THE MAPLE LEAF GOSPEL
(English version of "Oliver y Lupita: La Bici Roja" by
Benjamín Gavarré)
THE MAPLE LEAF GOSPEL
(Based on “Oliver y Lupita: La Bici Roja” by
Benjamín Gavarré)
EL EVANGELIO DE LA HOJA DE ARCE. © 2026 por BENJAMIN GAVARRE está bajo licencia CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
Genre:
Urban Farce / Neighborhood Tragicomedy
Setting: A gritty, gentrifying working-class block in South
London (or a bustling corner in Queens, New York—let's go with South London, Peckham for that rich collision of
British sarcasm and multicultural chaos).
CHARACTERS:
- LUPITA (LUXE / LULU): The queen of the corner. Pragmatic, dramatic,
with a heart of gold and a council estate attitude.
- OLIVER: From Vancouver (or Toronto). Innocent,
eco-conscious, deeply lost in translation, wearing hiking sandals with
wool socks.
- BARRY (BETO): Local mechanic and purveyor of
"pre-loved" auto parts of questionable origin. A
wildly dramatic father.
- CHARLIE (CHUCHO): Barry’s son. The only innocent victim. Owner
of the red bike and a battered teddy bear named Barnaby.
- THE SOLICITOR (EL LICENCIADO): A pompous gentrification refugee from a
luxury riverside flat in Canary Wharf. A menace to public
footpaths.
- GRANDAD ARTHUR (DON CARMELO): The local scrap dealer. Cynical, wise, and
seasoned by decades of council tax arrears.
- PC CUENCA (OFFICER COPPER): Local neighborhood bobby. Incompetent, lazy,
and utterly smitten with Lulu.
- THE LADS / EXTRAS: To carry the Solicitor’s glass coffee table
and pinch wing mirrors.
SCENE 1: Maple Syrup
on Rye Lane
(Music: Over-dramatic romantic strings vibrating
against the sticky tarmac of a south London high street. LULU stands on her
corner, shielding her heavy makeup from the drizzle with a frayed lace
umbrella, aggressively fanning herself with a takeaway menu. Enter OLIVER,
wearing cargo shorts, hiking socks with sliders, and a compass hanging from his
neck, staring frantically at his phone.)
OLIVER: (With a thick, apologetic
Canadian accent) Excuse me… Miss, please? Organic coffee? Someone
told me it could be around here? Sustainable… sustainably sourced?
LULU: (Fixing her cleavage, eyes lighting up) It’s destiny!
It’s the Commonwealth! The maple leaf has finally dropped its gold on me! (To Oliver, in a voice smoother than clotted cream) Oh,
darling... Hot coffee, boiling if you want it. The "office" is right
here, or if you fancy something a bit more private, we can sort
an Uber straight to a Travelodge.
OLIVER: (Shaking his head vigorously)
No, no… No motors! I refuse to damage the ozone layer, that’s why I walk
everywhere. But they said a few blocks "up." Do you understand?
"Up" is the sky? "Down" is the tube? I’m so tired of
walking. I don't see any coffee or Soho… Is this Soho?
LULU: (Confused, but riding the hustle) Look, handsome, round
here "up" is the standard rate if you want a quick fix, but
"down" is down by the bypass motels and it costs extra for the full
hour... though you look like you’ve got a solid ISA. What’s the play? Bank
transfer or cash?
OLIVER: (Pulling out colorful polymer
notes) Canadian dollars… Very vibrant. But I can use Visa! Or I
swapped some quid at Heathrow. Coffee shouldn't cost a fortune, but if it's for
the sustainable planet, I’ll pay. I love nature!
LULU: (Snatching the cash from his hand) No bank transfer,
the fraud team locks me out quicker than a council flat door. Give me the
readies... I’ll charge you the "eco-rate," but you order the Uber.
The hotel is just round the corner, you know the South Circular? It’s just
"up" ten minutes... well, twenty with the traffic in this circus of a
city.
OLIVER: (Spots Charlie’s red bicycle
chained to a lamppost with a flimsy bicycle cable) Oh! Look at that!
A community bike-sharing scheme! Such an inclusive country, so green, so...
communal.
(Oliver walks up to the bike. With astonishing
ease, he snaps the toy-store cable, unties the teddy bear from the handlebars,
and hands it to Lulu with a chivalrous bow.)
OLIVER: And look, someone left a little Teddy Bear
abandoned here… Is "abandoned" the right word? Poor little friend.
LULU: (Recinching her coat) Ah, the bear! Right. His name is
Barnaby... How did you even guess? Look, mate, I don't normally do fetuses,
plushies, or weird internet roleplay... well... if you're desperate, we can
talk, but the price goes up.
OLIVER: Oh, I see… Here in the UK everything goes up or
down… I don't really get it, but you keep Barnaby. I don't need a soft toy to
pedal. Take this… For your help. Very nice gift. My name is Oliver… Oliveo… I’m
heading North, my GPS says Redbridge is that way…
LULU: (Screaming) No, sweetcheeks! Redbridge is miles away,
you’ll pedal your heart out and die on the A2! I’m telling you, the hotels are
that way… Oi! Don't touch that bike! That belongs to Barry’s lad! Don’t you
dare—why are you taking it?!
OLIVER: (Already mounted on the bike,
pedaling with the dignified posture of a minor royal) Oh, you Brits
are so accommodating! Bikes for everyone! Cheerio! Back after my coffee in
Soho…
(Oliver pedals off into the drizzle, looking like a
lost tourist high on fresh air, while a triumphant brass track drowns out the
street noise.)
LULU: (Left alone, staring down at the teddy bear with a mix of disgust
and greed) Cheeky Canadian bastard! Tried to pay me in polymer
dollars they don't even take at the Post Office... What does he take me for, a
mug? (Sighs, looking at the bear) Oh well, Barnaby can go to
little Leo... Poor Charlie’s had his bike nicked right off the pavement while
I’m here wasting time on international diplomacy. Stingy tourist... left me
nothing but a furry witness. Olly, Oliver, Oliver-boo...
SCENE 2: Karma, the
Deadbeat Dad, and a Brand-New Ride
(Lighting shift: Melancholic sepia tones. In the
background, an acoustic guitar strums a depressing soap-opera chord
progression.)
(CHARLIE is sitting on a crate of used gearbox
parts, crying his eyes out. BARRY is pacing back and forth, rubbing
grease-stained hands.)
BARRY: Oh,
pipe down, Charlie! You’re going to burst my eardrums. Listen to your old man:
material things come and go… they’re like wing mirrors on a BMW, here today,
swapped for cash down the boozer tomorrow. What matters is what’s on the
inside!
CHARLIE: (Sobbing harder) On
the inside?! There’s nothing inside my chest because they took Barnaby! I want
my mum!
BARRY: (Stops dead in his tracks, clutching his chest like he’s taken a
sniper round) Your mum?! So now I’m a crap father?! That’s the final
knife in the back! Is that what you’re saying, Charlie? That I’m not providing?
CHARLIE: (Unrelenting) Noooo!
I want my muuuu-um!
BARRY: (Looking up at the grey London sky) Oh, go on then,
strike me down! Lord above, take me now if I can't even run a scrap yard
without being accused of emotional neglect! If you hate me that much, I’ll drop
you off at your mum’s tomorrow... but look at me, playing the mug, I was just
about to take you down to Halfords to buy you a brand-new bike—and a proper
teddy bear!
CHARLIE: (Pauses for a microsecond, then
wails louder) I don't want a cheap plastic bear from the pound shop!
I want Barnaby! He knew my secrets!
BARRY: Charlie,
wake up! This is Karma. The universe has rules!
CHARLIE: (Through hiccups) I
don’t want karma, I want my bear back!
BARRY:
Look, let me explain spiritual balance: if I "acquire" a set of alloy
wheels for free on a Monday, the cosmos balance-checks us by nicking our bike
on a Tuesday. That’s what you get for leaving it chained with a Poundland
padlock in broad daylight. What do you think this is? Zurich? You think
everyone’s honest for a laugh? No, son!
CHARLIE: I don’t understand any of this… take me to mum’s.
BARRY: (Kneeling down, dropping into confidential-mode) Listen
to me. You’re partly to blame, but really, we’re all to blame in this
family. You’re part of a dynasty, Charlie. Your grandad "found"
hubcaps before they hit the ground, I "source" gearboxes that nobody
claims... and the customers are just as guilty, coming down here knowing full
well everything we sell fell off the back of a lorry.
CHARLIE: (Whimpering) But I
don't steal anything! I just play!
BARRY: But
you sell 'em, Charlie! You man the counter with that angelic face that could
convince a copper! You’re the adorable front end of our circular economy! But
look—to get the universe off our backs, I’m buying you a brand-new bike. A
legit one! With an actual receipt, so the cosmos sees we’re purified.
LULU: (Materializing from nowhere, walking with an air of theatrical
pity, hiding Barnaby behind her back) Oh, little man… sweet pea…
don't cry your eyes out, you'll go blind.
CHARLIE: Lulu! They took my bike...
LULU: (With the smile of an EastEnders villain) Sometimes, my
darling, one person has to suffer unexpected loss so another can find true
happiness. Just think—your old bike is out there seeing the world, free from
the chains of this postcode. But your new bike? Oh! That’s going to smell of
fresh factory metal, it’ll shine so bright you’ll forget all about him. All of
it. Every last bit.
SCENE 3: The Solicitor
Shoots Himself in the Foot
(The brass track cuts out. Enter a triumphant march
played on an out-of-tune recorder.)
(Enter THE SOLICITOR, standing balanced on a wooden
dolly with four caster wheels, painted gloss black. The board is carried by two
LADS sweating through their hi-vis vests. THE SOLICITOR maintains absurd, rigid
dignity, dabbing his nose with a silk handkerchief.)
SOLICITOR: Steady, my brave, hardworking lads! Rest those
bronze shoulders. Go grab yourselves a proper can of Diet Coke—properly
iced—and get me one for the road... in a can, mind, and don't open it, the carbonation round here gives me
toxic shock. Here’s a crisp fifty-pound note, keep the change—don’t spend it
all on vapes!
(The LADS drop the board and bolt. THE SOLICITOR
steps off the dolly and glares at GRANDAD ARTHUR.)
SOLICITOR: I have journeyed all the way from the privileged,
gated sanctuaries of Canary Wharf... arriving in this wretched, grease-stained
borough that trades in stolen scrap, solely to recover my offside wing mirror.
It was stripped in the dead of night right off my smart-lock apartment door! A
glass bunker, my good man!
GRANDAD ARTHUR: (Not stopping his angle grinder
on an old alloy) Well, your gaff can't be that smart, mate. Must not
have had AI installed, 'cause they had it off in ten seconds flat right under
your nose. What, no Ring doorbell on your glass castle?
SOLICITOR: (Outraged) They
sprayed shaving foam all over the lens! And scrawled a barbaric tag on the
brickwork: “Need mirrors? South London Spares—ask for Barry.” So
this is it… the local branch of your little criminal franchise.
GRANDAD ARTHUR: (Smirking) You do
dazzle with your intellect, Counselor. Nearly qualified for the obvious
Olympics, aren't you? Look what just dropped in on an "unclaimed
consignment"... (Pulls out a wing mirror) Offside
wing mirror, pristine nick, and look—it even has your initials engraved in posh
calligraphy: V.G.B. Gorgeous! That’ll be five hundred quid,
emotional recovery fee included.
SOLICITOR: (Pulling out his leather wallet
with trembling fingers) This is highway robbery! Daylight extortion!
I am literally paying for my own property back, and the worst part is—you know
it, I know it, and even the kebab shop owner knows it. This is a conspiracy!
I’ll have you know I play golf with the Borough Commander!
(While THE SOLICITOR points an index finger at the
sky in an epic threat, a local kid slides past the black dolly. With ninja-like
speed, he rips the remaining nearside mirror off the board and vanishes into an
alley.)
GRANDAD ARTHUR: (Chuckling) Oh,
don't threaten me with a good time... Did you hear that tune? But look here...
seems you're missing the other one now. The driver’s side! Blimey, your
sustainable transport is having a terrible week.
SOLICITOR: (Whipping his head around to
look at the empty bracket) WHAT?! AGAIN?! This cannot be happening!
They nicked the left one while I was paying for the right! It’s an ambush!
GRANDAD ARTHUR: Don't panic, Solicitor. We’ve got the nearside one
in stock for a grand... you know, if you want a matching set. Look, don't look
like that—you look more like a crook than we do, rolling up here without a VAT
receipt. Come back soon! And enjoy your Diet Coke. Look at your lads, they’re
halfway down the high street with that fiftyner. Careful they don't dump you in
a canal before you hit the river.
SOLICITOR: (Climbing back onto his wooden
dolly, face beet-red with rage) This isn't the end of this! Forward,
lads! You're all going down for this. Let's take this to Trading Standards!
SCENE 4: The Cameras
Don’t Lie (Mostly)
(Low-budget police procedural music. Enter PC
CUENCA holding an old cracked tablet taped together with duct tape. BARRY and
CHARLIE crowd around him.)
CUENCA: Right then, Barry… and you, Charlie… listen up.
Given your old man's constant nagging about how the force "never does a
tap of work," I pulled the CCTV from the local council hub. And look right
here. Crystal clear. This is you, Charlie, leaving your bike unlocked with zero
perimeter defense.
(CUENCA turns the tablet around. Faint sounds of
Looney Tunes chase music play from the speaker.)
CHARLIE: (Squinting) Oi!
That’s an episode of Wallace and Gromit I watched on
Christmas Day! Those are penguins, that’s not me!
CUENCA: (Fumbling nervously with the
screen) Ah! That’s just a minor buffering issue with the council
Wi-Fi. The local CCTV cloud is high-security stuff, military grade,
obviously... signal must have crossed wires with a Cartoon Network rerun. Not
that I watch cartoons—it’s a fiber-optic glitch, clearly.
BARRY: (Crossing his arms) Oh, drop it, Cuenca. Your
"contacts" in surveillance don't exist, mate. We all know you’re a
fake copper on half-pay.
CUENCA: (Deeply offended) I
am trying to provide emotional closure, Barry! At least you’re getting a new
bike out of it, right, little man?
CHARLIE: Not yet… Dad says "cash flow is tight"…
or "the pigs are lean," whatever that means.
BARRY:
Lean times, son… council grants haven't cleared. But wait till the Christmas
bonus drops; we get a cut of the local footfall revenue and then we’ll talk about Halfords.
LULU: (Strolling in with a theatrical sigh, hand pressed dramatically to
her forehead) Right! I confess! I was the victim of an express
kidnapping! It was a Canadian… a giant of the frozen north. He forced me, tied
me to the lamppost with his big bear paws, and those blue eyes just stared
right through me and… and… told me to keep quiet or he’d take me all the way
back to Ontario!
CUENCA: (Licking the tip of a filthy
notebook pencil) Right, that alters the charge sheet… Would you like
to make a formal statement, madam?
LULU:
Don't chat rubbish, Cuenca, you went to my primary school, I remember your
spellings.
CUENCA: You are admitting to being the victim of a felony
involving a foreign national of high Nordic-adjacent risk status—
LULU:
Look, I thought he was offering a "special service." No teddy bears
included... One of those things Charlie doesn't need to know about.
BARRY: Right,
right… So, Lulu, this bloke had you tied up and gagged with maple syrup all
over your lovely silhouette? Go on.
LULU: (Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper) All
right, I’m lying. Charlie, forgive me… but "Chunky," your old bear,
is happier now with my little Leo. He’s younger than you, he wouldn't let him
go anyway.
CHARLIE: (Screaming) I’m
young too and I’m traumatized! I want Barnaby! Bugger Leo!
LULU: (Kneeling down to his eye level) Charlie, look at me.
One day you’ll be eighteen. On that day, I’ll buy you a gelato from Italian
Job—the expensive one—and we’ll forget all about this bear. For now, here’s two
quid, go down the corner shop and buy a Drumstick.
BARRY: (Jumping in) Hang on! I want an ice cream too! I paid
for that bear fair and square... well, technically I liberated it from an
abandoned skip. (Glancing at Lulu with suspicion)
So this Canadian had "big hands," did he?
LULU: You’ll
get your turn, Barry… when you least expect it. The universe works in
mysterious ways.
CUENCA: Miss Lulu: I insist you provide a formal witness
statement. Come with me.
LULU: Oh,
sod off, Cuenca. Give it a rest.
CUENCA: (Leaning in, desperation
creeping into his voice) But look at my hands, Lulu… people always
say I’ve got proper builder’s hands too. Come on, let me take your statement!
SCENE 5: The Return of
the Canadian (And the Mambo of the Big Hands)
(SUDDEN SILENCE. Then—an explosive Latin brass
orchestra drops a deafening Mambo beat. Enter OLIVER, pedaling the tiny red
bicycle with his knees hitting his chin and a huge tourist grin.)
OLIVER: (Shouting over the music)
Hello! Sorry I’m late! I got stuck in "Soho" because they invited me
to a festival with so many feathers and colors! But I came back to return this
wonderful piece of public infrastructure!
(The Mambo drops to background volume, still
playful. Everyone freezes. GRANDAD ARTHUR steps out holding a shifting spanner
the size of a cricket bat.)
GRANDAD ARTHUR: And what parade did this one crawl out from? Is he
a backing dancer for Steps or what’s with the cheerfulness?
OLIVER: (Dismounting the bike with
rhythm-free elegance) I thought it was the closest red-light
district, but they explained that’s over in Soho—well, the other Soho is much more pink. I didn't find organic
coffee, but some very tall women in skyscraper heels invited me in… And they
had very nice beards! Very festive! But here is your Red Bike. A little small
for a Canadian with hands as big as mine, but—wow! Britain really is first-world! Free public bicycles everywhere!
BARRY: (Inspecting Oliver’s hands with intense jealousy and suspicion)
They're not even that big!
GRANDAD ARTHUR: That bicycle belongs to my grandson, you daft
northern hemisphere pillock!
CHARLIE: And you mugged off my mate Lulu!
OLIVER: (Genuinely baffled)
Lulu? Who’s Lulu?
LULU: (Stalking forward in a state of absolute melodrama, pointing a
manicured finger) Don't you dare deny it, Oliver-boo! Deny it all
you like! Say you never laid eyes on me, say you didn't lead me on! You’re a
cold-hearted Judas of the maple leaf!
OLIVER: Lulu? Can someone please explain what is
happening?
LULU: (Playing to the invisible theatre audience) It’s all in
the past now, you wicked North American!
OLIVER: Ugh! Not American! I’m Canadian! Québécois! Why
does everyone think we’re the same?
LULU: You
nicked a kid's bike and you nicked my corner-girl heart!
OLIVER: (Wide-eyed) I did
all that? Was that not a community service? Oh, I am so sorry! Lulu, I didn’t
know I was your "crush"... I mean, British women see a blonde
backpacker and fall hard, but we can fix this! You look stunning—like a proper
drag queen on a Friday night!
GRANDAD ARTHUR: (Lowering the spanner)
Let me get this straight… You nicked it, took it for a joyride, brought it back
of your own free will, and you’ve been messing about with
the local woman's emotions?
OLIVER: (Radiating pure, innocent
cluelessness) Stealing? I was just "borrowing." And I only
asked Lulu for directions—and she gave me the wrong ones, by the way!
(The Mambo screeches to a halt with a vinyl scratch
sound effect. Awkward silence.)
SCENE 6: Operation
Maple Syrup
CUENCA: (Grabbing Oliver by the
backpack) Right, that’s enough international diplomacy! I’ve heard
enough fabrications. Confess that you’re part of an international colorful spy
syndicate gathering intelligence on our scrap metal reserves! You are under
arrest for vehicle abstraction and dazzling Lulu with your massive mitts!
LULU: (Throwing herself dramatically between Cuenca and Oliver)
Get your hands off him! He didn't nick anything! He asked me to borrow the bike
because… because we were going on a romantic picnic after his organic flat
white! He’s my boyfriend, can’t you see?! We were just method-acting like
strangers for a laugh!
OLIVER: (Struggling against the
backpack grip) No, wait! I fly back to Toronto on Tuesday, I was
only here for a seasonal—
(The MAMBO kicks back in at full blast. Oliver
tries to shout that he’s from Quebec, but the brass section and Lulu's howling
drown him out. She winks at him while wrapping her arms tightly around his
waist.)
LULU: And
then you broke my soul, Oliver!
OLIVER: (Surrendering entirely to the
chaos) My soul? Oh… well… we can go get a frozen yogurt! I can treat
you to vegan halloumi, it’s very good for the metabolism!
LULU: (Squirting away indignantly) My metabolism doesn't need
fixing! I’ve got curves and I’m proud of them, alright?!
OLIVER: Oh, yes! Curves are fantastic! Let’s go! Yogurt on
me!
CUENCA: (Speaking into his toy
walkie-talkie, completely ignoring the romance) Control to Base!
Code Eagle 3489! Cancel the MI5 backup. Repeat: the blonde bloke is harmless.
Not a spy, just a bored Canadian who wants frozen yogurt. No threat to national
security. Stand down.
OLIVER: (To Lulu) Okay,
let’s go. We’ll walk a bit to build an appetite before the yogurt.
LULU:
Walk, my life? Down this end if you walk too much you’ll get your trainers and
your contactless card lifted before you cross the dual carriageway! I’ll order
an Uber! But we have to walk to the main road because Ubers won’t come down
this alley.
OLIVER: Ah, I know about that… Ubers never go where you
actually are, right?
LULU: (Hooking her arm through his) Come on, sweetcheeks… let
me show you how things work round our ends.
SCENE 7: Epilogue
(Karma vs. Council Tax)
(Charlie and Barry are sitting on the pavement
outside the scrap yard, licking two cheap Mr. Whippy ice creams that are
rapidly melting down their elbows. In the background, Lulu and Oliver stride
off arm-in-arm into the south London drizzle.)
CHARLIE: (Licking his cone)
Dad… so was that Karma? I got my bike back, but I lost Barnaby, and
now my handlebars smell like an eco-friendly tourist.
BARRY: That’s
just called London life, Charlie. Karma would’ve been the actual Peel Street
raid happening five minutes earlier while our yard was still full of nicked
wing mirrors. That’s when we’d really be in the soup.
(Suddenly, the wail of REAL POLICE SIRENS fills the
air. A convoy of unmarked vans and marked panda cars screeches round the
corner, blue lights strobing across the corrugated iron fences. A megaphone
blares: “MET POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!”)
BARRY: (Leaping to his feet, dropping his ice cream straight into a
puddle) Sling your hook, son! This isn't a drill! Run like you just
nicked the King’s crown jewels! Fly, Charlie, fly!
(Barry and Charlie bolt in opposite directions.
Shouts, whistles, and a pounding UK Garage bassline kick in at maximum volume
as the curtain slams down.)
CURTAIN
FINAL
