Ron Berry

Everybody Loves A Saturday Night

This play attempts to communicate the atmosphere of a South Wales mining valley pub on a Saturday night. Long before television our historically toughened communities were lapping up songs and patter from Hollywood.

Always the promise of immense joy, and the joyous anticipation of conflict. Now there are few sing-songs, hardly any fist fights, singers sing for money, and the whores are working in factories or old and crumped up. As for the young men and women of the valleys, they take most things at second hand.

But it's useless to regret the passing of these Saturday night sing-songs. My children's children might get together on Venus, with a sort of ionic pianola and a bunch of Flying Saucer clock numbers. It won't be beer either; probably an outing with harmonic odours sniffed from some rare hydroponic wizardry down in the cellars. Sex and song will obey patterns more complex than the ascent of homo sapiens.

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