Theatre of Dreams

Last night I was at The Shed. It was a very strange place to find myself, considering The Shed is a theatre that no longer exists. Where it once stood on the Southbank, its towering red walls bright within the shadows of the National Theatre that loomed over it, there is now only empty space. The wooden walls have been brought down and cleared away. But my subconscious doesn't seem to have caught up with these developments. Because last night, as I slept, I went back to The Shed.

It's not enough that I spend everyday writing and thinking about theatres, working for one during the day and visiting the rest at night. They've now started to invade my dreams.

It was quiet a nice dream though. I did like The Shed. I'm sad it's gone.

Unfortunately, it doesn't count towards the marathon. On account of it not being a real place anymore, and me dreaming up the entire trip.

Thankfully, I do have a bona fide, genuine theatre, that isn't made of sleep-deprivation and the murkier portions of my imagination, to cross off the list.

For once, I was off to an area of London that I actually knew. A bit.

Hammersmith. It's on the Piccadilly line. And close to the river. And it's home to the Lyric. No, not that Lyric. The other one. The one that doesn't house the source of all my anxieties while holding itself together with duct tape.

The station also has two doughnut shops in it. Which I feel is just the right amount of doughnut shops, and is something TFL should be looking at rolling out across the tube network.

These are all the facts that I know about Hammersmith.

Or the facts that I did know about Hammersmith. I have a few more now.

Like: The Lyric Hammersmith has some excellent signage going on throughout the building.

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Yes, it’s all a bit cutsey. A bit… wannabe innocent-smoothie-copywriter-esque. But it’s big. And clear. And there is lots of it. Which is what we want from signage, isn’t it?

I found it all very soothing. It’s like Bach’s Rescue Remedy, except painted on a wall and without the aftertaste of rotten flower petals.

Also: Usually when you buy tickets via GILT (tickets from £10 in the New Year’s sale still available last time I checked), the ticket you are presented with at the theatre is from See Tickets. You probably know the ones I mean. They’re pink and yellow, with a starburst effect. Kinda ugly.

Not so at the Lyric. Here you get a proper Lyric Hammersmith ticket. With their branding. Including a heart watermark, and the title formatted in a brush-stoke styley font that matches the signage. You can tell that they spent on lot on brand consultants, and they are damn well making use of it. Nothing will go unbranded. I bet even the loo roll is printed with some uplifting and adorable tagline.

It might sound like I’m making fun, but that’s only because I am so in awe of this commitment to all things Lyric Brand. Kudos to whoever is the brand guardian at the Lyric Hammersmith. You are doing great work. May the theatre gods bless and keep you safe.

Lastly: There’s a super lovely terrace. And we all know how much I appreciate a terrace. I spent some quality minutes out there, taking photos and contemplating the heads of the people wandering down below.

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Sadly, minutes were all I had, as it was time to head into the auditorium.

A few tasty signs later I got my ticket checked at the door, headed down a short red corridor and…

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What the actual fuck?

I stopped dead, blocking the doorway. It was only when the person behind me coughed politely under his breath that I managed to gather myself enough to move over to one side. And then I stood some more. Staring.

Gilt? Plaster mouldings? Crazy-ornate ceiling?

Was I hallucinating? Had the lack of sleep finally got to me?

No, I was fairly sure my imagination is not that good.

It was real.

My brain refused to believe it. There had to be some other explanation for what I was seeing. Perhaps, it suggested, firing up some long neglected synapses, I had wandered through a portal to another dimension while making my way down that red corridor. Or maybe, piped up another thought, I had neglected to change lines when I got off the train at Leicester Square, and had made my way to one of the West End houses instead.

But the terrace? I argued.

“The Garrick had a terrace,” snapped back my brain.

But not like that. It was an itty bitty thing. It didn’t have plants.

My brain shrugged. “A portal then.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

Final fact about Hammersmith: the auditorium of the Lyric theatre is housed in a separate dimension.

I took a few photos just to prove to myself that I had actually been there, that I had journeyed between two universes, and lived to tell the tale.

After that, I needed to sit down. The cognitive dissonance of stepping from a modern building into an Edwardian auditorium, full of curly architecture, was too much for me.

That may have been a mistake.

One thing that became very clear about this other universe is that the people are missing one of their senses. Either proprioception, or the one of the common variety. I swear every single person passing through the row behind me managed to thwack me across the back of the head.

I mean… maybe they saw me up on the terrace on their way in, and sensed that I was judging the top of their heads and thought I needed a good smack applied to mine. I know not. What I do know, is that I got a bit of a headache after the fifth person managed to introduce the corner of their handbag to my skull.

Thankfully it didn’t stop me enjoying the show.

Leave to Remain sounded very worthy when I booked it. And no fun at all. Thankfully, I was wrong. Very wrong.

It’s charming AF and was the cause of my second standing ovation of the year (my first was, unsurprisingly, at the Playhouse Theatre for Caroline, or Change).

I may have even had a little cry on the tube ride home.

Don’t judge.

I am very tired.

Travelling to another universe will do that to a person.

And might go someway to explaining my dream about The Shed.

Still, inter-dimensional portals or no, I look forward to returning. And I don’t even need to wait until next year on this one! The Lyric has a studio space that I have to see. I might even treat myself to a doughnut to eat on the terrace.

On the Origin of Theatre

Nearly a week into the marathon, and I feel like I’ve covered a lot of ground. I’ve visited a smattering of West End venues, watched a play in a fringe venue under a railway arch, and done… whatever the Bridge Theatre is (off-West End commercial? Retirement home for ex-NT artistic directors? Two-fingers up at anyone who ever doubted they could do it?). I felt it was time for something completely different. And as different options go, watching a play in the gargantuan monument to all things animal, vegetable, or mineral that is the Natural History Museum, is an appealing one.

I love the Natural History Museum. Mostly because, well… dinosaurs. But also the building itself is just such a joy to look at. There isn’t a square inch that doesn’t hold some architectural surprise for anyone willing to drag their eyes away from the exhibits for a moment.

I mean, look at this nonsense.

And as I was there for a morning show, I had the opportunity to wander around before all the hoards of tourists had made there way out of their Airbnbs and into my way.

The theatre itself is located right inside the museum. When I asked for directions I was instructed to head to “the third arch, and it’s on the right.” I found it just after the Dino Store and before the Darwin Centre.

Once you’re in the correct arch, it’s hard to miss, as the doors have been laminated with enough blue and orange branding to scorch your eyeballs, after all the soft greys and softer browns of the stonework and skeletons located in the main hall.

At the box office they expressed surprise that I was only picking up just the one, solitary ticket. As if a woman old enough to have a theatre-going sproglet of her own, going to see a kids’ show at 11am on a Sunday morning, was at all an odd thing to do. I’m beginning to think that I should get some business cards printed up so that I can hand them over in by way of explanation of my strangeness in these situations. I mean… business cards that say londontheatremarathon.com on them. Not one declaring "following affidavits from the midwife and a doctor, I confirm that the bearer is, in all probability, human."

I put on my best intelligent face, hoping they’d think I was a post-grad student researching Darwin or something. I could be. I totally read his lesser known work, The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals, while at uni. The fact that I seem to be reading mainly YA fantasy at the moment is besides the point.

Anyway, that expression of surprise wasn’t the last one I was going to get. It followed me to the programme seller. “You want a programme?!” he asked, as well he might as they were 7 quid and I didn’t see anyone else with one once I got inside the theatre.

But before I could make it in, it was my turn to get a shock.

The person on the door, after checking my ticket, asked me to present my hand and then with a gentle, and yet reassuringly firm, touch, pressed something onto my skin.

I’d been branded. With a stamp!

Now, there’s nothing wrong with the stamp. Stamps are cool. And it’s a… turtle? I think? And, you know, I like turtles. Turtles are great.

But are they necessary?

Stamps I mean. Not turtles. I’m sure turtles are very necessary. As a metaphor for perverse in the face of overwhelming odds if nothing else. Oh wait, it was a tortoise in that race. Nevermind. Turtles are useless.

Unlike the neat little plastic disk system at The Union Theatre, these stamps don’t seem to serve much of a purpose, because the Jerwood Gallery at the National Bloody History Museum has tickets.

How the turtle stamp manages to prove the existence of a ticket better than the ticket itself, I’m not sure. Is a stamp better? I mean, other than being dinky. And cute. With it’s chubby swimming legs, and lovely rotund shell and…

Okay, I get it. Love the stamp. I am in total favour of the stamp.

And while we’re here, can we all take a moment to appreciate that I'm in the Natural History Museum wearing a sweatshirt covered in dinosaurs? This is some quality content that I'm offering you here. I just don't want it going unnoticed.

Wait, is this what I'm doing now? Dressing to theme? Am I going to wear a Viking helmet to the Royal Opera House? Winged sandals to the Apollo? Dress as a Christmas tree topper to Little Angel Theatre? As an old witch to the Aldwych? (Sorry). A ruff to Shakespeare's Globe? (I could actually do this... I totally own a ruff. Because of course I do). Okay, I'll stop now. I'm not going to do that. Still, it would have made going to the Red Hedgehog Theatre extra fun...

Where was I… right, in the Jerwood Gallery. Or the Jerwood Gallery Theatre. Not quite sure what this place is: a pop-up venue in a museum, or a more permanent fixture with more shows to follow. It looks like a pop-up venue. It feels like a pop-up venue. The seating is more suited to a secondary school assembly than a theatre. The stage is a literal black box that looks like it has been pushed into the vaulted gallery, like a kid pushing a chunky wooden cube into a play-set to help them learn shapes, or spatial awareness, or… I don’t actually know what they’re for. None of it gives the impression that it was built for the space in any meaningful way. Which makes me think that it will all be packed up, and the gallery restored to its former use, at some point in the very near future.

I don’t suppose there are that enough natural history-related plays floating about to fill a theatre into perpetuity. But then, perhaps it is a case of “build it and they will come.” I’d love to see a play about Mary Anning here (the dinosaur lady of Dorset). That would be frickin’ amazing.

Darwin’s great and all, but I doubt he could pull off a bonnet like Ms Anning.

In fact, The Wider Earth had a distinct lack of bonnets. Despite being set in the 1820s. It did have a hell of a lot of puppets though. Which seems to be the theme of my first week of this challenge. 3 of the 7 shows that I’ve been to this week have featured puppets. And not just puppets. Animal puppets. We had ensanguined sheep at Don Q, a spider on strings at A very very very dark matter, and an adorable iguana here at The Wider Earth. If only War Horse were still running, I could have gone for a fourfer.

I am not a number. I am a three man

I’ve been giving a lot of big talk about small theatres in the past few blogs, but this next one looks upon them and sneers at their hulking coarseness. Where the Ambassadors and the Garrick are lumbering about, weighed down by fancy architectural flourishes and Grade II listings, the Union Theatre zips nimbly around them, laughing at their twirly bits.

Twirly bits aren’t the only things they’ve done away with.

When I arrived at the box office (perched on the end of an already small bar) I was handed a large purple disk emblazoned with the number 3 that looked like the sort of plastic tag a bored-looking shop assistant will hook onto your hangers in a shop’s changing rooms.

“Have you been here before?” asked the youngest box officer I had ever seen (I swear it’s not just me getting old).

I had to admit that I had not.

She explained the system. Once the doors open at 7.15, we’d be called into the auditorium in groups. First the 10 people with a number 1 on their disks, then the number 2s, then the 3s etc. Thus ensuring that those who had arrived earliest got first pick on the unreserved seating.

Neat system. I like it. Removes the stress and queuing that so often goes with unreserved seating.

Pressure off, I had the chance to explore.

The Union Theatre doesn’t have a foyer. As you as you walk through the door, you fall straight into a cafe that looks like it was modelled your cool friend’s kitchen. You know the one, the friend who has mismatched cutlery picked up from French flea markets, and collections of found objects arranged in a fresh and original manner, that you feel confident you could emulate in your own home, but you know deep down would only look like a towering pile of rubbish if you ever actually attempted it. The friend who reads Dostoevsky. In the original. But will only roll their eyes if you express amazement at this and ask you what you think about the new Doctor Who. The friend who only looks put together, and yet effortless. At the same time. The friend who would hate if you didn’t love them so much. Yeah, that fucking bitch.

That combined with the massive tables built for sharing and the chill vibes radiating off the staff makes for a really relaxed atmosphere. Tables are filled with strangers as they perch next to each other to read or have a drink. The director was even having his dinner at one.

All this general bonhomie floating in the air must have softened my newly-sharpened corners because I soon found myself in conversation with a fellow theatre-goer on all things Ibsen. Or rather, I was talked to about all things Ibsen. I don’t have a great deal of Ibsen anecdotes at my disposal, so my new friend had to do most of the heavy lifting on that one. Thankfully, before the load of carrying the entirety of the conversation grew too much for them, their number was called and they were off, guided behind the heavy red curtains, through the great double doors, and into the theatre.

A few minutes later, it was my turn.

I tried to get a photo of the inside of the auditorium, but the combo of me being a terrible photographer and the lighting being very… atmospheric (lit: dark. Or rather, unlit: dark) I couldn’t get anything remotely worth looking at. Unless you enjoy peering at murky-dark images, with only the shadows for highlights.

So, let me paint you a picture with words.

It’s a brick-walled room. Seven rows of seats. Green upholstery. Comfy. Excellent rake. Sound desk to the right. Staircase upstage. Lighting rig overhead. There’s a freestanding set that can be spun around to form a building caught mid-build, to a town-hall platform, to the interior of a house. Nifty.

The space is so small, and yes: intimate, that even from my position in the very-much-not-the-front-row I felt utterly immersed in the action.

The good kind of immersed. Not the actors-threatening-to-interact-with-me kind of immersed.

The construction noises were very effective. Really effective. A low rumbling on the edge of hearing gradually grew into a thundering roar until my chair was vibrating as the noise intensified still further and then slowly died down, finalising off with rhythmic metallic clangs. They were very familiar sounding clangs. Very familiar. I could have sworn I had heard that sound earlier that day. And not on a building site.

And that’s when I suddenly remembered that I was sitting inside a theatre built underneath a railway arch.

And the rumble was a train passing over our heads.

It was a bit like stepping out of a dream when I staggered back into the bar during the interval.

I was fully not prepared to chat to anyone, no matter how chill the vibes or communal the large tables.

At these times I would usually bury my head in the programme, but being the spry and nimble theatre this is, there weren’t any.

And then I realised, with no ticket, and no programme, I would have no physical evidence of ever being here. No memento for me to take away.

Oh dear.

This was bad.

What was I going to do?

My boxes and boxes of random crap picked up from theatres was going to be missing a representative from the Union Theatre. My collection would forever be incomplete. What on earth was I going to leave to my grandchildren?

“Do you have, like, a cast sheet or something?” I asked, driven more by hope than expectation.

They did. Tucked away, behind the bar.

Phew.

Panic over.

Now that I know that they have small bits of paper for me to hoard like a Golem of theatre ephemera, I can confidently make the decision to really like this theatre. I’m going to come back a lot, I think… starting next year.

Sweet Madeleine, duh duh duh

Departing from the bright lights and over-amped atmosphere of the West End, I travelled over the river to check off my next theatre, by way of seeing the shiny new Martin McDonagh. Or rather, the slightly faded Martin McDonagh, as it closes at the end of the week.

I know, I know. You're not the first one to say that. I've heard it before. Loudly. It tones of consternation. Let me take the time to assure you that I went in fully aware that this was not McDonagh's finest work. And I was okay with that. Because I love McDonagh.

Yes, liking McDonagh is a very very dark matter indeed. And yes, he gives off the air of being... shall we say... a bit of a shit. I get that. He’s a superhuman wordsmith, who uses his powers purely for evil. I've never come across a writer who appears to hate his audience quite so blatantly, and seeks to cause them quite so much pain. With a cruel glint in the eye, he gives the audience a cute puppy to look after, before handing us a knife and telling us to murder it. And we do it. And giggle along the way. Horrified by our own laughter but unable to stop.

I hate him. And I adore him. But most of all I respect him.

If I had his skill, I would probably do the same thing. Or rather, I would watch his plays longingly, wishing I had the guts to do the same thing... so no difference to what's happening now really.

Now, I’ve been to the Bridge before. But ended up leaving during the interval because they had run out of madeleines.

No, I'm not kidding. Yes, I mean the little French cakey things that caused so much consternation in the last series of the Great British Bake Off. No, it wasn’t an overreaction. And frankly, how dare you even suggest that it was.

They'd built those damn cakes up so much, featured them so heavily in their marketing, made it as if pure joy could only be found within their soft golden ingots, that when we saw the last plate being whisked away from us at the bar during the interval, the disappointment was so crushing it was a physical impossibility for us to make it back to our seats to watch the second act. Instead we went to eat dessert at a nearby bar. It's the first and only time I've walked out of a play, and I still don't regret it.

Cake is very important to me.

So you can see, the stakes were high. I had to get those madeleines.

And I have to say, it's surprising how fast you can walk with the drumbeat of "madeleines, madeleines, madeleines," beating in your heart.

I powered down Blackfriars Bridge and across Bankside, driven by the kind of fervour that Trumpites must get when someone wishes them Happy Holidays.

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The loud tapping of my foot and the pain on my face as I waited to collect my ticket was so acute, the bloke on box office actually ended up apologising to me. (No, I'm sorry, lovely box office person. All my fault. I was having cake-based-anxiety. I'm quite sure you understand).

Then on to the bar.

It was 6:50. For a 7.45 start. I was early. Really early. And yet there was already a queue.

I could see the chefs further along removing a tray of delicious domed dainties from the oven. The warm scent drifted over to me, taunting me. What if that was the last batch? Was I too late? This play had no interval. There would be no second chances.

The man in front of me was being served. What was he getting? Wine. Fuck's sake. Couldn't that wait? Some of us had important things to order.

The oven opened again and another waft of Yankee-candle-scented air blasted out.

The man's wine was delivered. He turned around.

Comeoncomeoncomeon.

The barman raises his eyebrows, indicating he's ready for me.

I try and step forward, but the wine man is still there, at the bar. Dithering.

He steps to the left, directly into my path, blocking me even further.

It took ever inch of self control I had not to scream at him.

Eventually, he and his wretched wine moved on.

"CanIavesommadeleinesples?" I said, clutching onto the edge of the bar for support, my purse already half open in my hand.

"Of course!" said the barman, as if salvation had not just been delivered to me in cake form.

For the princely sum of a fiver, I was handed one of those little buzzy things and advised it would take about 10 minutes.

I spent those 10 minutes taking photos of the foyer, and checking my little buzzy thing every 30 seconds, just in case my rapidly falling sugar-levels meant that I could no longer sense the buzziness, but I needn't have feared. Exactly 10 minutes later, it vibrated, and lit up with glaring red lights.

My madeleines were ready!

There they were. As beautiful as a newborn baby. As beautiful as six newborn babies. Sextuplets, no less. All arranged around a plate like the petals of the tastiest flower ever cultivated.

I nearly cried.

Grabbing my prize, I found a seat, paused just long enough to take some photos (you're welcome) and dove in.

Oh rapture. Oh heavenly transcendence.

Still warm from the oven, each bite melted into memory without the indignity of needing to be chewed, leaving nothing but the taste of angel's tears and sweet butter behind on the tongue.

I had planned to take a few home with me to have as a midnight snack. I had even washed out my Tupperware extra carefully post-lunchtime sandwich (toasted bagel with chicken liver pate, sweet gem lettuce and lashings of sriracha) in order to house them safely for the journey.

That idea didn't last long. The only way they were going home with me was in my belly.

As the final bite dissolved into the distant past, there was nothing for it but to head into the auditorium.

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How did I manage to sneak a photo of a empty theatre? Had I jimmied the lock and broken in overnight? Was I given a special tour by the press team ahead of my state visit?

I was surprised too. 7.34 and the auditorium was empty save for a few ushers and two other audience members who had not had not tasted the madelelines (I could tell. Their faces lacked the simple contentment of the saved).

A minute late a dark little ditty, poised somewhere between a child's nursery rhyme and a nightmare, started over the speakers, and people began to pour in, still clutching their wine glasses, seemingly determined to get as much alcohol down their throats as possible before the play begun.

The Bridge audiences sure know how to party. Or perhaps they'd just read the reviews. I almost started to feel kindly towards them. It was as if we'd all, collectively, decided we were going to get through this. Together. I don't think it's an overstatement to say there was a touch of the blitz spirit in the air.

The box hanging above the stage started swinging.

Wine was sipped.

Madeleines digested quietly.

Everyone in the audience set their shoulders to the task of getting through the evening.

The lights dimmed.

It began.

Anyway, I liked the play. I don't know what you all were going on about.