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Simon Clifford


saint_stevo
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Maybe the thread title could be changed to "The works of Beckett (and their relationships with Sounthampton Football Club)". That way we could keep the thread on track and it would be more interesting than Simon Clifford.

 

I can imagine Skacel talking to John over their lack of involvement in first team affairs:

 

Skacel:

We were respectable in those days. Now it's too late. They wouldn't even let us up. (Estragon tears at his boot.) What are you doing?

John:

Taking off my boot. Did that never happen to you?

Skacel:

Boots must be taken off every day, I'm tired telling you that. Why don't you listen to me?

John:

(feebly). Help me!

Skacel:

It hurts?

John:

(angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!

Skacel:

(angrily). No one ever suffers but you. I don't count. I'd like to hear what you'd say if you had what I have.

John:

It hurts?

Skacel:

(angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!

John:

(pointing). You might button it all the same.

Ckacel:

(stooping). True. (He buttons his fly.) Never neglect the little things of life.

John:

What do you expect, you always wait till the last moment.

Skacel:

(musingly). The last moment . . . (He meditates.) Hope deferred maketh the something sick, who said that?

John:

Why don't you help me?

Skacel:

Sometimes I feel it coming all the same. Then I go all queer. (He takes off his hat, peers inside it, feels about inside it, shakes it, puts it on again.) How shall I say? Relieved and at the same time . . . (he searches for the word) . . . appalled. (With emphasis.) AP-PALLED. (He takes off his hat again, peers inside it.) Funny. (He knocks on the crown as though to dislodge a foreign body, peers into it again, puts it on again.) Nothing to be done. (Estragon with a supreme effort succeeds in pulling off his boot. He peers inside it, feels about inside it, turns it upside down, shakes it, looks on the ground to see if anything has fallen out, finds nothing, feels inside it again, staring sightlessly before him.) Well?

John:

Nothing.

Skacel:

Show me.

John:

There's nothing to show.

Skacel:

Try and put it on again.

John:

(examining his foot). I'll air it for a bit.

Skacel:

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet. (He takes off his hat again, peers inside it, feels about inside it, knocks on the crown, blows into it, puts it on again.) This is getting alarming. (Silence. Vladimir deep in thought, Estragon pulling at his toes.) One of the thieves was saved. (Pause.) It's a reasonable percentage. (Pause.) Gogo.

John:

What?

Skacel:

Suppose we repented.

John:

Repented what?

Skacel:

Oh . . . (He reflects.) We wouldn't have to go into the details.

John:

Our being born?

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Maybe the thread title could be changed to "The works of Beckett (and their relationships with Sounthampton Football Club)". That way we could keep the thread on track and it would be more interesting than Simon Clifford.

 

I can imagine Skacel talking to John over their lack of involvement in first team affairs:

 

Skacel:

We were respectable in those days. Now it's too late. They wouldn't even let us up. (Estragon tears at his boot.) What are you doing?

John:

Taking off my boot. Did that never happen to you?

Skacel:

Boots must be taken off every day, I'm tired telling you that. Why don't you listen to me?

John:

(feebly). Help me!

Skacel:

It hurts?

John:

(angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!

Skacel:

(angrily). No one ever suffers but you. I don't count. I'd like to hear what you'd say if you had what I have.

John:

It hurts?

Skacel:

(angrily). Hurts! He wants to know if it hurts!

John:

(pointing). You might button it all the same.

Ckacel:

(stooping). True. (He buttons his fly.) Never neglect the little things of life.

John:

What do you expect, you always wait till the last moment.

Skacel:

(musingly). The last moment . . . (He meditates.) Hope deferred maketh the something sick, who said that?

John:

Why don't you help me?

Skacel:

Sometimes I feel it coming all the same. Then I go all queer. (He takes off his hat, peers inside it, feels about inside it, shakes it, puts it on again.) How shall I say? Relieved and at the same time . . . (he searches for the word) . . . appalled. (With emphasis.) AP-PALLED. (He takes off his hat again, peers inside it.) Funny. (He knocks on the crown as though to dislodge a foreign body, peers into it again, puts it on again.) Nothing to be done. (Estragon with a supreme effort succeeds in pulling off his boot. He peers inside it, feels about inside it, turns it upside down, shakes it, looks on the ground to see if anything has fallen out, finds nothing, feels inside it again, staring sightlessly before him.) Well?

John:

Nothing.

Skacel:

Show me.

John:

There's nothing to show.

Skacel:

Try and put it on again.

John:

(examining his foot). I'll air it for a bit.

Skacel:

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the faults of his feet. (He takes off his hat again, peers inside it, feels about inside it, knocks on the crown, blows into it, puts it on again.) This is getting alarming. (Silence. Vladimir deep in thought, Estragon pulling at his toes.) One of the thieves was saved. (Pause.) It's a reasonable percentage. (Pause.) Gogo.

John:

What?

Skacel:

Suppose we repented.

John:

Repented what?

Skacel:

Oh . . . (He reflects.) We wouldn't have to go into the details.

John:

Our being born?

 

i dont think that i have ever seen so much effort for so little reward

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