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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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