Some Early Notes for Bolloxed

Over at my play blog, I just wrote about some early prose sections I rediscovered. They predate the play by a year and a half, but they contain some of the same flavour. This paragraph is a little funny:

There are a number of paved paths through Merrion Square, but I always take the same one. It runs around the inside of the park, in a rectangle. This doesn’t afford the best views or the most interesting scenery, but I do pass all the best statues. See, the Square is full of statues. There are the famous revolutionaries–Devalara, Michael Collins, various foreign dignitaries and a really creepy version of the Holy Trinity. There’s also one of Oscar Wilde, which is the gayest statue in the world. He’s reclining on a rock, and smirking in the ponciest way possible. The locals have nicknamed it ‘the fag on the crag’. Oscar Wilde grew up in one of the houses on Merrion Square, as did Bram Stoker. Alan Crilly, my second-most vulgar Irish friend, joked that this part of the city brought us both blood suckers and cocksuckers.

Some of those statues are referenced in my play, though I intentionally left out Monsieur Wilde. He was a playwright, of course, and it would just come off as an obvious reference. For obvious reasons, in theatre school we used to call that sort of thing a ‘wank’.

1 comment

  1. The Oscar Wilde statue is an embarrassment. So much more Hugh Grant than Oscar Wilde. As if Wilde would have dressed like that in the first place. It is so completely anachronistic — how the artist would have expected Wilde to be if he had been attending a fancy dress party in Islington in 1998. Simply put, a very bad statue. Wilde was a complex man, a flawed genius, but a genius all the same. His memory deserves better than this so-called art. Unfortunately, the Irish artistic “establishment” no longer produces anyone of the calibre of a Wilde. Honour the man and his work, and dynamite this marble catamite, please!

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