WAITING FOR LAWRO

A tragicomedy in two acts

 By Daniel Fitzsimmons

Gary

Alan

Martin

Garth

A Boy

ACT ONE

A swish BBC Studio. A tree.

Evening.

Gary, a velveteen owl-man, sits on a chair, pulling desperately at the Quasar boot on one of his feet. He gives up.

Enter Alan, a Frankenstein Scot.

Gary tries to haul the Quasar off with both hands. He gives up.

GARY

Nothing to be done.

ALAN

Strength. Power. Will to win. (He broods, nay smirks. Looks around at Gary). There you are again.

GARY

Nothing to be done.

ALAN

Aye. You’ve got to go long. Empty. Clear your lines. Nothing is something.

GARY

You’re saying nothing.

ALAN

Which is technically something. That’s the truth. I speak the truth. Technique. Agility. Control.

GARY

It’s nothing.

ALAN

Ergo, something. Pace. Ability. Something.

 

Gary waits for elaboration. None is forthcoming.

 

GARY

Come on, Jocky, return the ball can’t you? Once in a while?

ALAN

It’s bleak, isn’t it.

GARY

Desperate.

ALAN

I want to go. And if a player wants to go there’s no use keeping him there.

GARY

We cannot. We’ve to wait for Lawro.

ALAN

Is this the right place? Is it even the right day?

GARY

What day is it?

ALAN

I don’t know. What day did we say?

GARY

It doesn’t matter. He’s always around.

ALAN

Who?

GARY

Lawro.

ALAN

He’s everywhere.

GARY

Always. Forever.

ALAN

But not here. Not now.

GARY

(Furious) Why not!? Where could he be?

ALAN

We’re to wait by that tree.

 

Alan goes to stand by the tree.

 

ALAN

Bark. Leaves. Twigs.

GARY

What is he going to do when he arrives?

ALAN

Who?

GARY

Lawro.

ALAN

Oh… nothing very definite.

 

Alan and Gary stare off into nothingness. Occasionally disturbed by slick motion graphics and unimportant statistics.

 

GARY

Norwich have only won three league games against West Brom in their last ten visits stretching back to 1954.

ALAN

What?

GARY

Facts Alan. They don’t concern you.

 

Enter Garth, a pompous squashed man.

A terrible cry from the wings heralds the arrival of his slave Martin, a quasi-sentient gonk with a rope around his neck.

Alan and Gary snap to attention.

 

GARY

Are you Lawro?

GARTH

I beg your pardon?

GARY

We’re waiting for Lawro.

ALAN

Are you he?

GARTH

(Irked) How dare you suggest such a thing. I know of no Lawro. For I am Garth. Garth the omniscient. What I should be able to elucidate in small words and sentences I drag out interminably and sometimes vehemently so as to bore, surprise, amuse and generally frustrate all I survey, much like this pretentious piece I seem to be passing through. This approach has got me far in life. Further than your… Lawro. Has it not slave?

 

Martin starts to cry.

Gary, feeling sorry for Martin, approaches with a handkerchief.

Martin, in response whacks a terrible two-footed reducer on Gary. Gary moans. He gets up, and Martin jumps into his face, arms aloft, screaming.

Garth pulls Martin’s rope.

 

GARY

No Lawro then?

ALAN

No Lawro. Space. Movement. Vision. But no Lawro.

GARTH

Gentlemen, I must go. I will allow you to spend time in my studio whilst I am gone to ramble and pontificate with the National Treasure that is John Motson whither we will drive each other to distraction about the crippling minutiae of Steven Gerrard’s body language. I pray John won’t get on his vaguely fascist high horse again. Can I leave you with a parting gift in exchange for your exulted company during this rest stop?

GARY

We’d like some money.

ALAN

Shut up. We don’t need any extra money.

 

Alan burns a fifty pound note to a crisp.

 

GARY

Very well. We’d like Martin to have a think.

ALAN

And a dance.

 

Martin goes to jump into Gary’s face again.

Gary cuts him off.

 

GARY

He’s already had his dance.

 

Martin stands and begins to speak in rambling stream-of-conscience babble.

Garth leaves.

 

MARTIN

He’s a really good player but the referees are giving fouls for the merest of contact these days and I don’t like to see that I wouldn’t stand a chance in this day and age proper centre half me look at Cristiano Ronaldo there he’s got a leap on him hasn’t he like an NFL basketball player –

 

From nowhere, a Mitre Delta wallops Martin full in the face and knocks him into the wings.

 

Alan resumes standing by the tree.

Gary pulls his boot off finally. He looks inside of it.

 

GARY

Nothing to be done.

ALAN

Nobody comes, nobody goes.

 

A Boy enters.

 

ALAN

Are you he?

BOY

Who?

GARY

Lawro.

BOY

Yes.

 

Gary and Alan look at each other in amazement.

 

BOY

Not.

 

Gary and Alan slump in disappointment.

 

BOY

Ah. Disappointment.

ALAN

(Nods) Torpor. Depression. Nihilism.

BOY

That is what I bring. For I am a messenger of Lawro. And he will not be coming this evening. Something which (in a sarcastic tone) he is really gutted about.

GARY

When is he coming?

BOY

Surely tomorrow.

ALAN

Did you come yesterday?

 

The Boy says nothing. Knowingly.

The Boy prepares to leave.

 

GARY

What’s he like?

BOY

Who?

GARY

(Exasperated) Lawro!

BOY

Well… have you got wifi?

 

Gary nods, unsure.

 

BOY

Go onto theanfieldwrap.com. Find their section ‘Lawro’. They say it far better than I ever could.

 

The Boy leaves.

 

Alan and Gary sit and ponder.

 

GARY

We should leave.

ALAN

Yes.

GARY

(Points at the audience) So should they.

 

Alan turns to face the audience.

 

ALAN

(Looking out, centre stage) You should change the channel. But you won’t, will you?

GARY

They never will.

ALAN

We should go.

GARY

We should.

 

They do not move.

 

CURTAIN

 

Consent management powered by Real Cookie Banner