Llangefni (Wales), Cambridge, and Liverpool, spanning from the 1970s to the present day
Shôn stands before a bank, his homemade protest sign wavering in the Liverpool wind, a spark of rebellion in his eyes that harks back to childhood dreams of being Robin Hood. In this one-man whirlwind of memory and manifesto, Shôn ricochets between past and present, from the muddy football fields of 1970s Llangefni to the sterile courtrooms of modern Britain. We see him as a scrappy ten-year-old, plotting to rob the local Midland Bank with his ragtag team of council estate footballers, their pockets jingling with imaginary loot. Then, in a blink, he’s a middle-aged man grappling with mortgage payments and a nagging skin condition, his childhood idealism curdled into a desperate act of civil disobedience.
Through a kaleidoscope of vivid vignettes, Shôn conjures a cast of characters that populate his personal mythology: his socialist grandmother, arms elbow-deep in charity shop castoffs; his Thatcherite father, counting pennies in his greengrocer’s till; and Dylan, the talented teammate left behind when Shôn ascended the ladder of social mobility. The stage becomes a time machine, transforming from a smoky 1970s living room where Robin Hood flickers on the TV, to a modern therapy office where Shôn wrestles with the ghosts of his past. With razor-sharp wit and unflinching honesty, the play dissects the power of money, the illusion of social mobility, and the corrosive effects of inequality. As Shôn’s narrative spirals towards its climax, the audience is left to ponder: in a world where banks are the new Sherwood Forest, what does it truly mean to rob from the rich and give to the poor?
