As
crassly as the cliche I am about to use, This
May Hurt
pulls no punches. When Death, in his classic outfit, blames the
Tories for killing the NHS, Feeney is in no mood for compromise. The
main story, featuring a mother and son, various illnesses, harassed
staff and an American extolling his system, is little more than a
hook for meditations on PFI - a truly disgusting and stupid idea,
which has effectively put future generations in hock for the sake of
a few new buildings - management restructuring and and the stand-off
between Bevan and Churchill.
This
last battle echoes down the corridors of time - they stalk the
present day, with Churchill half defending, half excusing David
Cameron's strategies. While the parodies of management speak, and the
formal agons around the value of health care are taut and precise, it
is the scream of the nurse that captures the spirit of the script.
Frustration, disappointment and a desperate urge to save what is good
are summed up in a single syllable. Fuck.
This
May Hurt
is propaganda, and provokes anger. It is the righteous anger of the
elderly, seeing their gains lost, their faith shattered and their
health held to ransom. It affirms a belief in the worth of theatre
as a political activity, evangelising for the consensus politics and
kindness that made British healthcare the pride of that silly Olympic
opening ceremony. A quiet note of optimism may end the play, but the
violence of Cameron's Acts, as described, threaten no happy ending
for an entire nation.
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