Van Badham - Banging Denmark

Photo by Chelsea Thistlewaite VAN BADHAM is an internationally award-winning writer, activist and occasional broadcaster, whose essays, fiction and criticism have appeared in numerous publications and whose plays have been staged all over the world. She began a weekly column in Guardian Australia in 2013 and appears regularly on television. Her published books include the plays Muff and The Bull, The Moon and the Coronet of Stars, the YA novel Burnt Snow, and several essays and poetry. She tweets at @vanbadham. Van Badham may have one of the biggest and quickest minds in Australia, but its her huge heart that takes the stage. Not unlike Van, Banging Denmark is a play that speaks its mind with edge, wit and heart.

By the end of it you cant help but feel enraged, endeared and ultimately, empowered. Van Badham has created the ultimate political rom-com, a battle of the sexes thats an entertaining aphrodisiac. Nakkiah Lui BANGING DENMARK A PLAY BY VAN BADHAM A NewSouth bookPublished by NewSouth Publishing University of New South Wales Press Ltd University of New South Wales Sydney NSW 2052 AUSTRALIA newsouthpublishing.com Van Badham 2019 First published 2019 This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act , no part of this book may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publisher.
Any performance or public reading of Banging Denmark is forbidden unless a licence has been received from the author or authors agent. The purchase of this book in no way gives the purchaser the right to perform the play in public, whether by means of a stage production or reading.

All applications for public performance should be addressed to Shanahan, PO Box 1509, Darlinghurst, NSW 1300, Australia; tel: +61 2 8202 1800; email: ISBN: 9781742236452 (paperback) 9781742244624 (ebook) 9781742249117 (ePDF) A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia Design Josephine Pajor-Markus Original playscript series cover design Sandy Cull, www.sandycull.com Cover image Shutterstock This book is printed on paper using fibre supplied from plantation or sustainably managed forests.
CONTENTS INTRODUCTION VAN BADHAM He was a guy I knew from the independent theatre scene in Melbourne. He was younger than me, and while I didnt find him attractive, I could appreciate he was a pretty boy. Pale eyes shone from underneath the costumes he used to gad about in fake eyelashes, sometimes, which is why Im remembering his eyes. Facepaint, on other nights. There were the occasional gold boots hed wear to parties, leather coats that swept the floor behind him. At a writers festival, he turned up in a kilt.

To a boozy reception in Melbourne Town Hall, he wore a black feather boa. A friend of mine was fucking him when he and I met occasionally, and not exclusively, as hed explained to her with emphasis and precision, although she didnt date anyone else. I hadnt been in town long, but soon found myself acquainted with a broader community of women who admitted to sleeping with him; when they were drunk, when they were lonely, when they were bored. He had funny tattoos on his chest and his belly, they told me. It was all a bit of fun, theyd say, the seduction, the sex but this was always described in a slightly acrid tone, as if the receipt to their entertainment was a resentment that would always linger. More than once, I found myself in conversations about him that cut themselves short, unsaid words that hung in the air.

Was he a rapist? No, said one of these girls one night, half to me, half to her wineglass, just a bit of a dick. The metaphor seemed to encapsulate him his reputation with girls, their use for him, the kind of theatre he made which was narcissistic and often naked, always well-lit and it was rumoured funded by his wealthy parents. Yes, he was pretty but Id watch him at parties, deep in conversation with girl after girl who already knew he had nothing to say, his pale eyes lit with the reflection of their upturned attention, his hand on their shoulder, nodding, not smiling, his knee brushing their knee, and Id wonder; just why is this prick so damn popular? At a party south of the river, the memory burns of him leaning on his hand against a refrigerator in the kitchen, a young woman between him and the icebox. He wore a leather jacket that night, no shirt at all the cartoon tattoos on his belly, just like his attentions, quite visible. The two left together in minutes. It was joked about in the kitchen afterwards, by the boys and the girls who remained.

I think thats a record, someone said to their watch, and everyone laughed. We congregated at a pub north of the river the very next night, and, there he turned up, still shirtless from the night before, his eyes ringed with dark liner. The group sat a wooden picnic table in the beer garden, and amidst beers and jokes and cigarettes, I realised there was already another young woman under the crook of his arm. Again, he left early, and not alone. What is it about?! I exclaimed, once hed departed. The boys at the table shrugged, smiled and changed the conversation.

He was still fucking my friend not exclusively, and some weeks later when an impromptu gathering unfurled in my flat after a show one night. Twenty people crammed my studio with wine and pizza, and he was there. So was she, my friend, with her feet hurting, and a vague medical problem, and a repeated suggestion to him that he accompany her back to her hotel, which he ignored. Finally, she left, in emergency slippers, her high heels in a plastic bag. He was holding court at the dining room table when the front door closed behind her, telling stories without punchlines, batting his eyes and chuckling at punchlines provided by others. He wore a military beret that night, and a t-shirt with razored sleeves.

He gestured that I should sit next to him. He poured me a wine. Perhaps he had forgotten that I do not drink. He bumped his shoulder into mine a couple of times. He squeezed my knee. And then he broke from the tables conversation, looked into my eyes, and placed a hand on my thigh and he said: Your makeup looks really pretty tonight.

Did it take you a long time to do? Im not here to give you tips, love, I said, blowing a kiss, and flicked his hand from my leg. I thought of my friend, her painful feet, her lonely hotel room. I stood up. I want to go to bed, I told the party, so yall have to leave. I made sure when I said the word yall, I looked at him. Then I physically pushed people out of my flat.

He seemed to lurk around the hallway, but I just shut the door. A few days later, I was in Hobart, and in a lazy stroll around Salamanca Bay, ran into a Melbourne friend. Shed missed the latest party, if not others she was one of the gentlemans former lovers. Shed been away from Melbourne for a while, and asked for gossip. We got coffee. I talked about the party in my flat.

I think he was trying to pick me up, I said, incredulous, of him. Did he try a line? He told me my makeup looked pretty and he asked you how long that it took, she said, with a smile the same flavour as her milkless coffee. She grunted. He was picking you up, straight outta the book. Friend, that boy was running game. My eyes were spoon-wide as she talked me through new meanings of old words.