The world premiere of Bingo by award-winning writer Alan Flanagan comes to Pleasance London to conclude the first season in the theatre’s brand new 80-seat Downstairs. This honest and comic play explores London’s LGBTQ+ culture, what it means to find belonging through transgression, and the complexity of sexuality and sexual health.
Performed by Alan Flanagan and directed by Dan Hutton, Bingo is a stripped-back one-man show led by the pinball that is Cormac who bounces manically between his distant sexual past, and his present attempts to turn a host of survivable conditions into a liveable life.
We caught up with Alan Flanagan to find out more.
Bingo is at The Pleasance 5th – 24th June 2018.
You’re bringing Bingo to The Pleasance, what can you tell us about it?
Bingo‘s the story of Cormac, a lovable mess of a human being, who goes for his first STI check-up and discovers that he hasn’t just contracted something – he’s contracted everything, running the gamut from the mildly itchy to the potentially life-altering. It’s a show about sex, obviously, but more it’s about what you do when The Big News happens – be it cancer, or a car accident, or a messy divorce, we all react differently to those big moments that affect us and the people around us. Cormac, for instance, goes straight to the Off Licence and drinks his weight in Buckfast.
What inspired you to write Bingo?
I had a local sexual health clinic, St. Ann’s in Harringay, where I’d go for check-ups. One morning I jogged the ten minutes to the clinic and quite literally ran into a locked door. There was a poster saying they’d shut up shop – I don’t know if they told anyone, they certainly didn’t tell me and I was a loyal customer. And this is happening up and down the country. The more I thought about sexual health as a topic, the more I felt there was to write – it’s both highly serious and incredibly hilarious. Bingo‘s like a really hard-hitting medical drama but with a bunch of dicks thrown in for good measure.
Why do you think topics like this aren’t explored more on stage?
As much as I love my people, us theatre folk aren’t as pretty as the people in films, so there’s none of the attraction of watching people have sex on stage. So there’s that. But more than that, there’s also this absolute horror that people have about talking about sex. We’re all sexually liberated and whatnot, the sixties happened, we all saw what Kinga did in the Big Brother hot tub, but still so many adults are like children on the subject. I’m Catholic so I’ve got shame to burn, obviously I think I’m going to hell if I so much as glance at a One Direction calendar, but it’s true of everyone. Either we think it’s too serious, or too flimsy, but we’re just afraid. Cormac’s like a slightly braver stand-in for me who can say, “we’re all doing it, the vast majority of us are picking up something medical, let’s have a big chat”.
What do you think the impact of cuts to sexual health centres will have on the country?
Bankruptcy. I’m not kidding – for every £1 you spend on sexual health, you save £11 in the long run. It’s this weird thing, because everyone gets the mild British giggles about it, but the face of sexual health isn’t giggly – it’s a teenager getting a HIV diagnosis, or a woman who’s had chlamydia for years being told she’s now infertile. These are all preventable stories. It’s the one area of medicine which is genuinely full of good news – as long as it’s funded. If it’s not, people have to deal with this incredible smoothie of ignorance and shame then cuts, we’re all doomed. But it shouldn’t be me talking about these things – I’m a leftie queer Irish immigrant pinko. It should be Theresa May standing up in Parliament and saying “I have sex, we all have sex, let’s stop being children about it and actually manage this”. It’s a no-brainer for me, the money you can save, but sometimes it seems like this government hasn’t met a no-brainer it couldn’t attempt to drunkenly lobotomise.
How do you find the right balance between the serious subject and comedy?
Always choose comedy. It’s possibly the Irish in me, but always choose comedy. There’s nothing more agonising than watching a Serious Show about Serious People where nobody laughs and everybody scowls – it’s not just a wasted evening at the theatre, it’s also a lie. People laugh, all the time, in the worst situations. As long as you know you respect the story, respect the subject matter, respect the characters, then always aim for comedy. It’ll be more honest, more insightful, and far more effective because the little secret in writing is that a laughing audience member is a vulnerable audience member – and that’s when you hit them hard.
What’s the best or worst thing about performing something you’ve written yourself?
In the words of my director Dan Hutton: “Well at least when you forget your lines on the night, you can just make them up.” I have no doubt that, try as I might, there will be moments of ad-libbing where you’ll get a peek into the dark confines of Alan Flanagan’s brain. What’s also good is that the rhythm and cadence of the show and the language always feel natural because I’ve written for myself. The worst thing – apart from the absolute heart-stopping nerves – is people not understanding what acting is. I’ve done shows about lots of topics and people approach me really weirdly in the bar afterward, like they’re afraid I’ll start crying. I have to be like “look, whether what happened on stage is real or not, I chose to tell the story, so I’m probably okay with having the chats about it but feel free to buy me a whiskey.” But any of the negatives are off-set by the salary – being a writer/actor just pays really well. I own so many properties!
