the musical