Friday, March 13, 2009

Exegesis with a difference: Dillon the Devious

At college we have been looking at different ways of exegesis. On Wednesday we will be presenting scenarios Dr. Christine has set us. Hilda, Cathy and I got the Parable of the Prodigal Son - from a Freudian viewpoint. Now inevitably this means that the outcome will not be the same as the the original. (You think?)

As we were reading for this I was close to slitting my wrists in frustration and then Cathy came up with the idea of presenting the story as a role play with each of us taking a part. Suddenly, inspired I came up with:

Part 1:

You’ve probably already heard a version of my story: it’s wrong. The general shape is right enough but it’s been seriously misunderstood. In fact the only thing I really like about it is that it’s about me: I like that in a story!

I’m Dillon: some people say I’m a bit of a Chav. Whatever. I live here in this God forsaken dump with my Dad and older Brother. We are what you might describe as a dysfunctional family. My Dad is an idealist – he doesn’t have a realistic notion in this head. His mantra is “The family”. And he’s such a soft touch - talk about na├»ve. I’m thinking of a phrase that includes the words “wind” and “little finger”.

My brother’s called Roger. Roger the Righteous. He looks down on me but that’s easy what with him occupying the moral high-ground all the time. He’s got religion, you see; sanctimonious pillock. It’s not so much that he’s anal only he gives “arsehole” a whole new dimension.

Anyway, I’d had enough of living in this shit-hole: not enough excitement and then Banquo’s ghost wailing and groaning every time I put a foot wrong – which admittedly is fairly often but … get a life Roger. OK, there was that unfortunate incident with the stockman’s daughter, but hey – I never said I was a saint.

So I hatch this plan to get out: simple really – I ask the old boy for some dosh. I couldn’t believe how easy it was: I started high – you know, ready to bargain down and he agreed to the first figure. I wish I’d asked for more now. Anyway I was out of here before he could change his mind. Or, maybe more to the point, before Roger could change it for him.

So now I’m really set up: nice flat; a bit of this (sniffs) you know? Wine, women and song they say. Well who needs to waste time singing? And it was good for a while and then the credit crunch hit and what with me not being very good at budgeting . . . anyway, all gone. Zilch, nada: the friends too. Not that I blame them. I’d do the same – drop losers like a shot. You can’t party with no-hopers hanging on.

Now I need a job. Me! A job! So, now I’m not having so much fun. No contributions, no benefits. Now I’m an illegal, black economy and all that. I don’t recommend it. And the irony is that I end up working with pigs. What a laugh: I can just hear Roger now. “Pigs? PIGS! What were you thinking?” Yeah, yeah, yeah yadiyadiya! Whatever. I could’ve got better work but I’m not a great fan of effort.

OK. Plan B. Head for home. If I play this right, it’ll work out to my advantage. Look I can do penitent. “I’m so sorry. I realise I’ve made mistakes. I’m so sorry. Please take me back. I’ve learnt from my mistakes. I’m a different person – a better person. Look, I’ll just work for you, OK?” I can be very persuasive you know. He’ll just hear what he wants to hear: give it a few weeks and things’ll be back to normal.

Worked like a dream, silly old sod. Oh but I was good, tears and all. I tell ya – it was worthy of a BAFTA and he bought it hook, line and sinker. The next thing I know there’s welcome home party. A Party! I know! Me and Party go so well together. Oh yes humble is very good in its place but things are picking up now. Mind you, I’ve not seen Roger yet. No doubt he’s walking around whining with a face like a smacked arse. “It’s not fair”.

A result all round I’d say.

Guess which one of us got this part?

More to follow.