Double Yella

Dick was gaunae go mental. Dick was gaunae rage fur ever.

The double lines wur set like yella concrete. Stupendously, screaminly permanent.

Double Yella is a one-act monologue play based on a short story which appears in Janet Paisley's Not for Glory collection

First Production

A Play, a Pie and a Pint at Oran Mor, Glasgow 24 - 29 Oct 2005

Cast - David Paisley

Director - John Bett

Artistic director at Oran Mor - David MacLennan

David Paisley is the writer's son. Double Yella was the first time he has played his mother's work. More about the actor here

The Play

Teenage Scratchie is suffering at the hands of his abusive step-dad. He can't abandon his younger sister to carry the can and his mother seems oblivious. Fortunately he's got a good crowd of mates who come up with an unexpected solution.

Double Yella explores male bonding and group functioning among teenage boys by following one young person's attempt to confront and tackle the problems of abuse.

Reviews

…a poignant image of how easy it is for teenagers from broken families to lose their homes altogether… David Paisley's performance - gently directed by John Bett… offers a touching portrait of teenage vulnerability and defiance… Scotsman - Joyce McMillan

…moves from issue-based fare to boy’s own adventure with no little aplomb… especially evocative of rapscallion antics, all teenage swagger, laughter and forgetting of the situation’s seriousness… Paisley’s impressionistic skills in creating atmosphere could easily stand alone in a similar way to some of Dylan Thomas… The Herald - Neil Cooper

Extract

Double Yella

“Gaunae stop scratchin yer erse, you,” Howie says tae me. “I’m gettin worms just watchin ye.” He ay says that. It’s meant tae be a joke. I stopped scratchin.

“I’m rinnin awa.” I says.

“Awa whaur?” The Boot wantit tae ken.

“Awa in the heid,” Howie telt him. “Whit’s wrang, son? Yer mammy make ye waash the dishes.”

“Very fuckin funny,” I says.

Fraser come alang the road. He hudnae been oot fur a while. Prelims or somethin. He was chowin awa, a poke ae crisps in his haun.

“Wha is this stranger we see afore us?” Howie acts it. “Is it a burd, a plane, a sook?”

“A swot,” Fraser says, an hauds oot his poke. “Onybody waant a crisp?”

Ma haun wis in the poke furst.

“I’m stervin,” I says. “Never hud ma dinner.”

Fraser haundit me the poke.

“So back tae business,” Howie goes oan. “Scratchy boy’s rinnin awa. So whit fur whey?” he asks me. “An hoo come ye’ve no got nae further than the shop. Legs gie oot, did they? Waant some trainin you dae. I’m the boy fur that. Hip two three fower.”

“Cause if I stey I’m gaunae kill ma stepfaither.”

Mibbe it wis the wey I said it. Like I meant it. They dinnae ken whit’s been gaun oan. Least, I dinnae think they dae. Bit Howie stopped guisin aboot. Fraser coughed. The Boot lit a fag n’en offered me yin. He’d never done that afore.

“D’ye faw oot wi yer mither aboot him?” Fraser asked.

I noddit, drew oan the fag.

“Aye.”

Howie hoofs aff intae the road and turns roon tae address us.

“Right,” he says. “So whit ae we gaunae dae aboot it? Noo, personally, killin’s no a bad idea. It’s quick. Ye git it ower wi. Problemo solved. Only hing is, folk dinnae like it. Namely, the boys-in-blue folk. A wee doin, oan the ither haun, is gaunae git us less porridge. Bit mair chance ae it. Cause Dick, the dinger, kens wha we ur an wid turn us aw in.”

“Take the stair light bulb oot,” the Boot says.

“Whit fur?” I wantit tae ken.

Howie boo-booms the punch-line.

“So’s he’ll no see the skateboard!”

“Smash up his motor,” Fraser said.