And Macbeth in Stratford? even worse! I could not sit through it. Their Thane of Cawdor had no balls or nobility, their Lady Macbeth no crone-power or menace. They spoke the lines like zombies... and then played the porter as an over-the-top Irish lush with a lisp. It was a nightmare Will. I left after Act II? rather feed the bloody ducks out on the Avon!

Nothing, nothing! It’s just that I can’t stand…

By the way, Will, why did the Jacobeans lose your faith that, in spite of human evil, there exists at least the possibility of good in us?

Or maybe… it had something to do with the death of Her Majesty, Most Gracious Sovereign, Queen Elizabeth I. Once you’ve had a real queen in charge, a mere king is bound to look bad. You know, men usually fucketh things up right royally. It’s clear to me now (after four centuries to rot and ponder it) that it wasn’t the shrew that needed taming? it was that bastard Petruchio!

VERITAS!

I don't care if it's Republican Rome, Elizabethan England or the god-damned 20th Century? there's only two kinds of guys.  The ones who do it and the ones who talk about it!  Guys like me [strutting around, puffing his chest, etc.] ?and [pointing] pussies like them!

Hell, would either of these bastards have come in through the Corioli town gates with me?  Would they get in there where the smoking sword-stuff gets done and you live or die with a scream in your throat and some other guy's hot gore splattered on your face?  [Wiping his hands again]  Go through the gates? these two?  [He walks over and stares into their faces silently for a moment, then whispers slowly at the audience.]  Fat... fucking... chance!  [He spits]

Hey, lemme tell you girls something.  The Jacobeans?  They didn't [in falsetto] "lose their faith."  They saw the truth and put it in your face and if you can't take it, well then? too fucking bad for you, you faggots!

Even that Old Maid, Alfie Tennyson... he said it "Nature red in tooth... [baring his teeth and holding up one hand in front of his face, fingers spread claw-like] ... and claw."

It's  MOTHER NATURE, baby!  If you don't fight for a tit in the litter, you don't get one.  Get used to it.  Grow up.  Be [growling] a man.

Now, Master Shakespeare there, maybe he learned little Latin and less Greek? but he learned enough to make him a pussy!  So I never really expected much from him!  But aw, Jeez, [tearfully disappointed] BERKOFF!

[In Cockney]

Oh, such great, bloom'n expectations for him we had once, now didn't we!  Knew his way round a knife, once.  Bagged birds with the best of 'em once, he did! [Macho growl] Yeah... ONCE!

[Dreamy, nostalgic]

Yes Little Stevie could well and truly kick ass, once upon a time.  And yet, with all that lovely amateur training among the East End crew, you'd think he'd a turned out better.  Become a professional? like me.

Oh, his plays have the right stuff, all right... that Mike and Les...  They could've been in my legions!  They would've come through the gates!  Lovely lads.  Scrappers.  Knifers.  Men.  Spot on!

[Snapping out of his reverie, wiping a tear away]  It's sad, really.  You know what's wrong with Berkoff, don't you?  [Leans down to the cut-out's ear and shouts] 'E READS TOO MUCH FOOKIN' SHAKESPEARE, THAT'S WHAT!

All gore and ballsy rage in his plays... that's one thing.  But it's still just talk... idinit?  Why didn't the bloke do something besides talk? ... Join the army, for instance?  (The bleeding navy don't count).  I mean, where was he during the Falklands?

[In a rapturous, pleading reverie]

By Mars´ Ruddy arse, there was a bit of a rumble!  Would've loved to been down there!  And there's always plenty of Special Service stuff... taking out some IRA crud when Whitehall gives the word!  And Black Ops in the land of the Mad Mullahs, eh?  Plenty of work for King and Country [jeering at the cut-outs again]... if you're man enough for the job!

But what's little Berky do? [With contorted revulsion, as if he'd swallowed something putrid]  He writes, for Chrissakes!  [Campy falsetto]  He prances 'pon the stage!  Arts-fartsy.  Wilde.  Kafka.  That little egg-head prick, Hamlet.

And, oh my, how he whines about the bloody Belgrano and all them poor baby Argie boys who went down to their wat'ry graves.  [He grabs his sword, sticking it under the chin of the Berkoff cut-out, shouting]  OF COURSE IT WAS MURDER, YOU SCRIBBLIN' SOT!  THAT'S WHAT WAR'S FOR!

[Turns back to the audience with a shrug] Yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda... drives me fucking nuts, all their fucking talk.  [With a hiss]  I tell you I could? [Takes his sword up with both hands, swinging it before him viciously as he circles around Shakespeare and Berkoff]... take' em both out? [beating time with the sword] ...with...  just...  one...  good...  hard...  clean...  fucking...  swing!

He stops behind the cut-outs, with the sword drawn up high in the air, ready to decapitate them both, but freezes, thinking? then lowers the sword to the ground.

NAAAAH!  They're not worthy of my sword.  [Draws a cut-throat razor out of his pocket]  They're not worthy of martial music and the rites of war... and they shall not have a noble memory.  Just one smooth, little bitty slice... [drawing the blade across the throats of the cut-outs] ... and they're gone and forgotten forever? the beastly little cowards.

NON-VERITAS!

Did you hear something?

Yes!

Sorry, old chap.  Would've loved to... but it's not permitted where I am now.  Play to full houses, did you?

Now I really shouldn't tell you this, Steven? but although I didn't personally see your Coriolanus, I did talk to some angels who did? it can be arranged if you know who to ask... and they said...

[The polite Brit again, but a bit naughty and tittering, as he helps Berkoff back to his feet again]  You made old Sir Ian's R III look a bit sick. Really!

Don't blush my boy... it's true!  Here? [taking the laurel from his head and offering it to Berkoff] ... you deserve one of these too.

No false modesty, sirrah!  You know you're great? just as I knew I was.

He places the laurel on Berkoff? who beams and mimes looking at himself in a mirror.

What you don't know is, whether it's all worth it... once the curtain falls.  Right?

It's all a crap shoot.  You work, work till your teeth ache and your balls break? but the day comes when all you can do is spit on your hands and roll the dice.  And then something... physics, gravity, fate, luck, some god or goddess, maybe... intervenes.

Tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble go the little boney dice, Dame Fortune's Great Wheel turns, neutrinos drill a hole in a chink of your ma's DNA, a horn blows at midnight, the Great Owl hoots... and there you are, 30 years later, rich and happy, or poor and fucked.

There's not much in between... for the son of a Warwickshire glover like me, or for an East End tailor's kid turned writer, director, producer, designer and kick-ass actor like you!  [Eloquently, but without theatricality]

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.  It is a tale

[King and I inflection again]

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!

[Subdued]

But theatre matters, Steven... only theatre.   Not we poor players, not the critics... and certainly not the bloody RSC.

OK, OK!  "The play's the thing."  But really [teasing now] isn't it a bit crass to quote yourself that way?

Prithee no!  Not if you're like me.  Or Steven Berkoff!

Ah, gee, thanks, Will, for the shoulder to cry on.  Thought you ought to know what the SOBs at RSC are doing to your stuff.  Feel like popping out for a pint?

She’s MY MOTHER! VOLUMNIA! She made me what I am today... great general, feared soldier, defender of Rome... a cojones guy, a lion among men, a myth... Marlboro Man, OO7, Ollie North... a veritable Rambo (who can act!).

[Turning his chair full to the audience, getting chummy] You see? I LOVE MY MOTHER! [Suddenly sobbing profusely] More than my wife! More than my life! More? [biting a knuckle] ... more than my honor!

[Shy, but with proud conviction] Well, she’s also... my lovely, lovely SYLV! ... from East and West. Remember her? Bawdy, beautiful, randy Sylv whom Mighty Mike couldn’t love as much as he loved the blood and guts rumble with the fire-breathing Huxton Monster?

[He stands, hands on hips, and swaggers out to the footlights, with a snarl.] You didn’t SEE East or West? YOU WANKERS! You common pack of curs whose breath I prize / As the dead carcasses of unburied men / that do corrupt my air? I should take me spear to the lot of you!

By Bloody Jove, I WILL!

Steeeee-VEN !

Oh, all right? MUUUUUTHER!

He slinks back to the chairs, puts the spear down, and starts unbuckling his armor? eventually stripping down to white tee shirt and maroon shorts?becoming Berkoff again.

West-Act I-Steven Berkoff-Collected Plays-Volume I-Faber and Faber-London-1994! YOU WANKERS!

Hey, Mother Vol? cut me a little slack, will ya! I’m trying to make a sale. Do you have any idea what my overhead is these days!

Can I quote myself again?

In short, she’s what all we fellows fear? the archetypal OTHER! The Adored. The Desired. The Feared. The Dream Girl one could scarcely speak to? much less date, much less touch, much less play hide the weenie with, when one was only a Pubey Little Runt!

So slurp up the Guinness tonight, boys... ‘cause tomorrow we’re off to... [shouted rapidly]... THE IBM-WORLD-CUP-SUPER-BOWL-WORLD-SERIES-PHALLUS-WORSHIP-TECHNO-DEATH-ECO-DESTRUCTION-IMF-GLOBALIZATION GAMES... AGAIN! Ta, ta!

But you know, Ma, you could help me with this... JUST A LITTLE BIT! Pleeeeze, Ma!

Thought you’d never ask! Oh, my babe, my son, my lovely boy, my Adorable Adonis, my Dumuzi Darling, my brother, my consort, my bold helper, king, and lover? my BERKOFF!

Lights slowly rise on Berkoff as himself in dark slacks and jersey again. The small throne is gone. He gets down on one knee, facing the audience, as he and Volumnia (off stage) exuberantly recite from the Theodore Roethke poem, "I Knew a Woman."

Flashed on a large screen at stage rear? Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.