Common misconception, my love.

How many of you have been watching the original British drama series, Happy Valley? If you haven’t been watching it, you’ve really missed out. People from all over the country, of all ages, from all kinds of different backgrounds have been singing the praises of British drama, left right and centre. What a wonderful thing, to be in awe of a piece of writing – and in turn, a fantastic piece of drama – which no one has seen before. Original, gritty, exciting drama.

There should be more of it, in my opinion, and much less regurgitated reality TV. At MSA, they tell us to count how many programmes are on at 9:00, which is the watershed and therefore it’s officially adult TV time. I would say on a good day, there’s maybe two pieces of drama. When I say drama, I’m talking about having a script about fictional characters with actors playing them. More often than not, there’s celebrity versions of everything – Celebrity Juice, Celebrity Family Fortunes, I’m a Celebrity: Get Me Out Of Here, Celebrity Mastermind, Celebrity Come Dine with Me, Celebrity Big Brother… the list is endless. The scariest part is how many of these celebrities are actually just products of other reality TV programmes, who first found their fame on shows such as Geordie Shore, The Only Way is Essex or the X Factor.

I’ve nothing against programmes such as these and I’m as guilty as the rest of us for being glued to our screens during the compulsory Christmas countdown to the X Factor final. And yes, people will come into work the following morning and excitedly discuss who’s the latest Big Brother evictee or who’s been voted off Dancing on Ice. But isn’t it much more exciting to discuss something which isn’t predictable? Isn’t it exciting when the bookies start taking bets on the latest whodunit storyline? Don’t you feel just a teeny tiny tinge of pride when small, undiscovered production companies win life changing awards at the BAFTAs, for example?

Think about it. Which did you genuinely look forward to the most – the final episode of Broadchurch or the X Factor final? Yes. Exactly.

Now, before we begin, I’ll admit straight off that this is a promotional blog entry, but before this automatically makes you scroll past this blog and look at photos of somebody’s tea, let me just stop you. I’m not one to blow my own trumpet – okay, occasionally, just occasionally, I will blow it just a little bit, but only if I know it’s for a worthy cause. And this is a worthy cause. It’s about something I feel very strongly about. So, stop scrolling through your news feed, take five minutes out of your day and have a little read.

In order for you to understand, I’ll have to take you back to September 2010. It was the very beginning of my third and final year at Edge Hill University and the heat was on. If you’ve never sat a degree, you won’t have a clue. I’m sorry, but it’s really not the same as taking your GCSEs or your A Levels. It’s ten times harder, longer and the very scary thing is, it’s down to you to drag yourself to your lectures and to force yourself to stay in and write several thousand word essays.

Unlike at school where you were actually breaking the law if you didn’t go to school, where your mum would be ready to wallop you over the head if she got wind of the fact that you’d been ‘wagging it’ (Is that a Warrington phrase, I wonder?) – it was just down to you. So, basically, when you hadn’t been to sleep until daft o’clock in the morning and your alarm went off like a shrieking beacon of hopelessness, you actually had the choice to roll over and sleep until Loose Women came on. And nine times out of ten, your bed would just be too comfy and too snug to even contemplate getting up, strolling through your freezing cold house and battling with your housemates for the bathroom.

Then on top of all that, you had practical lessons to go to, rehearsals to attend, lectures to write countless notes on, essays to complete, research papers to write, lines to learn, daily journals to keep, laundry to do, a house to clean, bills to pay, food shopping to do, a part time job to attend and still maintain a starry social life. I’m the first to admit that at times, it felt a little overwhelming. I remember once coming in from a scary lecture where we’d been ranted at for three hours about how very important it was to do this, that and the other, and I lay down on my bed and I cried. It was a big, big change from the cushy life at home where your mum was at your every beck and call. Eighteen is such a young age to be living on your own, miles away from home and relying on text messages and phone calls to your family to keep you sane.

You’ve also always got that nagging little voice in the back of your mind saying: “You’ve got to work hard. This is going to cost you a fortune in the future.” And sometimes, the little nagging voice wouldn’t be that kind. Sometimes, it would simply say: “Ten grand, Chriscoli. Ten grand.” It’s very easy to see how so many students can go so wrong at university. There’s not enough practical or emotional support for university students, in my opinion - and besides, an education should be for free - but hey, I’ll just quickly step down from my soap box, shall I? 

Anyway, we were told about our university dissertation. For those of you who maybe aren’t too sure what that is, your dissertation – known to most students as your “diss” – is your big final project, if you like. You spend the majority of your final year at university preparing it, having to do a research paper and a dissertation proposal, then the final project itself, which counts for fifty percent of your entire degree. All in all, it’s a big deal. You can choose to showcase your interests in the chosen field in whichever way you choose.

Well, I decided to write a script. A rather bold choice, I suppose, but something I felt very confident in. My dissertation tutor was somewhat absent throughout my process, which at the time frightened the hell out of me, especially when she never replied to any of my emails, but now that I think about it, perhaps it was a good thing that I didn’t have someone constantly watching over me. It meant that when I was finished, I was able to submit my work as a draft to her and she was somewhat horrified/amazed by what I’d written. We were given a stimulus and we had to write about something SHOCKING. That was the criteria I had to meet. Well, of course, there was the usual tales of a teenage pregnancy, drug addiction, domestic violence – all worthy subjects, of course, but slightly predictable – and predictability is not shocking.

I’ll have to tell you right here and right now that I can’t disclose any information about the play that I wrote. I can tell you that it’s called A Walk in the Park – yes, the title is a bit twee, but it will make sense when you see it. It centres around a young couple, Jack and Kate. They meet in a strange scenario and along with the help of Jack’s grotesque, albeit slightly charming best friend, Hanson, and Jack’s overwhelming and neurotic mother, Wendy and laid back stepfather, Dave, they begin a relationship. (I’m aware that this sounds like a sack of shit, but it’s really not. It’s just difficult to describe without giving away too much of the plot. ) The play focuses on the first two years of their relationship and the audience watch their ups and downs. It closes with an explosive finale which stays with you for days, weeks, even months later. I’ve been contacted by people on Twitter who came to see the show in November and months down the line, they’re still in shock from what happened.

(It's difficult for people to imagine what my writing is like unless you've read something of mine. Considering that I'm a very polite, well spoken and generally well behaved young lady, I do get some funny looks and even some questions, such as: "How do these thoughts get in your head?" I can't really answer those questions. It was exactly the same during the release of my first book, Vee for Victory. People were questioning me as if I'd done something wrong. I mean, really? I wrote something which shocked you all - shock, horror! It was about sex! Pre-marital sex, one night stands, lesbian sex. Surely not?! 

Well, yes. It's hard to explain where the ideas come from, because I don't even know myself. I live a very sheltered, quite pampered, happy little life in my own little bubble, so it's hard for some people to grasp that the same girl they see lounging around in her Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pyjamas with no make up on and her hair scraped back is the same girl whose writing made a fully grown man come up to her and call her a "sick bitch".)

There are some sad moments, some hilarious moments and some truly beautiful moments in A Walk in the Park, particularly between Jack and Kate (played by the enormously talented Levi Payne and Sarah O’Byrne.) As much as it’s annoying not being able to give away too much of the plot, what I found when I was promoting Vee for Victory, was that people like a little snippet. They like to try before they buy. Dip their toe into the proverbial pool before fully submerging themselves under the water. So, I thought I would upload a wee snippet of the A Walk in the Park script to see if it might entice you in:

Wendy

Well, you can’t just keep her hidden from us forever, Jack. She sounds like a lovely girl.

Jack

Yeah, she is a lovely girl.

Wendy

Then why don’t you want to bring her over one night, darling?

Jack

 I don’t know, Mum. It’s just...

Wendy

Just what, hmm? Is she ugly or something?

Dave

 Wendy!

Jack

 What?!

Wendy 

Listen, I know it’s early days, but you’ve got to think “is this girl fit to be the mother of my children?”

Jack

 Mum –

Wendy

 All I’m saying is, you don’t want to settle down with someone who is going to produce...ugly children. I don’t want to put a photo of any ginger kids on my mantelpiece.

Dave

Eh now. There’s nothing wrong with gingers. Look at Prince Henry. He’s a red head and he’s third from the throne.

Wendy

 Harry.

Dave

Common misconception, my love. His name is Henry.

Jack

Mum, do me a favour. Just shut up about all this, will you?

Wendy

Don’t you tell me to shut up, Jack Robert Mason. I’m trying to help you here.

Jack

By warning me off ugly women? No thanks, Mum.

Dave

 Ay well, he’s a grown man. He is perfectly capable of making his own decisions, choosing his own girlfriend, munters and all.

Jack

 Exactly. See? Dave understands all this women business more than you.

Wendy (sipping her tea) 

I’m just saying sweetheart, it’s something worth thinking about. I saw that Francesca in Morrisons the other day with some big tall bloke. Rough looking guy. Tattoos of skulls all down his meaty arms. Love and hate written on his knuckles. And I tell you this for free, it didn’t look like it was her brother either.

Jack

She hasn’t got a brother.

Mum

 Exactly. You’ve just proven my point.

And yes, I know what you’ll be thinking – that it’s all well and good reading words off a page but how can you tell unless you’ve actually seen it in the flesh? Well, that’s a very good point. So make sure that you get your bums to see it. It’s on Thursday 10^th July and Friday 11^th July, at 8pm at the Nexus Theatre Café in Manchester. Make sure you’re there. Not only will you have a genuinely good night, but just think how amazing it will feel when you’re watching the next original British drama series and you go: “Oh, look who it is! It’s so-and-so from that play we went to see!”

Or think ahead by two years and imagine settling down on the sofa with your pyjamas on and a steaming cup of tea in your hands, ready to watch a six part drama called A Walk in the Park, and thinking: “Oh my god, I’m sure this was written by Emily Chriscoli! Isn’t that strange! God, imagine if we’d gone to see it years ago in Manchester?”

Well, now you can.