Biography

Cathy Crabb is a north-west based writer and performer. Her play Moving Pictures won Manchester Evening News Award for Best Fringe Production 2005.

After becoming notorious as part of the Studio Salford collective, in the past two years she has had plays performed at The Lowry Theatre, Salford, Studio Salford, Midland Hotel, Manchester, Taurus Bar, Manchester, Oldham Coliseum, Royal Exchange, Manchester and excerpts of a future play Snowshakers at The Contact Theatre as part of FLIP the SCRIPT.

She is a recipient of an award from the Peggy Ramsay foundation and is currently being funded by the Arts Council to write her next play Beautiful House.

She has written and performed many comedy sketches including STRAIGHT GIRL IN THE VILLAGE, which won Slamchester at the Queer Up North festival, Manchester 2005.

Current projects 2007

Cathy is currently working with the BAFTA award winning filmmaker Paul Sapin on their next film Teddy Bear’s Picnic.

She is currently writing two new plays BEAUTIFUL HOUSE (Arts Council Funded) and SNOWSHAKERS,
And has recently written four short plays for Manchester Museum for their Aimhigher Project on the transatlantic slave trade, to be directed by Julia Nelson and performed at the Royal Exchange in June 2007.

Samples

Sewer Side- a canal barge trip from Castlefield

Our mistake,
We thought it would be informative.
Oh, it was,

Down the canal
Slower than walking,
Slowed our pulses,

“Them slopes are where they use to drag thee ‘orses owt.”

A ratting tableau,
A man with a boy and a dog
And a gun
Shakes us up,

“Y’can buy this bridge over head for a penny.”

Snake’s skin shed
From secret sex life
Clings to industries arse,

“You really can’t beat a trip down canal as an insight into this cities ‘istory.”

You were consoled
By the barge barman
Who was under age
And couldn’t add up,

“Cheer up Cathy, here comes another of those depressing alcoves. Look, there’s some plastic bags and an old pram and oh look there, a dead drag queen, lovely.”

An old stocking
In charcoal grey
Laddered
By desperate ducks,

Our mistake,
We thought we could learn something
About our city,
Oh, we did.



MY DADDY'S BEST GENES

'Keep it down!'

But the bus driver couldn’t quieten his persona.
He was an anthology of aromas.
The urine and faeces he was born between had never left him.
Bullied into a mumble he tapped away at the crust.
He knows he’s in there somewhere.
I hated him for living longer than my Dad.

“It’s the trust that’s gone, my wife’s seventeen stone, she’d fucking kill another woman”

Hundreds came to my Dad’s funeral.
They drank till dawn in his pub.
When I counted the tills I was crying laughing.
He’d never done that well before on a Wednesday.

“You’re getting into windows of your mind there kid, not really my thing.”

My Dad misunderstood “Do not go gentle…”
He thought it was about accepting death.
When my brother read it out, it dawned on me.
I keep forgetting to mention it.

“She asked me where her keys were. I said how do I know? Me balls are made of gristle not crystal y’know?”

Some spirit of stenches roams around Oldham.
Trying to shake his brain awake.
Somebody has his eyes and his smile.
Another person is good at swimming like he use to be.

“When I hear the birds outside, it reminds me of Grandad at the bungalow.”

At home now I put my Daddy’s best genes to bowbies.
I kiss the eyes I’m in goodnight.
We haven’t got a heaven to help us sleep
Or a hell to keep us awake.
I think about the man on the bus.
I hated him for living longer than my Dad.

EPITAPH WRITTEN BY THE BAR MAID

Lager than life
At the bar on your thrown
Fuck off and leave me alone

Constantly burning holes in my head
If looks could kill
They'd have found me dead
With a note which read
"Smile love, it might never happen."

Your beer's always flat
Checking your change
You predictable twat

Spending your retirement
Mithering me
Till your lad came to get you for your tea

But you died instead
I said it would be ridiculous to have
"Rocking all over the world"
At your cremation
And it was.

Just letting you know your missed
Wherever you are
I hope your pissed.

ODE TO FRINGE THEATRE


The oily glitter in the gutter seeps songs into the soul
Of the drowning bloodshot beggars who have slipped into the hole,

Viruses and bruises cast a luminescent hue
To the wilting writhing weeds still wretching songs out to the few,

The choking flames illuminate the player’s grand debacle,
Like crystals cracked and brittle grasp at every hint of sparkle,

They drag regrets, bitterness and debts,
Like knuckles on the floor,
You would think we they had it all, but they still want more,

It must be watched, it must be gazed upon,
It must be seen and clapped and grazed upon,
It must be laughed at, forged and gorged upon,
It must be performed.

Orifices filled and stretched,
Fate on painted faces etched,
It’s all the show has left to fetch,
And it must be seen,

So peel your blood sewn eyes, you fools!
Shift and squirm upon your stools,
Drink your poison in your pools,
Watch hell’s molten as it cools
Before your slaps and claps and drools;
It must be seen,

It must be watched it must be glared at,
It must be witnessed must be stared at,
Must be snorted, sneered and jeered at,

Otherwise this brittle crawl,

Has no fucking point at all!

Get ready for the curtain call,

It must, be, seen!

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.