By Jonathan Grant

Pumpgirl has the hots for Hammy. God knows why. Hammy (James Doran) is a decrepit motorcross star. Pumpgirl (Orla Fitzgerald) is a tomboy, the one who “walks like John Wayne and looks like his horse”. She works in the same decrepit garage that petrol-head “No Helmet” Hammy frequents. Hammy has kids, and a wife with the “stomach of an onion bag” to prove it. But Hammy doesn’t think about his family when planning his affairs. Nor does his wife.

These small Armagh lives, presented in three intercut monologues from a petrol station just north of the Irish border in Abbie Spallen’s Pumpgirl at the Bush Theatre, are as drab as the environment they inhabit, made decrepit by time, indifference, and the fluctuating exchange rate of its Celtic Tiger cousin. The character’s minds are filled only with thoughts of themselves, as is evident, and indeed emphasised, by the “me, me, me” monologues. Even Sinead, played by Maggie Hayes, the matriarch of this love triangle, prefers not to dwell on any thoughts for her family and children when she too pursues a little extra-marital activity.  

And it is this double-edged egocentricity that provides both the central issue to this play, and also its biggest weakness. By commentating on that old, almost socially accepted, convention that it is perhaps okay for a father and husband to have an affair, but is somehow frowned upon when it is a wife and mother, Spallen is challenging the unconscious norms of our sexually-biased society.

However, by not turning the tables on this norm, and reversing out the stereotypical role of man as humping Neanderthal, Spallen fails to illuminate the male role in her triumvirate of characters, who is then relegated to racing, beer drinking, fighting, and fucking. Our two female characters also come across without the multiplicity of thought and imagination that we now expect from any half-decent play. 

True we are, at times, treated to some funny one-liners and tart observations, in well-written and fast-paced monologues that brush abrasively against one another until, from the angst-ridden cracks of their words, the audience fills in the story. But the cast fails to shine, particularly Fitzgerald, who almost fluffed a line or two and was far from showing her full potential, as measured from her performance as Sinead in The Wind That Shakes The Barley.

Moreover, given that we were in a petrol station, and that our play loosely revolved around high-octane motor sport, director Mike Bradwell did not treat us at any time, in my recollection, to lighting or sound that reflected this.  Instead, the lighting was flat and even, and the sound that monotonous Irish jig that is a reminder of why Michael Flatley may be the Lord of the Dance, but he should never be a DJ.

A fast-paced script with tough-talking cowboy-style Irish wit make Pumpgirl watcheable, without ever making it the show-stopper that the smell of burning rubber, a bit more character variation or added plot depth could have achieved.

The production continues at the Bush Theatre (with online booking) until October 14.