When  we  started  STC  (Sledgehammer  Theatre  Co-operative)  we  were 

really  keen  to  set  up  a  progressive  theatrical  collective  with  none  of  that  ego-fame-getting-on-thetelly-ego-showing-off bullshit, and just do really good, exciting original political devised  work. That 

may  all  sound  dopey  to  you,  but  that’s  what  we  wanted  to  do.  But  the  problem  with  democratic egalitarian collectives is that you have to listen to twots like Sid and Candy. I wouldn’t mind if she 

could act but her Geordie accent is unbelievable,  like she’s had a stroke or something and she’s also 

got this thing about doing yoga warm-ups in her lingerie. There, that’s got your attention, hasn’t it? 

It’s the first time I’ve seen someone do the Sun Worship in hold-up stockings and a basque. That can’t 

be right, can it? Poor old Sid can barely chew his curried beef slice, keeps missing his mouth. When 

the time finally comes for her to put some clothes on and go on stage one of the kids usually wolf whistles or something and in the mini-bus afterwards  she always pretends to be really affronted and 

feminist about it. ‘I hate being judged on my looks all my life I’ve been judged on my exquisite face 

and firm young body,’ she says as she adjusts her suspender belt, like it’s a big  POLITICAL  issue, 

like we should be doing agit-prop street theatre about the plight of women cursed with great tits. Am I 

ranting? Are you in love with her yet? Maybe I’ll introduce you when you get back. I can see you 

now,  giving  her  that  look  where  you  clench  your  jaw  and  play  with  your  lips  and  ask  about  her 

careeeeeer. Maybe I won’t introduce you after all . . .

 

Emma Morley turned the page face down as Gary Nutkin entered, skinny and anxious, and it was  time  for  the  pre-show  pep-talk  from  the  director  and  co-founder  of  Sledgehammer 

Theatre Co-operative. The unisex dressing room was not a dressing room at all, just the girls‘ 

changing  room  at  an  inner-city  comprehensive  which,  even  at  the  weekend,  still  had  that 

school smell she remembered: hormones, pink liquid soap, mildewed towels.

In the doorway, Gary Nutkin cleared his throat; pale and razor-burned, the top-button of 

his  black  shirt  fastened  tight,  a  man  whose  personal  style  icon  was  George  Orwell.  "Great 

crowd  tonight,  people!  Nearly  half  full  which  isn‘t  bad  considering!‘  though  considering 

what exactly he didn‘t say, perhaps because he was distracted by Candy, performing pelvic 

rolls  in  a  polka-dot  all-in-one. "Let‘s  give  ‘em  one  hell  of  a  show,  folks.  Let‘s  knock  ‘em 

dead!‘

I‘d  like  to  knock  ‘em  dead," growled  Sid,  watching  Candy  while  picking  at  pastry 

crumbs. "Cricket bat with nails in, little bastards."