As we all know, it doesn’t stop at kissing. āMore? It’s not a telescopeā says he, knackered. A straight virgin, who’s never injected or even borrowed a toothbrush finds himself HIV+ after his first shag (its only his girlfriend’s second). So, beware of puppy-love because kissing will lead to AIDS as surely as ābaccy leads to heroin addiction. Well, bollocks, frankly.
Playwright Dale Smith is only nineteen yet manages to patronise kids younger and less classy than he is. He’s a bit of a new lad (aka an old chauvinist): āMargarine legs? Easily spreadā; girls are a throwback: ābirdsā and boys: āmateā. Smith doesn’t have the precision of, say Iain Heggie whose Glasgow shorts āThe Sex Comediesā distil inarticulate language into communicative patterns (āCan you fuck - the fuck you can - the fuck it is - is it fuckā) Smith overstretches in two hours what boils down to a couple of minutes character sketches.
The (improvised?) dialogue lacks spontaneity: āAre you stoopid or sumfink?ā and it doesn’t posses the the ring of truth of, say, āEastendersā Sandip moaning to Gi’a: āWot yor marf do for exercise before it had me to slag off, eh?ā. Danny Newman and Emma Owen-Smith invest their performances as bird and a mate apiece with some emotion, but not much depth. You pity them enduring a snogathon without the chance of a dramatic orgasm.
Simon Reade