The Good, The Bard and The Ugly

by Susie Donkin

Genres: Mashups; Humorous Fiction

Synopsis

A hilarious, irreverent take on Shakespeare's best-known plays from BAFTA-winning Horrible Histories writer Susie Donkin.

Imogen thinks she knows what Shakespeare's most famous plays are all about. Everyone does, right?

Star-crossed lovers. Naughty Greeks getting up to mischief in the woods. Scottish kings losing their minds. Young men with daddy issues. Dads who just need some positive affirmation from their daughters*. (*Okay, that's maybe putting it a bit mildly)

But when Imogen brings 14 amateur actors together to perform one of the Bard's great works in a bid to save their local community centre, it becomes apparent that she - or anyone who reads this book for that matter - will never see Shakespeare's greatest works in the same light again . . .

"BAFTA-winning Horrible Histories writer Susie Donkin makes Shakespeare's greatest works even greater." Stan Lafski, Imogen's uncle

"A very funny book. Would definitely not have been as funny if it was about Christopher Marlowe." Larry Fairfoul, troupe member

(P)2023 Hodder & Stoughton Limited

Release date: August 17, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

CHAPTER 1

THE CAST

A week after the wake, Imogen was at the Cameo, trying to keep her nerves under control. She’d done half an hour’s meditation that morning but, judging from the number of times she’d had to go to the toilet, she still had a lot of adrenaline pumping through her body. Had she really suggested they put on a Shakespeare play? She must have been insane – or at least very, very drunk.

She stared at the empty room around her. There had been a lot of enthusiasm from everyone at the pub on the night of the funeral, but she knew how much booze had been consumed, and she hadn’t given anyone dates or details so, still drunk, she’d composed a post for Tintown’s community Facebook page the following day.

 

Friends, Romans, Countrymen!

The council are planning to turn the Cameo
into luxury flats, and we are in danger of
losing a valuable community resource.

Help raise awareness and funds by being part of
a Shakespeare play – no experience required.

First meeting will take place at the Cameo
on Saturday 21 November at 11 a.m.

Sober and in the cold light of day, she wondered who would actually come. She’d managed to speak to nearly all the original Tin Men at the wake, and they had promised they would be there, but actors were notoriously unreliable. However, Simon McBreathwater had grandly said he would rather die a slow torturous death than let Imogen – or Brenda – down, and with the legendary Simon McBreathwater on board, thought Imogen, how could she go wrong? She allowed herself a moment of excitement: this could be the start of something very special, she thought, not only continuing Brenda’s legacy but bringing something new and fresh to it too. She hoped she’d bought enough biscuits.

At 11 a.m., however, the room was still empty. At 11.05 her phone beeped with a text from Simon McBreathwater. Maybe he’s gathered everyone outside, thought Imogen hopefully. She opened it.

 

Dearest Imogen. My aunt has suddenly been taken ill and I have had to drop everything. You know I would have been there otherwise, not just for you, but for Brenda, and for the Bard. A thousand apologies. Wishing you all the luck and love in the world. Keep warm. Simon McB.

 

‘So much for suffering a long and torturous death,’ thought Imogen bitterly. ‘Bloody actors!’, and then felt bad in case he really did have a dying aunt.

She was in the middle of composing a suitably sympathetic reply, when the door swung open and Buzz Cant appeared in his trademark high-top trainers and a neon sweatshirt. Buzz was a local hero who seemed to have an inexhaustible amount of energy. He ran the local youth group and had helped set up a beatboxing club for young offenders called Breakbeatz. Behind him were three teenagers in matching hoodies. Apparently Buzz had spent his own money printing their names on the back, partly to make them feel part of a team, and partly as a deterrent to stop them shoplifting. There was Alfie with his skateboard and a fringe which hid most of his face, Lil’ John, tall and skinny as a rake, and Jez E Bell, self-styled Queen of Rap who, despite being born in Plymouth and spending most of her life in Tintown, spoke with an exaggerated Jamaican accent. Imogen was delighted. This was what it was all about, she thought: a new generation bringing energy and relevance to Shakespeare texts. ‘Welcome!’ she said, but was greeted by silence and four confused expressions.

As it turned out, Buzz and his crew weren’t here for Shakespeare: the Cameo had been double-booked, and they’d come for their regular beatboxing session. Imogen explained that she was putting on a play to try and persuade the council not to convert the building into flats, and to her delight, Buzz was full of enthusiasm. He said they would be more than happy to join in. His beatboxing trio, however, were less keen.

‘Give it a go,’ Imogen cajoled, trying not to be intimidated by their mutinous looks. ‘Shakespeare was the original rap artist – he was the Kanye of his generation!’

Judging by their expressions, they still weren’t convinced, but when she mentioned the biscuits, they immediately loped off towards the tea-urn area to investigate. Buzz gave her a thumbs-up and promised they’d stay, before bounding off in the same direction.

Just then Tom Coombe – one of her oldest friends from school – came through the door. Thank goodness for Tom, thought Imogen, Totally Reliable Tom. He was practically a fully qualified doctor now, but even when they were at school, he’d always been the one to get her out of teenage scrapes. He greeted her with a big smile as he wheeled in his bicycle.

‘Is it OK to bring it in?’ he asked, peering round the space.

‘What do you think?’ Imogen grinned. ‘Thanks for coming, Tom.’

Whilst Tom was stashing his bike and taking off all his bicycling kit, Naomi Badcock arrived. She managed the Sue Ryder charity shop on the High Street and had a reputation for bullying all the volunteers. She was a tall, solid-looking woman, who Imogen guessed was probably about sixty, though it was hard to tell. Naomi was a stalwart member of Tintown’s historical association, and a keen medieval enactor. Imogen shamefully remembered giggling with friends about her rude name and weird costumes when they were much younger. She wondered what had made Naomi decide to come today.

Billy Ireland, the Scottish landlord of the Witches Inn, stumbled in next. He already smelt like a brewery.

A few minutes later, Janet and Allan Capon arrived. Imogen was pleased. The Capons were a big noise in Tintown, the force behind a lot of charity work and community events. They were accompanied by their eighteen-year-old daughter, Amanda. Amanda, or #bunnygirl, was a TikTok user and wannabe influencer whose USP was her huge white Angora rabbit, which went everywhere with her. Bunny, as she had imaginatively named her, was the subject of endless Insta pics, and, sure enough, she was with her today, stowed in a portable travel cage.

Bunny wasn’t much of a talker, but she was a great ice-breaker. They were all chatting noisily around the tea urn when the door opened, and Mike and Sue Mutton entered. There was a hushed silence. The Capons and the Muttons were arch enemies. They owned B&Bs on opposite sides of the same street – Fig Tree House and Bay View – and had been great friends, until ten years ago, when the Capons had built an extension which completely blocked Bay View’s bay view. The two couples hadn’t been on speaking terms ever since, and it looked as if today was not going to be an exception: Mike and Sue made a point of keeping themselves as far away from the Capons as they could, whilst the Capons regarded them frostily from the tea urn. Accompanying the Muttons was one of their B&B guests: a surfer, judging from his long-hair and billabong shirt. He was handsome enough to make Amanda stop scrolling through her phone.

At exactly 11.30, Reverend Sherry Crumble bounced in with a banana loaf, a large Tupperware full of chocolate brownies, and a half-eaten quiche. Although Imogen was delighted to see her, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Where were the proper actors? All those Tin Men who had cheered so loudly at the wake and promised they would support her? What about Brenda’s legacy? And bloody loyalty? she added to herself, realising she was actually fuming.

Well, she thought, at least she wasn’t going to run out of biscuits.

By midday there were still only thirteen of them (not including the rabbit). Imogen tried to be positive – after all, Shakespeare had a company of fourteen, and he was staging full-scale productions at The Globe. She’d just said, ‘Let’s wait five minutes more,’ for the fourth time that morning when, to Imogen’s complete surprise, Alex Trevalyan, aka Tintown’s real-life Poldark, sauntered in. His parents owned most of the land in the area, but he insisted on living in an old caravan on the family estate like a modern-day Oberon. Imogen’s stomach did a little flip. She and Alex used to come across each other at parties when they were both teenagers, and she’d always felt there was some chemistry, even though nothing had ever happened between them. Until now? At this last thought, she gave herself a mental slap on the wrists. She was a director now, for god’s sake, not a horny teenager!

‘OK, let’s get started!’ she said as brightly as she could. ‘Thank you so much for coming, everyone. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Imogen, and we’re all here because the Cameo is under threat, and I got totally hammered at Brenda’s funeral and told everyone I was going to put on a play to save it!’

Buzz gave an enthusiastic cheer, and Alex laughed, but everyone else stayed stony-faced.

‘That was a joke,’ she added quickly. ‘I really do believe that one of the best ways we can highlight the importance of it as a community space is to put on a play. So . . . welcome everyone, you are the new Tin Men Theatre Company! Anyone got any questions before we start?’

‘Which play are we going to do?’ asked Tom, who’d always liked a proper plan.

Imogen had thought long and hard about this, but as there were so many Shakespeare plays to choose from, and she had no idea who was going to turn up, she’d decided not to choose in advance.

‘Well, I thought it would give everyone a bit more ownership if we all decided together on the one we like the most. But why don’t we find out first who we are and what we know about Shakespeare?’ Sounding more confident than she felt, she said, ‘I’d like you all to sit on the floor in a circle.’

Sue Mutton went over to a pile of stacked chairs and started dragging them towards the centre of the room.

‘Sorry, Sue,’ Imogen interjected quickly, ‘I want everyone sitting on the floor. It’s very comfortable with all the rugs . . .’

‘What about my knees?’ Sue said, disgruntled, ‘I don’t think I’ve sat on the floor for at least a decade.’

‘OK fine if you insist, Sue, but you will be the only one . . .’

‘Actually, I’m not great on the floor either,’ said Naomi. ‘We have to do it in some of the medieval enactments and I always get terrible pins and needles.’

‘All right, fine, we’ll just work around you,’ Imogen conceded, her confidence draining fast.

After a lot of faffing around, they managed to form a circle with Sue and Naomi sitting like two raised beacons amongst them.

‘Great. Now we’re going to go round the circle, and I want each of you to introduce yourself, then tell us one interesting thing about you, and one thing you know about Shakespeare or his plays. It can be anything. Who wants to start?’ said Imogen, willing someone to volunteer.

There was an expectant pause, and then Billy Ireland staggered back onto his feet. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and stood with his hands on his hips, feet wide apart. He was always happy to be the centre of attention. He grinned widely at them all and spoke with a strong Scottish accent.

‘Well, my name is Billy, Billy Ireland. But don’t be confused because I am from Scotland. Edinburgh, to be more precise. But we are all Celts deep down – us Scots are just the Irish who could schwim. And we all like a drink just as much as each other. Though these days I only drink on two occasions: when I’m thirsty and when I’m not.’ He burped loudly. The Breakbeatz kids smirked, whilst Janet and Allan Capon exchanged disapproving looks. ‘Now as you all know I am the landlord of the Witches Inn, and one thing I do know about Shakespeare, that may surprise you, is that he was not allowed into any pubs. Do you know why?’

Everyone shook their heads.

‘Well, I’ll tell you why. Whenever he walked up to a pub, the bouncer on the door would say, “Oy, you Shakey Stevens, you cannae come in here.” And Shakespeare would say, “Oh, is that right, sirrah, and why would that be, pray tell?” And the bouncer would pull himself up to his full height, look him straight between the eyes, and tell him, in no uncertain terms, “Well you can’t come in, because you’re barred.” ’

Billy roared with laughter at his own joke.

‘Good one,’ said Mike Mutton, a pal of Billy’s, who also appreciated a good pun.

Amanda and her bunny both looked equally dumbfounded.

‘I don’t get it,’ she said.

‘Oh come on!’ Billy cried. ‘He was barred and he’s the bard. He was barred from the pub. Shakespeare, the Bard of Avon!’

‘What’s the Bard of Avon?’ asked Amanda.

‘Zactly,’ mumbled Alfie from beneath his long fringe.

Imogen sighed. This wasn’t a good start. Billy gave her a sympathetic look.

‘This is going from Bard to verse, eh, Imogen? A bard is an old Celtic word for a professional storyteller, someone who writes epic poetry. Like a troubadour, or a druid – they told stories through songs. Shakespeare told a whole heap of stories. He wrote thirty-seven plays before he was fifty-two years old. And one hundred and fifty-four sonnets. Not bard at all! Just don’t ask me to name them!’

No one showed any inclination to ask him anything, but Billy was now on a roll.

‘Aye, and even though he was a Sassenach, he was the greatest poet who has ever lived. And he liked a beer as well. His father was by profession an ale-taster, amongst other things, and Shakespeare liked a drop of the hard stuff, you can be sure of that. Some folk say it was the drink that put . . .