Is he supposed to be an Irishman?
No, I just chose to play
him like that. My idea.
Is he supposed to be as gay
as a fashion designer on poppers?
No, again, all that was just
my own interpretation
and not a textual must.
And the peaked cap and police jacket
I was given along with the part
are abnormally Village People.
Circumstance feeds art.
And after the line where somebody
suggests he has a wife,
I wanted to pause for five seconds, pouting
with eyes like a butcher’s knife.
Is he supposed to have eight bits
of toilet paper stuck to his face?
No, I just cut myself shaving
with a razor you could replace
with a teaspoon, while distinguishing
myself from my Scene One role.
Is he supposed to eat a banana
like a slut wrapped round a pole?
No, we just thought the banana-skin
could be a symbolic prop.
Is he supposed to be a numbskull?
Yes, but I don’t know when to stop.
