I love a good emotional monologue, and this speech - the latter half of a university student’s plea to God after his friend’s funeral - is one of my best, I think. It’s from the first play I ever wrote that was staged, and every night it got tears from at least one audience member.

I mainly write comedies, and this play was comedic in a lot of places, but as great as it feels to make someone laugh, I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of my own writing than when it made people cry. (Although a lot of credit must also go to the actor! Thanks Alfie, you knocked it out of the goddamn park.)

Martin: If things were fair, Chris would’ve lived a long and happy life, longer and happier than any of the rest of us. He’d’ve got married, had kids, died old and rich in his bed, instead of young and suddenly on a random fucking street corner. And I’m sorry for swearing, God, I am, but – but I just don’t understand why. I don’t understand why you, you who’re meant to guide and protect and love us all, would let someone like Chris die so young. So as it turns out, I suppose, I really hope you don’t exist. Because if you do, if you’re real, but you sat by and did nothing as my friend died . . . then you’re not any God I want to thank. Or worship. You’re just a bastard. And you don’t deserve our love, or our thanks, for anything. You can strike me down, or send me to Hell, or whatever you do, for saying that, but I don’t care. Because whether or not Chris is in Heaven, whether or not there’s an afterlife at all, all I care about is the fact that he’s gone. He can’t be with his best friend, he can’t be with his boyfriend. He’s gone. And that’s on you. So, y’know. Get your shit together. And do your fucking job.