First published in 2020 by Oberon Books Ltd
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Copyright Teddy Lamb, 2020
Teddy Lamb is hereby identified as author of this play in accordance with
Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The author has asserted their moral rights.
All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to Berlin Associates, 7 Tyers Gate, London SE1 3HX ().
No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the authors prior written consent.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or binding or by any means (print, electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
PB ISBN: 9781786828613
E ISBN: 9781786828606
Cover image: Bronwen Sharp
Printed and bound in the UK
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Printed on FSC accredited paper
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Acknowledgements
I could write for days about all the friends, family and queer community members who empowered me to write this play, but in reality its all down to one woman.
Jordan.
I love you. You believed in me before I believed in myself. This play and all its future incarnations are for you. You deserved to be in print long before I Im sorry it took me so long. I love you.
Since U Been Gone was originally produced by The Queer House and HighTide and made with support from English National Opera, the Gate and Pegasus Theatre. It was funded by Arts Council England.
Creative Team
| Teddy Lamb | Writer & Performer |
| Nicol Parkinson | Musician & Performer |
| Billy Barrett | Director |
| E Howe | Assistant Director |
| Pete Butler | Set Design |
| Lydia Birgani | Costume Design |
| Angela Clerkin | Dramaturg |
| Ameena Hamid | Tour Producer |
Notes
Since U Been Gone is performed by one person, with music composed and performed live by a musician.
SCENE ONE
A person speaks; they are not a cis white man.
Heres the thing, we started off friends. It was cool but it was all pretend.
Its 4.10 a.m. on New Years Day. 4.20 might be more appropriate considering my history, but it would also be total bullshit.
Im writing this now because youre not here. This will be the first year Ive lived through without you in it. Im in bed in a pair of pink and black briefs. The glitter I Vaselined to my eyes drops onto the keyboard each time I blink, but Im too tired-slash-lazy to actually take it off. Words on a screen make me feel safer. The black and white totality, and the existence of a delete button. I want to write something that looks like a Winnie the Pooh film. You know when it starts and the screen looks like a story book? He clambers up the letters, pulling himself up on an A, swinging from a J, settling comfortably inside the letter O to ask where the honey is before climbing up over the words altogether and walking away.
I want to write it all down, climb up over it and get to the other side. Physically and emotionally.
Im writing this down because my voice isnt working. My fingers can type, but when I open my mouth to talk, I cant. But Im not writing anymore. If I was writing this down it would be a book and books dont live on stage like you do. So lets bring this to life:
To begin with, I turn back time. I reverse it to that odd period, the noughties, when the world once blind to its neighbours learnt their lives online, and the youth read of social history and civil rights and memes. Were on a carousel.
Were actually in a rehearsal room called Carousel in a tiny theatre on the outskirts of Warwickshire, but this way is far more theatrical. So were thirteen and on a carousel and this is the first time we meet. Youre the girl sat in the corner of the room scribbling away in a book and Im the boy holding court in the centre of the room as usual, like the queen I was destined to become Im so not a queen, am I? Not yet.
This is a remembering play about youand me. And being a remembering play, there are moving lights, it is sometimes overly sentimental, and it is not realistic.
In memory everything happens to music. That explains the musician on stage with me. It also goes some way towards explaining the photo in my hand. I have only one photo in my hand and this photo represents the one of us that will no longer be in the running towards becoming Americas Next Top Model
You said that this was love at first sight, remember? I had to explain that love at first sight has to happen at first sight, thats why its called love at first sight.
Initially you remind me of Hermia from A Midsummer Nights Dream. Or is it Helena? The short one. The one from the tea towels and mugs in the RSC gift shop. Though she be but little, she is fierce. Youre a force to be reckoned with, brutally cutting yet incredibly loyal though I dont know this yet.
First sight was catching each others eye from across the rehearsal room. If that was love, then why did I think you hated me? You thought I was just a posh gay boy, which I guess was like two thirds right? Why didnt we talk more? Why didnt we have sleepovers or sit at the same table at lunch?
We were rehearsing for a play. Both of us had tiny parts you were one of about thirty narrators, and I was a pirate who died in my very first scene. So whilst everyone else set sail for Treasure Island, we sat in opposite corners of the rehearsal room being as Emo as we possibly could.
I remember my costume included some cowboy boots three sizes too big for me that my mum had picked up from a car boot sale, and yours had the skeleton of a hoop skirt that meant you couldnt quite fit through the rehearsal room door.
Despite not hanging out, we were both writers back then. We both scribbled our imagined futures onto lined pages and ripped them out when they got too real. We wrote about being outsiders, about being bullied, about unrequited crushes. At the end of the day we swapped notebooks and read each others words without talking. Your notebook was plain black, mine had a Marilyn Monroe print on it. Maybe it was love at first read? Doesnt quite have the same ring to it!
I found the notebook the other day, actually. I opened it on a random page, and just like an episode of Charmed it was exactly where I needed the pages to open. This is a real poem about you from when I was thirteen. I mean honestly, if this is what made you love me then I seriously question your taste:
