Chekhov’s gunner


Chekhov’s Gun:

If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired

Last Thursday, I moved to Hong Kong. 12-hour flight. Arrived Friday morning, early.

Main worries included: jet-lag, space, loneliness, tyrants, fear of the unknown, existential dread and most importantly — how will I watch the Gunners?

Arsenal lost away to Rennes. I only discovered this once I could scramble onto airport WIFI upon arrival. They kicked off as I flew over snow spattered Kazakh (very nice) mountains, while I ordered a second cup of ‘complimentary’ noodles. But I couldn’t find out the score. Sulked in Europa League purgatory.

Many questions arose as I left the Motherland, what will this be like? Will I befriend the weirdo on the first day? What the fuck? Will I be able to buy shoes that fit? Will people be overly curious of my red hair or afraid of my abnormal height?

First day was a scrap against jet-lag. Went to a colourful open-air market. Myriad stalls of exotic eccentricities: blubbing chubby fish in small tanks and frogs in cages waiting for imminent decapitation or gutting and still hairy pink pig trotters hanging from hooks. New smells. Eyes itched. A bowl of Pho with little specks of seedy chillies kept my brain alert.

There is less space here, in general. I saw a graveyard. Completely packed, squished in. Even the dead are rubbing elbows with each other. Like the subway carriages.

Reminded me of a time when I got a tour of Westminster Abbey and the tour guide discussed how valuable the real estate is for the deceased, to the extreme point that some are buried standing up. Pointing at a hexagonal slab of marble at his feet, he proudly announced “Yes, indeed Johnson is still standing among us” pushing slipping spectacles back towards the brow of his nose. His similarity to Mr. Bean, the ankle length robes and beaky persona have never left my memory.

Throughout all this, always a feeling I get as the weekend approaches, Arsenal dominated my thoughts. The coming game floated uneasily in my subconscious and in the pit of my stomach.

‘A must win’

‘Season defining’

‘Ole’s unbeaten run’

‘Men against Boys’

Wrecked. I returned to my room.

“A 26-minute nap is perfect for getting through the day. It’s the perfect time, as one doesn’t drift into a deep sleep but will feel rested enough to feel the benefits. Margaret Thatcher and Napoleon Bonaparte only slept for about four hours a night, but a good short nap every few hours kept them going…”

Advised a wise(?) man, once.

That nap mutated and morphed into a 2-hour lucid dream sequence snooze that added kerosene fuel to the embers of my jet-lag delirium. I was fucked. A mid-day snooze of horror: gives you a red ear; drool stained cheeks and makes you feel like a slice pan dipped in tepid gravy.

Next evening. Coincidentally and unbelievably my friend Ellen was working on a show at the Hong Kong Arts Festival. Dead Centre’s Chekhov’s First Play.

Chekhov’s untitled first play, also known as Platonov, named after its protagonist, was written when he was 18. It is messy, runs to about five hours in length and it is unfinished. Rejected at the time as un-performable.

In Joseph Pearson’s interview with Bush Moukarzel, co-director, writer and actor, they spoke of how Dead Centre squished the play down into a fifth of its original length, removing Platonov (who almost has as much lines as Hamlet) and many other minor characters. The play was accompanied by audio commentary, with each audience member getting a set of headphones.

The company are inheritors of the Beckettian values of waiting, uncertainty and failure. Emotions and tropes, I associate mostly with Arsenal. Flicking through this interview in the programme before I couldn’t stop thinking of the game the following day.

United.

Fuck.

Big one.

I loved the play. It suited perfectly with my headspace at the time. Like a waiting dry sponge I absorbed all its madness. Jet-lag hysteria synced well with a swinging wrecking ball smashing the set, a pneumatic drill cracking through concrete and red wine spraying from a mouth all over a man’s lapel.

Deconstruct and build it up again.

The audio was the voice of the director and it guided you through the confusion and frustration of this play, the uneasiness and edginess. The play creates a world of characters always seeming to expect something: the arrival of Platonov. The eager expectation leaks into the audience through the headphones and anxieties of the characters on stage. Characters come and go but never the right one…

The reassuring voice distorts and withdraws and the audience are left with nobody at the helm. Alone to figure it all out for themselves. Left to their anxieties. Breaking down and building up. Crushing the old aristocracy and bringing forth revolution.

Arsenal parallels were becoming clear. Brain fried.

They have to do something harder than dying, they have to keep on living. A line uttered in the play.

I became an Arsenal fan in 02/03, fending off my dad’s call to support Leeds. The Australian zest of Viduka and Kewell didn’t veer astray my interest in the gunners. The following season Leeds gloriously went into administration and down and Arsenal went invincible. Good call. Since then it has been difficult. A love affair with the avuncular Wenger slowly and cripplingly met its end last year. Crushing the old aristocracy and bringing forth revolution. Tsar Wenger. Comrade Emery?

Post-show with the cast and crew: Kowloon, drinking Tsingtao and eating dumplings with mystery meats inside, who knows what this delicious mush is?

Discussing bald caps and Fyre Festival and karaoke songs. Mine being anything from Ronan Keating’s back catalogue. Boyzone are playing HK at the end of the month. Strap in, fuckers.

I felt, through this evening of madness, I had conquered jet-lag.

But I was wrong.

The next night. KO at the Emirates was late. 00.30. I was tired, ok?

So. I fell asleep.

The one time I could balm in the victory over the enemy.

Ole Gunnar Solkjaer’s bubbly bile, photos with the ‘Boss’ and Cantona and the ‘go out and have fun lads’ attitude — an encouraging team talk reserved only for Dalkey United under 8s — all crushed by Emery’s Arsenal. I love how much it means to him, the faces he pulls on the side-line, his sharp gnashing incisors and his greasy black hair.

United’s magical school bus has run out of rainbow milkshake fuel and like a parched Dracula, Emery is sucking it all out through a big long pipe-straw. But it was 3am. I fell asleep at 1–0. Xhaka had banana-ed one in.

Fell asleep in my socks. That says a lot about my fatigue. Fucking socks.

I awoke in a panic:

Fuck I fell asleep! Missed the remainder of the game! What happened? The emotion, perhaps a nail biting horror story of Ole’s army coming back and destroying a feeble Arsenal. Months later confined to mid table. Stan Kroenke’s Denver Nuggets get a new billion-dollar stadium and our new manager Pascal Cygan is begging for patience after a loss to Bielsa’s Leeds.

But no!

We won.

Two — Nil.

Aubameyang penalty… what? Holy shit. Troy Deeney would call that cajones.

I didn’t get to see it. I missed it. The emotional carousel of the game was over in a click of my phone the next morning.

When do I ever get to enjoy a win against United? Rarely.

And I didn’t see Emery popping Solskjaer’s big jolly bouncing castle with a tactically placed pin. For fuck sake. In my socks! Shame.

Melancholia rather than euphoria:

I felt like I’d hung the gun on the wall in the first act and forgotten to fire it in the second.

Incomplete.

Failure.

Unfinished.

But still a win.

A bloody good win.

There is always the second leg versus Rennes.

Bigger blubbing fish or warty slime frogs to decapitate and gut in the coming weeks.

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