Divorced, Beheaded, Fried

“Meet you by Agatha Christie?”

I’ve always wanted to be the person who says things like that. Well, ever since I read I Capture the Castle and fell in love with Topaz Mortain when she describes the British Museum as a place where "people do nothing but use it for assignations - I met him there myself once.”

My attempt at my own literary assignation is soon thwarted by Nicki’s look of confusion. “Where is that again?”

“It’s near the noodle shop. If you walk down the road towards Five Guys.”

 “Ah!” She nods. “Next to the crossing. I know where that is.”

Somehow, this was all starting to lose the sense of romance I was going for.

We were going to see Six that night. Something we were both very excited about. So excited, even a battle with the TodayTix app for day seats that morning hadn’t managed to dampen our spirits. In our pursuit of cheap, or at least cheaper tickets, we’d both been poised on our respective phones, to hit that button at 10am on the dot.

But it seems we weren’t the only people who wanted to see this hit show on a random Tuesday evening and were we made to wait while other, luckier, app users made tea, tried to find a date, or otherwise occupied their time, with unbought tickets sitting in their basket.

Eventually, a few single tickets crept back up for sale. I grabbed one. I tried to buy another but the app wasn’t having it. No multiple purchases for a single performance. Even if you only wanted the two tickets.

I ran over to Nicki’s desk. She was on a work call. There was no time for that. I grabbed her mobile and directed her through the medium of waving it in front of her face that she needed to unlock it. She did. App opened, I clicked the checkout button. Success! Single ticket in the basket and only a few seats down from the one I had bought.

After that, it was only a matter of finding somewhere to meet that evening.

Enter Agatha Christie.

Or at least her memorial on the intersection between Cranbourn and Great Newport streets.

Shaped like a massive book, it’s perfect for leaning against and getting in the way of tourists’ photos.

“Shall we get our tickets first?” I asked when Nicki appears at my elbow.

We dart across the road to the Arts Theatre and push our way through the packed bar.

“Is this the queue?” we ask people in general.

A man shrugs. “I have no idea,” he says before turning his back. Guess that’s a no then.

Nicki gets out her phone, but the app isn’t necessary. We are on surname terms here.

Nicki gets her ticket, then the bloke on box office hands one to me.

I frown at it. Right seat number. It has my name on it and everything.

“How…?” I start. “Did you give him my name?” I ask Nicki.

“Of course!” she says, surprised that I hadn’t noticed.

Oh dear.

I stuffed the problematic ticket into my bag.

“Food?”

We went to Five Guys. Might as well.

“Shall we share a milkshake?” asks Nicki as we stand in the queue.

“No!” I exclaim, horrified. I’m a grown woman. I can buy my own damn milkshakes.

“Max, I’m going to force intimacy on you if it’s the last thing I do. We’re sharing a milkshake.”

I opened my mouth, ready to let forth a very articulate refusal that would leave poor Nicki quaking in her shoes, but after one look at her face I shut it again.

We shared a milkshake.

“Shit, it’s five to,” I say, catching a glimpse of my phone.

We scramble for our coats. Nicki puts her leftover fries in her bag. I grab the milkshake.

“Shit, they’ve all gone in,” I say as we reach the Arts. The foyer is completely empty.

A man opening the door quickly steps to one side to let us through, terror in his eyes.

“Thank you!” I shout over my shoulder, as we run across the foyer towards the auditorium entrance. “Can we take this in?” I ask, holding up the milkshake.

“Thank you,” I say at the same time as he says: “Err…”

No time to stop to take photos or even buy a programme. We aimed straight for our seats.

Our separated seats.

Oh. I had forgotten about that.

The man sitting next to me stood up to let Nicki pass.

“Sorry,” I say. “Do you think it would be possible to move down a couple of seats…” I let me request trail off.

“No.”

“Oh.”

I mean, fair does. He was under no obligation to move because some pair of woman, who arrive seconds before curtain up, can’t get their act together enough to buy two seats next to one another.

He grinned. “Only kidding,” he said, moving down a seat.

Well, there we are then. True love reigns supreme. Or at least joint-milkshake ownership.

Read More

RADA me than you

Not sure I have a lot to say about this one. I’ve been to RADA before after all and don’t really fancy repeating myself. So let’s do ourselves a favour and keep this one short.

Monday night and I’m back at the RADA building on Malet Street. I was off to the see some new writing at the Jerwood Vanbrugh Theatre, which was all rather exciting. The play was Gig. I did have some concerns about the appropriateness of asking a pile of graduating drama students to play the roles of newly graduated, out of work actors, but hey - they’re keeping it real, I suppose. Living their art. Or at least, their future. I mean potential future. And a very small potential at that. They’re all talented kids. They’ll do just fine, I’m sure.

On this marathon of mine, the most frequent question I get asked is “what’s been your favourite so far?” to which I can honestly answer - the drama schools. I’m hit up but RADA and LAMDA so far (with a few more trips to both still to go) and they have all been absolutely fantastic.

I mean, yes - the queues at box office are so slow moving I do wonder whether the staff are busy making sandwiches under the desk which they are looking for our tickets. And yes - I do frequently get lost in these places despite the fact that they really are doing the absolute most when it comes to signage.

But seriously, those kids.

I really shouldn’t call them kids.

They are all grown-ups, graduating from some of the most prestigious acting schools in the world.

But man… those kids.

I love generation z, I really do. It’s less, the children are our future, let them lead the way. But more, the future’s only hope is the children, and then are going to smash it. We just better be prepared to get out the way.

Even with this half-awed, half-terrified view of the youth of today, I don’t think I could ever love them more than when watching RADA and LAMDA graduation shows.

So talented. So enthusiastic. So damn earnest.

They really are the greatest generation.

Anyway, where was I?

Right, RADA.

“Which show is this for?” asks the lady on box office when I eventually make it to the front of the queue.

Err, that question again. I don’t know. I never know.

“Anyone here for The Philosophy Shop,” asks a front of houser. We all shake our heads. “That’s it,” he says, in his radio before wandering off.

“Woman and Scarecrow?” suggests the lady on box office.

No, it wasn’t that one either.

We finally land on Gig as being the play I’m seeing that night.

It was a full house at RADA. All the theatres pumping out performances at full steam as they process their graduating class.

Ticket acquired, I wondered off into the main foyer. Some sort of event was happening there, as there was a table with wine and nibbles, surrounded by important looking people.

At the other end, there was queue composed of decidedly less important looking people.

I join the queue.

A few minutes later, the doors open and we start shuffling in.

“Oh, umm,” said the ticket checker as I reach the front of the queue. “Gig, sorry, no.” He pointed away from the queue. “Can you wait there?”

I do as I’m told. Waiting there as the queue disappeared and then a new queue formed in its place.

Was I supposed to join it? In the end I decide that I should, and as I walk down to the end I creep on the tickets of those waiting. “Gig.”

Good. I was in the right queue.

Doors open and I make my way past the ticket checker.

This time he lets me pass.

Up the stairs. Ticket torn. And in I go.

In a first, not just for the marathon, but for life, I’m in a theatre with multiple levels and unreserved seating. I’d never thought such a thing possible. But there RADA is, breaking down boundaries once more.

I plump for the stalls. Well… you would. Wouldn’t you?

The Jerwood Vanbrugh is a funny space. At first glance it looks like a scaled down Royal Opera House. I mean, it doesn’t have two-and-a-half tonnes worth of red velvet curtains, and is lacking a bit in the gilt department, but the shape is the same. The seating is arranged in a horseshoe shape. But instead of having stalls seating in the gap, they have an extended stage-space. Like a thrust stage, I suppose. But softer. With all the hard edges sloughed off.

RADA (or should I say, designer James Cotterill) made full use of this extra space by sticking an entire living room in the extra space, while the more traditional stage area took up the role of kitchen (with an extra surprise lurking behind a screen just above it).

Very nice.

Even nicer, there was a programme seller right there on the stage. An improvement on my last visit to RADA when there wasn’t one to be found anywhere except when I was leaving, and even there I had to hang around like a friggin numpty for minutes on end before I was able to snatch her attention away from the person she was chatting shop with.

And even nicer still, by 9.15pm I was out of there and on my way home, so I had time to get a few hours on my other gig (err, this blog) before crashing face first into my pillow.

Right, how long was that?

940 words.

Crap.

So much for a short post.

Oh well. What can I say? I write a lot of words. I’m sorry.

Best sign off before I think up any more of them.

Oh wait… if you’re wondering what my second most asked marathon-question is, it’s “what has been the worst so far?” My peeps love them some drama. My answer has been static at Thriller Live at the Lyric for a long arse time now. But I think I may have a new winner. Yes, I’m still salty about the whole thing.

Read More

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here

“Are you here for Hopeful Monster?” she asked.

I was.

“25% of the ticket price goes to child.org,” she says, peeling off a large round sticker off an A4 sheet.

“Oh nice,” I say taking it from her.

It’s pink. “I [heart] my mum,” it reads.

I look around, not knowing where to stick it. Not sure I want to wear it on my coat. I leave it flapping around on my fingertips.

I tuck myself away next to the staircase and make friends with a horse’s head wearing a St Paddy’s Day Guinness hat. He doesn’t look overly happy about it, although whether it’s the hat or my need for company that’s distressing him I can’t quite work out.

Soon more people arrive to collect their stickers, each looking more perplexed than the last as they try to work out what to do with it. A man dances around as he bounced his stickered-up hand between coat and scarf as the final home of his sticker. He settles on the front of his hoodie and pats it down on his chest. The look on his face suggests that he has immediate regret.

One woman has it on the back of her hand.

The stickiness on my fingertips is starting to bother me. Without thinking about it, I grab my phone and smooth the sticker down on the back. Just like I would if I were at the Donmar and this was one of the stickers handed out to the fillers’ queue on press night.

I couldn’t see my face, but I imagine it looked just like the man in the hoodie.

Regret. Deep and sorrowful.

My phone is new. So new that I still haven’t managed to buy a case for it.

And now I had a cheap paper sticker stuck to it proclaiming how much I [heart] my mum.

People rush up and down the stairs and I press myself against the wall, out of the way while they lift chairs from unoccupied tables and carry them back up.

A seat cushion slips off one.

“That's not supposed to happen,” laughs the woman as she tries to fix the chair.

“Don't worry, I won’t tell anyone,” I whisper back.

Eventually, the procession of chairs came to an end and we were allowed upstairs.

“It's unreserved seating, but if you can leave the first two rows free for children that would be ideal,” said the person greeting us at the top.

The stage was small. A table, flooded with light from a totem pole of lamps set up on either side. Close proximity would be essential.

I dither next to the third row, trying to decide whether the aisle seat on the short right-hand row would be superior to the aisle seat on the slightly closer left hand row.

“It’s a full house,” calls the usher. “So if you can all move down.”

I panicked, and picked the long row on the left, going right to the end, next to the fireplace.

“A minute later they first two rows are completely filled with grownups.”

I looked around. There was not a single child to be seen. Reminds me of the Puppet Barge in Little Venice. These shows may be made with children in mind, but it takes a childless adult to want to traipse out to these things on a Sunday afternoon.

Now, you know that I don’t write a lot about the actual performance in this blog. That’s not what we’re about at the marathon. But in this case, I wouldn’t have been able to even if I wanted to. Because I didn’t see it.

No, I didn’t have to leave due to a near fainting incident. I assure you, I was in the room and in my seat the entire time.

I just couldn’t see it.

Literally, none of it.

Oh, I occasionally caught a glimpse of a hand when it was lifted far enough off the table to be visible over the heads of the people sitting in front of me. But not enough to establish any kind of storyline. For me, Hopeful Monster was nothing more than 40 minutes of listening to gentle music.

There was a giraffe at one point, I think. And some grass. And a creature which was possibly a pterodactyl. But beyond that, I couldn’t tell you what the show was about or what happened in it.

Recently I’ve been playing with the idea of awarding badges to certain theatres. Best Madeleines. Longest queue for the loos. You get the idea. There’s one badge in particular that scratches away at my conscious. Forget the “I [heart] my mum” stickers. If I were going to hand out anything after this trip it would be the “If this were my first trip to the theatre, I would never return.”

 

 

Read More

I summoned a Demon

"Hold this thread, please," says Katy Schutte, our host for the ceremony, as we step into the Pit.

I held the thread up by my head and Katy unwinds the spool down to the ground so that we now have a length of cotton that matches my height.

This is my last trip to the Vaults. Well, that's not quite true. I have one more Vault Festival venue to go. But it's not in the Vaults tunnels, so perhaps it doesn't quite count.

Now, I can see that look on your face. It's a look that says - Max, you lied to us. You said that Talented Mr Ripley was your last Vaults show. And now you're saying that not only was it lot your last performance at the festival, it wasn't even the last one to be taking place in the Vaults.

To which I say... well done. You got me. But if you recall a little further back, I managed to turn up to the Pit for this sho a whole month early. So really, if you think about it... this post is just an extension of that one. A four-week-long immersive experience, if you will.

And, following on from that train of logic, perhaps that is how it was meant to be. I was called to the Pit by forces unknown and unseen, for reasons that have yet to be revealed to me. Perhaps they wanted to make a measure of me too. In preparation for my return.

"You can take a seat to the south," she added, standing back up, helpfully pointing to a bench just in case I didn't know where south was (I didn't).

The Pit is the smallest of the Vaults venues, with just enough room for a narrow stage and three concentric circles of bench seats. The same benches I had found in the Cavern for Carnival of Crows. I think these must be the Vault Festival 'alternative' chairs. Their vintage/witchy/spiritual option, for vintage/witchy/spiritual artists. They're bloody uncomfortable.

"I have a task for you," said Katy, once we're all almost sat down. "In the centre of the circle, you'll find paper and pens. I want you to write a message to a man who did you wrong."

The ladies to my left burst out of their seats and scramble to get started. They have words that need to be said.

It's then I realise that we're nearly all women. I look around. Only four men, in a room of women.

Read More

Playing gooseberry

Let me get one thing started before you go getting any ideas. I know what you're like. Always thinking the worst of me. But, and I cannot say this strongly enough, I absolutely and utterly did not gatecrash someone else's date night.

I would say, if anything, they gatecrashed mine.

I was perfectly content taking myself off to see my last show in the Vaults. I tramped up and down that black corridor, seeing plays about serial killers, and young people making mischief in foreign lands, and confidence tricksters, and I was ready to watch something completely different.

So I booked a ticket to The Talented Mr Ripley.

See, I have breadth. I can also watch a play about a young man who goes to Italy and ends up murdering multiple people while defrauding the father of a friend who thinks he's helping return the boy home...

Oh.

Um.

Anyway, as I was saying. I was fine going by myself. I had my ticket all booked already.

But then Martha saw the show in my spreadsheet and wanted to come along. So she bought a ticket to the show.

And then a few days later I get a Whatsapp message at nine in the morning from her. I knew it had to be important, as Martha isn't the type to send my Whatsapp messages at nine in the morning.

"Soooo I just told Luke about Talented Mr Ripley, and he was outraged that I hadn't invited him as it's his fave book and film... so I'm afraid we have a plus 1 on Weds, he's bought a ticket."

And that's a direct quote. Apart from the punctuation. I added that in.

So, you can see. I am not responsible and I refuse to accept the label as gooseberry. Are we clear? Great.

Moving on then.

Martha and I took the bus down to Waterloo. It was only Wednesday but it had already been the longest week since records began. This was not the evening for any form of activity that could even tangentially be linked to healthiness. We needed stodge. And alcohol. And to be dropped at the door with the minimal amount of walking possible within the confines of the TFL infrastructure.

“I can’t download my ticket,” said Martha, stabbing at her phone screen with a frustrated finger, as we made our way down Leake Street.

“You don’t need it,” I said, slightly hurt. It was true. She didn’t need it. But she would have known if she had read any one of my multiple Vault Fest blog posts.

“At all?”

“No. It’s only bag checks to get through the main door and then you give your name at the actual venue entrance.”

But of course, I don’t need to tell you this. You’ve been with me enough times to the Vaults to know the system off by heart.

But for once, I was going off script. I wouldn’t be heading straight to the venue door to start queueing. With a guest in tow, it was time to sample what the Vaults to offer in the way of emotion-drowning sustenance.

That is, if we could figure out how to get hold of it.

“Do we order at the bar?” Martha asked as we made our way past security and down the dark corridor of doom.

“Yeah, I think so. But which one?” By my count we had already passed two, and there was a third coming up.

“Shall we just sit down?”

That sounded like a sensible option. I am very much in favour of sitting down.

At barely past six o’clock, the Vaults were almost empty. We grabbed the end of a long table, coated with a thick later of flyers and festival listings, and a few other overeager festival-goers over on the other end.

“I do like the Vaults,” said Martha, as I struggled with the stools. Shaped like beer barrels, they needed to be tilted on their edge and rolled in order to shift anywhere. Which is fine, under the cushion topped falls off. I was way too tired for that shit.

I could only sigh my agreement.

The Vaults are a fine place to visit. When you’re young. Personally I like proper chairs. And tickets. And good signage. And not to feel like the oldest, most uncool, person in the building.

Being around Martha, and the newly arrived Luke didn’t help, with their young, fresh faces, and ability to sit on a barrel without looking like a plonker.

“Drinks?” asked Luke.

Fuck yes.

And food.

Frankfurters were on the menu. Which sounded just the right level of stodge and carbs for a night like this. Bonus points for being topped with curry sauce.

“This is really good,” said Martha.

It really was. Nice soft bread. Lots of onions. The side of roast potatoes was mediocre (too soft. No salt), but the currywurst was really doing their job.

The G&Ts didn’t hurt either.

“So, why do you love Ripley so much?” Martha asked Luke.

Ah! Now that was a good question. I’ve seen the film (who hasn’t), and started off the year with a play about its author, but we had a bonafide fan at the table and I was keen to hear more.

“He’s just a great character,” started off Luke.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said a woman, interrupting. “Would you mind if I gave you this?” she asked, flapping a flyer around. “It’s a dark and funny show about eating disorders…”

We all made polite noises until she went away again.

I looked at the table, strewn with flyers, and saw before me a league of performers, desperate to yank people into their shows.

“We should probably go in,” I suggested, picking at the last potato. They may not have been great, but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t going to polish them off.

We gave our names on the door and were whisked off into a wide corridor.

“Would you be interested in using our captioning service tonight?” asked a lady, poised to pounce on anyone walking through.

I wasn’t. Neither were Martha or Luke.

We pressed on. Down the corridor and… up a flight of stairs. That was new. I didn’t even know the Vaults had an upstairs.

Although, if I were to have imagined an upstairs at the Vaults, it would have looked exactly that. Cramped up against the top of a tunnel, battered looking armchairs huddle together in groups on the opposite end to a neglected bar. In an effort to inject a form of whimsy, some plastic wisteria was draped around the doorway, giving the whole space a rather atticy vibe. Although I couldn’t decide whether it was more Jane Eyre, or Flowers in…

Across the room and we were transported to the back the Crescent’s auditorium, the rows of chairs descending before us.

Somehow, I had managed to save the best Vaults venue for last. It was a theatre. A real theatre. No temporary seating here. These chairs looked like they had been lifted from an art deco cinema - in the 1930s. Everything had a gently moldering air. As if we were the first people to step inside for decades.

Down on the floor-level stage, a man sat with his back to us, clacking away on a typewriter. The sound echoing against the rumble of trains above our heads.

Read More

Damn lies and run times

Ah, Southgate. I used to live there, many years ago. And work there, come to think of it. Back when I first moved to London to do my post-grad degree.

But despite going full ham on Southgate, I never made it up to the Chickenshed Theatre.

Probably because this was well down before I started working in theatre. Before I even started watching theatre. That’s how far back we’re talking here. A fresh-faced twenty-one year old, embarking on an MSc, with no time for things like art, or culture, or... Christ, what did I do back then? I seem to recall crying in the university library a lot…

Anyway, the Chickenshed.

My one and only encounter with the place actually happened last week, when a bunch of teenagers tried to blag a free bus ride by telling the driver that they were Chickenshed students and… nope. That was their sole reason. The driver waved them on. Mainly because it was nearly 11 o’clock at night and he probably didn’t want the murder of five teenage girls on his conscious. That, and they were Chickenshed students.

Good for him, I say.

As I walked down memory lane, or as it appears on the maps: Chase Side, I couldn’t help but stop to peer into half-forgotten shops along my way. Oh, look - there was the bank where some bloke tried to ask me out and got mad when I couldn’t remember his name. And over there, the supermarket where a guy followed me down all the aisles only to tell me I had nice shoes.

It was almost a relief when the street extended beyond the reach of shops and I was plunged into a dark road bordered either side by even darker games pitches. Remembering things is exhausting.

Eventually, even the darkness grew tired and I emerged blinking into the bright lights of the Chickenshed car park.

A very busy Chickenshed car park.

Children swarmed everywhere.

“Did you get the part?” asked one parent, slinging their child’s satchel up over their shoulder.

“Yes, but not the main part.”

I waited for them to clear so that I could grab a shot of the front of the building without risking any child protection laws.

Inside was another matter altogether. They were everywhere. Tables full of them as they sat eating their post-class suppers. I lurked to one side, editing my Time and Leisure blog post, and trying not to feeling like the creeper in the room, writing about an 18+ show while surrounded by the under eights.

"Would you like a programme?" came a voice from just behind my elbow. I jumped, hiding my phone and hoping very hard that the owner of the voice hadn't seen my extended description of excited moaning.

"Absolutely," I said, tucking my phone away in my pocket. "I clearly have the look about me of someone who is in need of a programme. And I totally am. Good spot. I love me a programme." I was speaking way too fast.

The programme seller looked at me nervously. "It's my last one," she said, holding it out so that I could see there was only one. "I've been asking everyone..."

"Oh..." I handed over the two pounds fifty and slunk away.

The house had opened, but there didn't appear to be any moves made from either parents or children towards the doors.

"Are you going to see the show?"

"The one tonight? Nah."

"What about you?"

"Nu-uh."

That was worrying. A room packed with theatre kids and not one of them wanted to see the show that evening. What else is the purpose of a 7pm start if not to make it accessible to those with bed-time before in still single digits?

I went over to the blue door, as directed by my ticket. No left or right at the Chickenshed. It's all red or blue over here.

One person on the door the check tickets, another inside to point you in the direction of your seat. The staffing was enough to serve the 300 seater auditorium. It's a pity that there wasn't an audience to match.

I looked around. The first four rows of the theatre were fairly few, but as soon as I turned around, nothing but banks of empty seats rose up behind me.

And not a single child.

Had a really risked both panic and heart attacks getting across London to be there before 7 o'clock, only to spend the evening with a bunch of grownups? Apparently so.

Still, it was a short show. 90 minutes, no interval. The bestest words you can ever hear in a theatre.

With a 20 minute walk back to Southgate station and a 30-minute bus home, I might make it back in time more my own single digit bedtime.

The massive stage, way bigger than any 300-seater theatre should have a right to, was flooded with performers. It was as if the director was inspired by those clown car clips from old TV shows. More and more people squeezed themselves on to dance, sing and tell us about their depression, in wave after wave of scenes.

90 minutes later, the stage emptied and the house lights rose.

No one clapped.

No curtain call.

"Is that the interval?" someone asked.

Interval? The theatre gods wouldn't do that to me. Would they?

Turns out they would, because: yes, it was the interval. The programme had lied to me. The show wasn't 90 minutes.

Like the ever-growing cast, more and more minutes were added.

When we were finally released, it was past nine o'clock. All hopes of being in bed before ten dashed.

I settled on napping on the bus instead.

It was empty.

All the Chickenshed students had left hours ago.

Read More

The Punctuation of Penetration

“What are you seeing tonight?” asked a colleague curiously.

“Pain-T” was my reply, using a hard 't' that forces its way past the teeth. I’d been saying it like that all day, much to my own amusement and everyone else’s bafflement.

“Right…” she said, quickly hurrying away.

In my defence. That’s how it’s spelt: Pain(t).

Slight pause before the t, before tackling the last, segregated, syllable with full force.

I’m nothing if not literal when it comes to titles.

You don't see it much in the word of theatre, but randomly punctuated titles is a running joke in contemporary dance. Or contemp/ary dance. Or quite possibly, con(temp)/ary dance. Or perhaps even, c⁰(t3mp)/RE d@nc3.

The more the title looks like an unsolvable algebraic equation, the higher the art. That's how it works.

You wouldn't believe the nonsense that I've prevented you lot from seeing. Forget those lists of the 100 most influential people in the arts. Those list-makers don't know shit. You want to find the people who are really making an influence? Go to any theatre's admin office. That's where they live. 

Slogging it out, making ideas happen. Or not happen.

I spend a huge chunk of my time putting myself in the way of artists’ intent on throwing the entire keyboard at their titles.

Like that time I was asked to make the title a colour. Not the word for a colour, you understand. The actual colour.

It must have been around then that I started pronouncing titles exactly as they are written.

“Yes, I’d like to talk about Eggs Plus Ham. Sorry, is it not called that? But, that’s how it’s written? Eggs plus-sign Ham. Oh, do you not want people to call it that? You’d prefer them to say Eggs AND Ham? Would you like me to change that to an ampersand? Yeah, thought you would.”

When you do end up seeing one of those titles crops up, what you're really witnessing is the death of a marketer’s soul. Try as hard as you might, you just can’t hashtag a bracket.

So spare a thought for the marketing team at the New Wimbledon, who as part of the Richard Foreman season in their studio (the Time and Leisure Studio - there’s another terrible name for you) had to deal with the unsociable Pain(t).

Spare a thought for me too, because I had just passed the theatre on my way to meet my friend Ellen for tea and cake and I had spotted something unexpected on the poster.

“It’s 18+,” I said. “I did not know that when I booked.”

“What does that mean? Nudity, I guess.”

Yeah. Nudity. Now, I’m not fussed about nudity on stage. Even on tiny, intimate, studio stages. But that age warning worried me.

“It won’t be that bad,” Ellen soothed as she walked me back to the theatre apres-cake. “It’s Wimbledon. Probably just a few bare bums.”

Well, that was cold comfort.

“Can I check your bag please?” asked the sole person standing in the studio foyer.

Tucked into the side of the New Wimbledon, the studio lurks between amongst a line of squat looking shops.

It’s a bit of a shock after the New Wimbledon proper. No marble staircases. No gilt curlicues stuck on the walls. No stained glass.

Instead I was directed up a grey staircase. Purposely grey. With paint rather than breeze blocks, but still. Grey. Its knock-off Farrow and Ball credibility knocked still further by the purple balustrade. Even the doors, still set with their stained glass panels, got the grey treatment.

 

Like the stained glass doors on just down the stairs, the bones of this old building had been covered up with all the sniffiness of a Victorian lady unable to look upon the bare legs of her dining table least it provoke inappropriate thoughts.

Talking of inappropriate thoughts, what was that noise?

Panting. Female panting. Very excited female panting. And moaning. Very decidedly female and distinctly excited panting and moaning.

The top of the stairs was crowded with men.

Somehow I didn’t think any of them were the source of this symphony of sex.

Nor was the woman balancing the tickets on a small ledge that I could only presume was serving as our box office that night.

“Name?” she said, barely looking up as she was buffeted by people squeezing past.

“Is my name in the programme?” came a voice loud with laughter from the back of the crowd. “My name better be in the programme.”

Let’s just hope the there was no one from the marketing team in ear shot. That’s not the kind of joke that anyone wants to hear after battling against a print deadline. Least of all after they’ve spent months having to deal with that blasted set of brackets.

Name or no, I grabbed a programme and went into the theatre. Red lights simmered in a haze over the stage, and the moans grew more intense. I peered through the gloom, trying to work out where I should sit. At the back. Obviously.

That decided, I made my way up the steps towards back, and promptly tripped down a step, making my entrance to the row rather more dramatic than I had intended.

“I would have done that too if I hadn’t seen another person trip earlier,” said a lady in my newly chosen row, not unkindly.

“It’s all part of some masterplan,” I said, recovering my bag and my dignity.

“They’re secretly filming it.”

“It’ll be all over the internet by next week,” I agreed.

Though if the Time and Leisure (that name…) really wanted to go viral, they should have kept the camera trained on my face during the show. Never have I put on such a varied display of facial expressions: from squinting against the lights being blasted into the audience, to bewilderment, perplexion, and puzzlement.

Now, I consider myself an experienced theatre-goer. I’ve been to the theatre more times this year than most would even attempt in a lifetime. But nothing in the 73 shows I had seen in 2019 could have prepared me for Pain(t).

The disconnected phrases. The lack of characters. The complete contempt for storytelling.

I had to go way back to 2012, to In the Republic of Happiness, to find a mental-match to store Pain(t) with.

After a while I let my brain off the hook, and started planning my dinner. At only 70 minutes long I could be at home before ten, throwing up a whole world of culinary possibilities.

Ellen had been right. It was only Wimbledon.

I’ll leave the genuinely 18+ exploits for Magic Mike Live.

Read More

End of the line

Is the Network Theatre a cool theatre? For some reason, I’d always had it filed away in my brain as a cool theatre. Something to do with the location (down a scary road down the arse end of Waterloo Station), or the name perhaps. Whatever. I’ve always considered it one of the capital’s cool theatres, which is probably why I’ve never been before.

And why, when it came to get the Network ticked off my list, I couldn’t damn well find it.

According to Google Maps, I should be standing right on top of it, but there was nothing there but an empty road and a blank wall.

Thankfully, a small niggle of intuition told me that I should check the Network’s own website, and there I found the charming warning “Network Theatre is rumoured to be difficult to find, so check out the map and directions below before your first visit.” But more importantly, up top and in bold, they are the foresight to include: “While the VAULT Festival is on 30 January – 17 March 2019, please use the Launcelot Street entrance, located off Lower Marsh, between Greggs the Bakers and a repair shop. Festival Assistants will be there to guide you.” Brilliant. I knew exactly that was. I even knew what the Festival Assistants looked like. Pink jackets. That’s what they wore.

Back down the road I went, down a flight of stairs, road the corner, past Greggs, down Launcelot Street, and there, waiting at the bottom, was a pink-jacketed Vault rep.

“Hello,” she called out to me when I hurried down the road towards here. “Are you here for the Network Theatre?”

“I am!” I puffed back.

“For The Limit is it?”

“It is!”

“Excellent,” she grinned back. “It’s just this way,” she said, moving towards some tall metal gates. They looked very official what with their number key pad and signs and industrial lighting overhead. She pushed it open and held it open for me, using her free hand to point down the street beyond. Well, I say street, but really it’s a tunnel. If you ever take the exit from Waterloo Station that’s just past the MacDonald’s, the one that faces onto the Old Fire Station, and wondered what was down that dark and dingy alleyway on your right, the one always full of service vehicles and men in hi-vis jackets, well… it’s the Network Theatre.

“It’s on your left,” she explained. “There’s a big Vault Festival banner by the entrance.”

Good thing too, because even knowing it was on the left, I could have walked past it a hundred times without seeing it if it wasn’t for the banner.

If subtly is cool, the Network Theatre is by far the coolest venue in London. It’s like those fancy restaurants that don’t even put a number on their door, figuring everyone worth knowing already knows about the place, and everyone who doesn’t, they wouldn’t want turning up anyway.

Once you step through the door, there’s no question of where you are. I doubt Network Rail goes in for dark red receptions. Nor do I imagine them to be soundtracked by the distant strains of a vocal warm up.

For once at a Vault venue, there was no usher wearing a tablet slung over their shoulder on a string. There was a proper box office. With a laptop and everything.

“The bar is open if you want to have a drink before the show,” said the woman manning the desk after we’d sorted out the business of names. No need for tickets or even admission passes it seems. Give your name and go straight in. That might just be a Vault thing though. The Vault Festival doesn’t anything as old fashioned as tickets. It’s all tablets on strings and pdf e-tickets down their way.

Through the door on the right, and I was plunged into a dark corridor. Very dark. The red of the reception was left behind and was replaced by theatre blacks, a curtain separating corridor from theatre-space. The warbled notes of the warm up intensified.

My eyes searched for anything in the black, a corner, a seam, a crack -anything to guide me through. I kept on walking, and eventually a slip of light opened up on the left, pouring out from the bar. I dove into it, finding myself blinking against the sight of the mint green walls.

Oh… this was not what I was expecting. With the rows of faux leather chairs, and sad looking bookshelves, it looked more like a dentist’s waiting room than the bar of a theatre. Especially not a cool theatre.

Perhaps, I thought, with a flash that took me by way too much surprise, perhaps the Network Theatre wasn’t a cool theatre at all. Perhaps I’d got it all wrong. Perhaps the Network was really just only of those weird little outer London theatres that had mistakenly found its way to Waterloo after getting on the wrong train. It happens to everyone at some point, why not to a theatre?

But then, with an equally surprising flash, another idea took hold.

It was all part of an ironic aesthetic. A theme bar. And the theme was train station waiting room, circa 1974.

That made much more sense.

With a smug stride, I strode over to the bookshelves to check out what titles that they had on offer. Train timetables and trainspotters’ guides, I bet myself. And those official looking leather-bound tomes were probably some old bylaws of the rail network or something equally wryly dull.

I stood staring at them for a full twenty seconds before I my brain was able to process what they were.

Playtexts.

Normal playtexts.

As you might find in any theatre bar with literary pretensions.

Shakespeare. Tom Stoppard. John Osborne. Joe Orton. David Hare.

It was a good collection to be fair, but…well, it’s not quite the library at The Bush, is it?

I moved onto the leather bound books, hoping that there at least me might get a wink of wit.

I crouched down to get a proper look at them.

Readers Digests. Every one.

When I said it looked like a dentist’s waiting room, I didn’t realise quite how accurate that was.

“Can I have a Diet Coke?” someone asked at the bar.

I nodded approvingly. Good choice. The dentists’ choice.

“Its room temperature, just so you know,” said the barman as he placed a can down in front of her.

Warm coke? Ergh. Just the thought was enough for my stomach to roil over.

I escaped back to the safety of the black corridor, where such travesties are hidden in the shadows.

Thankfully, the house was open by this point (the black curtain had been drawn back), so I went in. This was lucky, as it meant I had a pick of seats, and I could select one that had a freesheet on it. Now I understand the logic of only placing one freesheet on every other chair, as most people going to the theatre tend to do it in twos, but as a frequent solo flyer, I don’t want to be left in the cold when it comes to knowing who’s in the cast.

Especially this cast… I mean, come on. A musical about a lady mathematician during the French Revolution… I was never not going to love it. I didn’t understand a word of the maths, but you know I love me some britches action.

At the end of the show, our star (who I know is called Nicola Bernardelie because I got me a freesheet. You won’t find that information anywhere else. Believe me. Not even the theatre company’s own website. I’ve looked. Sort it out, Bottle Cap Theatre) stepped forward and politely asked us to write a review and to get out, because the next batch of audience members would be arriving any minute.

I did as I was told. Both in the getting out quickly, and the writing of a review (ta-daaaa!!!).

Back out in the weird, tunnel-street, I struck off in the direction of Waterloo. I didn’t get very far.

“Oh,” I said, turning to the two women walking behind me… “I think we’re locked in?”

It did appear that way. Large metal gates blocked the exit.

“Just push it,” said one with a knowing smile.

I pushed it, and it swung open easily. I matched her knowing smile with an embarrassed one.

Whatever the coolness-level of the Network Theatre, it seems I’m not going to reach it any time soon.

Read More

You’re in a cult; call your dad

After bidding goodbye to my intrepid theatre-pie tasters, it was time for me to head off to my next show.

Oh, you didn't think I was done for the day, did you? This is a four-show weekend, my friend. Five if you include Friday night's convoluted trip to the Barbican.

I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

Not really. 

My next show was only down the road, in the basement of the Travelling Through bookshop.  

This is my first bookshop if the marathon. 

I've done the former library that is The Bush, and the library-library that is the London Library. But no bookshop. 

Unless we count the Samuel French bookshop being based in the Royal Court, but I think we can all agree that we won't be doing that. 

So, there we were. On Lower Marsh Street, about to find out if bring able to purchase the books on the shelves makes a difference to the theatre they surround. 

Travelling Through is a very small shop. Or at least, that's how it feels when you are crammed shoulder to shoulder with the rest if the audience, as you wait for one of the Vault Festival ushers to check you in on their, by now familiar looking, tablets. 

After Helen's comment at the Vaulty Towers, suggesting that waiting around while holding a pie was actually part of the show, I did wonder whether this close proximity to my fellow audience members was an attempt to show us what life was like for a book, tucked up on the shelf next to its brethren. But the house was soon opened and we filed downstairs, and I forgot all about it.

The little basement cafe is a cosy space. Long tables take up most of the room, but they'd managed to fit in enough tall poufs for us all to sit on.  Each one topped with a freesheet, which was a nice touch. You don't see many of those in the Vault Festival, which is such a shame. And not just because I'm a paper freak. Even with the wonders of the internet housed in our hand, its surprisingly tricky to find out the names of people involved in shows without one. Everyone talks big game about programmes having had their day, but I think we've still got a while to go before I'm made redundant. I mean, they're made redundant. They. Not me. I can do other things than producing programmes. I swear. Please don't fire me.

At one end, a woman cradled a mug of tea. Somehow she'd managed to score an entire table to herself. 

It was xxx. Our performer. 

We all pretended not to notice. 

"What's your view like," asked a glamorous looking woman as she took the pouf next to me.

I glanced over at xxx to assess the situation. 

"Limited," I admitted.

She considered this. "I think I'll sit on my leg, " she said, tucking up one leg under her. 

Read More

Pie Squared

"Well, I have no idea what's going on."

I'd just been on a mission to discover where, when, how, and quite possibly, why, that afternoon's show was happening, and I had returned even more confused than when I had left.

Helen, Ellen, and I were at Vaulty Towers. The pub on Lower Marsh Street that looks like it ran away with the circus.

Giant hands, twisted into claws, are mounted over the door, momentarily turning anyone who walks beneath into a puppet. There's a treehouse. And a room that looks like it's just been vacated by a Tarot-toting, crystal ball wielding, fortune teller for being too cliche even for her. And there's a nook primped with yards of pink tulle.

That's where we were. Trust a bunch of dance nerds to find the one spot that makes you feel as if you've got stuck in the laundry pile at The Royal Ballet School.

The Vaulty have a very lax approach to decoration. Anyone can join in. The nook's walls were scrawled with messages, love hearts, and even a few phone numbers. Clearly, the clientele at this pub doesn't like to limit their creative outpourings to the toilets.

It was 4.25, and there was supposed to be a play starting in this place in five minutes. But there was no sign of it.

Nor of the promised pies or pints.

Oh yeah, we were doing the trifecta.

Play Pie Pint is pitched as a lunchtime experience at the Vaulty. For a tenner (excluding booking fee) you turn up, get given a pint, a pie, and a play.

Except there was no sign of any of these things.

I checked my emails, thinking I must have missed something important, but nope. I had nothing beyond the booking confirmation and a pdf of e-tickets. Start time. Address. That was it. We were on our own.

We grabbed our coats and bags and headed to the bar, keeping our eyes out for a sign of... a sign. Something saying "Theatre this way, you dopes," perhaps. Or a little "Box Office" note taped to the bar. Anything to suggest that this pub was not just a pub, but a pub-theatre.

"Shall I just ask at the bar?" said Helen, going off to do just that, as if that was a normal and sensible thing to do in these situations.

A few minutes later, she returned to tell us of the wisdom she had gained.

"It's happening down there," she said, pointing to a door shaped like a zebra.

But of course. We should have guessed. There was even a sign. It said: "no entry."

We stood around awkwardly, checking our phones and the zebra. It was past 4.30, and the zebra was still closed. The play should already have started.

A bell sounded.

"For those here for Play Pie Pint, the pies are at the end of the bar!"

Oh thank the theatre gods, we had not been forsaken.

"Do we just... grab one?" asked Helen.

I didn't know. That seemed to be what was happening. But everyone was holding back.

At last, some brave soul dove in, his hand hovering over the trays of pies.

"What's the name?" asked a woman behind the bar. "Have you booked?"

She ticked us off. Napkins emerged and were plonked down next to the pies. Followed by a box of cutlery. Then a stack of plates. Finally, we were getting somewhere.

"How is it?" asked Ellen as Helen dug in.

Helen shrugged. "It's alright."

"Are we supposed to eat them now, or take them in?" I thought the idea was to have the three ps all together. But the zebra was still very much closed.

"Perhaps this is it," said Helen, indicating the people standing around awkwardly holding pies.

"An immersive experience?" I really hoped not.

"If we were to leave now, I wouldn't be mad," said Ellen. I shot her a pleading look. I did not want to be left there alone.

Thankfully, at that moment, the zebra swung open. It was time to go down. There was no backing out now.

Down a flight of steep, rickety stairs, and into the basement.

Stone walls. Piled up suitcases. Forgotten furniture. And still balancing my pie on its plate.

I was getting flashbacks to that immersive Sweeney Todd in a pie shop.

I could only hope that the worst pies in London were the only thing we had to worry about. If anyone offered me a haircut I was out of there.

The spaces were getting smaller and smaller. A black curtain covered the final entrance. I pulled it open, fully expecting to be greeted by a man wearing a leather apron and covered in blood, but instead, there was a semi-circle of mismatched chairs. We had reached the theatre.

It was tiny. Even by the standards of pub theatres. And the carpet pinned to the ceiling was doing little to insulate us from the pounding music being played in the pub above our heads.

"I like the faerie lights," said Ellen. "I know they're only cheap, but they do brighten a space up."

She wasn't wrong. With the entire ceiling covered in a constellation of tiny twinkling lights, this basement was looking pretty fucking charming.

"You brought your pies with you!" called a woman from the other side of the circle. "I left mine upstairs."

"Oh..." I looked down at my pie. Perhaps we weren't meant to take them with us after all.

"It wasn't cooked," she continued. "I gave it right back. They tried to give me another one, but I wasn't having it."

"Is your's raw?" asked Ellen.

"I don't think so?"

It tasted fine. Not the best pie I've ever had. Not even the best theatre pie I've ever had. But it was alright. I mean, you can't go far wrong with a chicken pie.

Chicken? Good. Pastry? Good. No apparent signs of salmonella? Fucking A.

Finishing the pie did leave me with the small worry of what to do with the plate. I settled on tucking it under my chair and hoping I didn't accidentally end up with gravy on my coat.

"Does anyone know if someone should be here, who isn't?" asked a young lad who turned out to be one of the writers' of the play.

There were still a lot of empty chairs. And there had definitely been more pies upstairs than there were people downstairs. The chairs did eventually fill up, but it occurs to me, that without any form of ticket check other than giving a name in exchange for a pie, there is nothing to stop someone dropping in and seeing a play sans pie. It seems to me that you're paying for the pie and getting the play for free.

Seats filled, pies consumed, and play introduced, we settled down to watch.

Ellen leaned over to me. "Just so you know, this is my nightmare," she said, as the actors took their places.

Oh dear.

Forty minutes later, and my friendship with Ellen hanging in the balance, we applauded.

The company, all composed of Guildhall students were keen to get our feedback. "We'll be upstairs, getting very drunk, because you know.. students, if you want to come and chat." Bless.

"Did you enjoy that?" one of the actors asked the nearest audience member.

"Yes," she replied. "But my pie wasn't cooked at all. I gave it back and they tried to get me to take another one, but I wasn't having it!"

"Right," he said, all blinking earnestness. "Well, we didn't make the pies..."

It was time to make our escape.

Back through the black curtain. Back past the stacks of furniture. Back of the rickety stairs.

As the others made their way outside, I dithered. The tulle-primped nook was empty save for the legions of notes from past patrons. That was my moment. A chance to make a real difference. I would add to the scrawl of notes. A message for the ages. A warning.

"Pies and plays thatta way -> (Bring your own pint)."

I would be a theatre hero. Nay, a theatre god.

But Helen and Ellen were already waiting outside.

And besides, I didn't have a pen.

Read More

Lose hope all ye enter Eltham

I’ll give the Bob Hope Theatre this: it’s well named.

Everywhere you look, you see him. From the huge photo next to the box office, to the bust near the door, to the portrait glaring at you through the front windows. He’s everywhere.

After my crash course in the horror that is Great Northern Rail on Wednesday, I was determined not to suffer the vagaries of the rail networks again. Leaving the office a full two hours before kick-off time, I found myself enjoying the most stressfully drama-free journey south of the river I have managed to undertake since beginning this marathon. No crowds. No cancellations. Not even a hint of a delay. I even managed to get a nice photo of the Shard while I lazily hung around on the platform at London Bridge for my train that disconcertingly arrived exactly on time. It was most disconcerting.

As this meant that I arrived in Eltham a tiny bit early. Forty-five minutes worth of early.

No matter, I thought. I was in Eltham. A new, exotic, local for me. I could explore! Buy myself a little snack perhaps. The rain-sogged air practically fizzed with possibilities.

As I made my way up from the train station, fighting with, and inevitably giving up on, my umbrella, the fizz dissipated like a forgotten can of Fanta.

Everything was closed. The intriguing looking Wiccan shop had its shutters firmly down. As did every cafe that I passed. Even the police station was dark.

I was beginning to get worried. I really didn’t want to spend the next three-quarters of an hour standing around in the blustery rain.

I pressed on.

Finally, up ahead, I spotted something.

MacDonalds.

What a relief. Maccy Ds never close. Not until all the drunks have cleared out anyhow.

“We’re closed,” said a lady blocking the doorway as a man tried to get in.

“But-“ he started.

She shook her head. “Nope. We’re closed.”

I hung back, marvelling at the exchange. What was this place where a MacDonalds closes at 7pm?

I turned the corner, trudging in the opposite direction to the theatre, desperate to find anywhere were I could get something warm to drink before diving into the frantic world of amdram theatre.

Closed. Closed. Closed. Everything was closed.

Except. There. Just ahead. A Costa. And open until 7.30pm. Thanks the theatre gods, I was saved. Thirty minutes later, an overpriced hot chocolate warming my belly, I retraced my steps, back towards the theatre.

Eltham really is a sleepy little town. Permanently sleepy by the looks of it. I passed two funeral homes on the short work to the theatre.

Which might go some way to explaining this architectural memorial to a dead comedian. When considering their highly specific decorative themes, the Bob Hope can only truly be matched by the Pinter for shrine-like dedication.

 

I gave my name.

She looked through the ticket envelopes. It didn't take long. There were only two of them.

Did you get an e-ticket 

Now, I never select an e-ticket by choose.

 

Emma?

No?

I looked at the list. "It's Maxine," I said, indicating my name. But there was an Emma just below me. Emma Smillie. My god. There were two of us.

 

Are they still giving tickets out

Yeah, if you come here, they give you one. 

So that's the truck.

 

What is it with these small local theatres and tea? Do these people, when they go to the west end, march up to the bar and demand a cuppa?

 

Chairs and weird boards everywhere, membership, the young theatre group, Bob hopes involvement

 

Very high stage. I wouldn't recommend sitting in the front row 

 

Yeah, a real stage 

 

Read More

Won't someone think of the children

“Everyone, step behind the yellow line,” came a shout from down the platform. “It’s for your own safety. The train is trying to leave.”

This was met by derisive laughter. There was no where to go. No where to step back to. Every inch of platform-space was filled with an impatient crowd of people who had just been ejected from their train, shoving against the tired commuters who had been waiting there for a train for more than half an hour by this point.

The platform was so full, there were still people stuck on the train. Unable to get off. They clung onto the frame above the doorway, rocking on their heels and swinging themselves in the void between train and platform, serene against the tirade of abusive that was being aimed at them.

“Get off the bloody train,” screamed a woman, hammering on the windows to get their attention.

The man inside looked up from his phone and waved at her.

“It can’t leave until you get off,” she screamed again, this time with hand gestures.

He looked back at down at his phone. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Guards in orange jackets squeezed their way up and down the platform, dogged by calls of “what’s going on? You’re not telling us anything!” everywhere they went.

“The train’s cancelled,” they would throw out at random intervals.

It was nearly seven o’clock.

I had to be at the next theatre on my list in 45 minutes.

As I was buffeted along by the movement of the crowd, I tried to focus my mind on the maths. It was a fifteen minute journey. Add another five minutes at the end for getting to the venue. 20 minutes. The train was going to take another ten minutes to get off this platform. At least. 30 minutes. The next train was four minutes away, but I couldn’t take that one. I needed the one after. 40 minutes. 40 minutes would work, as long as there weren’t any more delays.

A guard got on the train, chivvying off the last few hangers-on.

With a symphony of warning beeps, the doors closed.

Inside a man walked down the train.

“Where’s he going?” someone asked. “I thought the train wasn’t going to Enfield.”

A guard looked up from his phone. “He’s going the wrong way,” he muttered, quickly dialling a number. “The driver’s going to the wrong end of the train,” he muttered as everyone exploded into giggles.

Eventually the driver found the right end of the train, and removed it from the station.

A few minutes later, another train replaced it.

I had to plant my feet on the ground and pull of a near Matrix-level backbend to avoid getting swept onto it with the pure force of the people crowding on.

“I'm on,” shouted a man into his phone as his foot hit the get inside the door. “I'm on, I think I'm on.” He fell back onto the platform. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, going in for another attempt. ”I’m on!” he cried out triumphantly as the doors closed, sealing him in.

Except his jacket had bunched up and was not sticking out between the doors. A man left behind on the platform helpfully prodded it back in.

 

 

Now you're on the far side, in the middle block, right on the other end

Far side, middle block, I repeated. Ignoring the seat specifics 

Oddly specific. I should have known better

Row c?

No, row b, I said staring at the second row.

There aren't seat numbers? I asked.

No, you have to count

 

Read More

O, so that's how it is

One of the best, and perhaps also the worst, thing about doing this marathon is having to go all over London to get to these venues. To areas that I have never been to before, have no reason to go to again, and could possibly have spent my entire life without ever visiting.

Last night was the turn of Barnes. A place I had only vaguely heard of, and had to Google multiple times to double check that it was actually in London.

Getting off the train in a sleepy looking village didn’t help matters.

As I walked down the lane (yes, a literal lane) I felt like I was stepping back in time, all the way back to my teen years when I lived in Somerset would take the train to visit friends in neighbouring counties, a huge bag slung over my back and the hoot of owls chasing my down the dark roads, praying that there would be a car waiting for me at the corner.

With the towering shadows cast by the woodland to my left, I could almost convince myself that I was 15 again. Almost.

Except the West Country never smelt quite so thick, and the roar of cars just beyond the tree line reminded me that yes, this was, technically, London.

Gradually, the lane widened. Streetlamps emerged. And houses replaced the trees.

Big houses.

Big old houses.

Big old Victorian houses. With decorative windows and fancy flourishes.

I followed the road further. More houses. A hair salon. A church.

So, this was Barnes.

Pretty. But imagine doing that commute every day... Nu uh. No way.

But just as I was crossing Barnes off my list of places to live, I spotted something. A sign.

“The Gothic Cottage.”

Well hello!

Barnes is one of those former villages that at some point over the past hundred years got gobbled up by the great monster that is London. I haven’t looked that up. I don’t need to. You can see it in a thousand different ways, from the village green to cards parked up on the pavement. But most telling up all is the lack of front gardens. Houses are built right up to the road. Or rather, the road stretches right up to the front doors of the homes that line it.

Which meant that all I could see of this Gothic Cottage was an expanse of white wall.

So, obviously I cross the road to get a look at it.

Ah. Now I see why people live here. 

House-hunting now concluded satisfactorily, it was time to make my way over to the next theatre on my list. The OSO Arts Centre.

Except, where the hell was it?

I looked down at the Google Maps screen on my phone, and then up at the street. I should be there.

Except I wasn’t.

Instead I appeared to be standing in front of a rather depressing looking office block.

Trusting the theatre gods would not lead me so far astray, I checked OSO’s website.

“The OSO entrance is at the rear of the building and faces Barnes Green, so you need to walk around the corner from Côte Brasserie to find us.”

Ah ha! I could see the Côte Brasserie. I walked around the corner and there…

Found it!

For the first time in this marathon, I actually stopped to take a few photos of the venue’s view before the venue itself.

Even in the dark I could tell it was rather fine. A lake. Tree. A wide flat green.

I wish I hadn’t wasted my trip on a wet March evening! This is a summer view, for sure.

Oh well. That’s something to look forward to for next year, I guess.

Up the stairs, through the door and… I almost bump into a tiny desk, standing sentinel by the entrance.

“Are you taking names?” I asked the lady behind it, noticing the print out covered in tiny check-marks.

“I am. What’s yours?”

A second later I was ticked off and handed over to the programme seller.

“Would you like a programme?”

“I would,” I said, committing myself to programme ownership before I had even asked the price.

They were two pounds. My bank-balance would survive another day.

“I keep my pound coins seperatly,” I comment as I open my purse. “So I'm well prepared.”

She laughed at that. “I'm very impressed,” she said sweetly.

“So am I,” I agreed. I really was. I'm not usually anywhere near so organised. But I'd had a bit of a wait while buying my afternoon slice of cake at the Sadler's cafe earlier that day, and I'd made good use of the time.

From the programme seller they tried to pass my off to the bar, but my days as a parcel were over. I had no more layers to unwrap. Taking a sly sidestep I went the other direction, diving deep into the cafe, with its long wooden tables and pot plants. And signs.

“Please keep the tables free for our adult customers to meet up, work, drink coffee, chat. Thank you.”

Wow, that’s… okay.

Here am I, in my thirties, and I’m back in my school uniform for the second time that evening. Except this time I wasn’t having a slightly hung-over walk down a country-lane, but was instead hopping from foot-to-foot outside the local petrol station, waiting for friends to finish buying up all the Quavers, as apparently bad things happen if more than three teenagers are in a shop at the same time.

Look, I’m not the most kid-friendly person in the world, so perhaps I’m the wrong person to criticise this but… no, wait. That’s exactly why I’m a great person to unpack this. I’m not a born baby-cooer and yet I still think it’s utterly obnoxious…

Why should non-adult customers (and there is no reason to presume they are not customers) have to give way to adults? If they are not in fact customers, then OSO could write just that on the sign. “Please keep the tables free for our adult customers.” No need to bring age into it. Or their table use for that matter.

Look, I get it. Nothing irritates me more than a child taking up a seat on the tube when there are people standing everywhere. If they're old enough to have their own seats, they're old enough to stand. But on the other, grownups are jerks, let's not teach them how to be like that before they be had a chance to grow into it naturally.

As if to prove my point, an older couple came over to the table I was sitting at and dumped their belongings all over it with such force that the wobbled on its sturdy legs, without even an excuse me to give notice of their intentions, despite there being an empty table next door to us, just waiting to be cluttered up with their heavy bags.

After long minutes of table-rocking as they made themselves comfortable, one of them noticed something.

"There's no light here" the man half gasped, suddenly deciding our table was not fit for purpose. He got up, smashing the chairs around so violently that an usher rushed over to help.

Chair now fully subdued, he rampaged around, waving his programme, saying that it didn't say anything about the play.

“There's no synopsis,” he said, failing to notice the page dedicated to introducing each of the three short plays we’d be watching that evening, and the logic of not including a synopsis in a programme. Theatre has a very long history of trying not to spoil the stories they are telling before they even have the chance to tell them. “Keep the secrets,” didn’t start with J.K. Rowling.

Somehow I don't think it's the kids that the OSO should be worrying about...

When the house eventually opened, I made sure to sit as far away from him as possible.

 

Read More

Marley's host

Get talking shop with anyone who works in theatre and eventually (with the aid of a few G&Ts) you'll discover that they all have something in common. A dream venue. No, not to visit. I mean to work for. A career goal, if you will.

If you’re really paying attention (and haven’t been hammering down the gins yourself) you’ll notice that the one that they go all gooey for is rarely the one that they actually work for.

I don't mean to suggest that we're all in the wrong jobs. It’s not as if we’re a pile of chess pieces scattered over the board by someone too young to learn where the horsey one is supposed to go. Just that... it's hard to fantasise about a place once you know what the office kitchen looks like.

Anyway, the venue that makes me go all cow-eyed is the Bush Theatre.

And I have my reasons. A few, actually. Firstly, I love their programming. All that tasty new writing. Yum. Secondly, they have cats. And thirdly… I can’t remember thirdly. Let’s just go back to the cats, shall we?

Pirate and Marley. Both originally from rescues from Battersea, they are now twin-holders of the Resident Cat title at the Bush. Which just goes to show the commitment to promoting talent that the Bush goes in for.

Both Pirate and Marley have twitter account, but are a bit lacks about keeping them up to date (can’t blame them, it can’t be easy typing without thumbs). They also have their biographies on the website’s staff list.

Oh yes - that was thirdly! Their style. And by that I mean their house style. Tone of voice. Use of language (both clean and charming - the winning formula). Branding. The whole lot. Bush marketing team - I think you’re just swell. People don’t say that enough. Creatives get complimented all the damn time. Box office gets a fair smattering too. But marketing? Never.

I see you though. Doing to work. Fighting the good fight.

Even if you don’t tweet enough about the cats.

Without a steady feed of Pirate and Marley news on my social medias, I was excited to go right to the source!

One problem. Pirate and Marley are not theatre cats. Not in the traditional sense. They don’t hang out in the bar, snooze on the box office desk, or get under the feet of the ushers. As far as I can tell from studying what photos are posted of them, they seem live up in the office. So, if anything, they are theatre-office cats.

Which is great. I’m fully in support of this. Not everyone is cut out to work front of house. But it does mean that the only way to see them is… well… to work there.

That is why I am so keen to work here…

Hang on. Sorry. This isn’t a job interview.

Where were we?

Right. The Bush. Not in the office. But at the box office.

"Which show are you here to see?"

Oh no, that ol' question again.

I don't think anyone can truly expect me to remember the names of the shows I'm going to see this deep into the marathon. Not just like that. While I’m standing there. At the box office. I need spreadsheets, and calendars, and diary reminders.

I frowned as I thought hard.

I could remember the poster.

A woman. Smiling. And ice cream. Melting.

I was fairly confident that there had been sprinkles.

That didn’t help.

Or did it? Could I just say the ice-cream show?

The poor box officer was beginning to look concerned.

Nope. I couldn’t say the ice-cream show. If I did, concern would transform into downright alarm.

Right. Name of the show. Focus. It had two words. One of them a grammatical article. Other than that...

"The one in the studio?" I chanced, ninety percent sure that was the case.

As she reached for the box it came to me.

“The Trick!” I said triumphantly at the same time as she said: “The Trick?”

Clearly I’m not ready for the Bush. Clean and charming my words are not. Moth-balled and half-forgotten more like.

In search of better words, I headed towards the library. Oh yes, the Bush has one of those. Because they are perfect. I bet they even have a nice kitchen.

The show in the main house had already gone in, so I was able to nab a table to myself to sit and gaze happily at the bookshelves before the studio opened.

There are books everywhere at the Bush. Not just on the shelves, but above the bar, on the walls, and filling up every windowsill. Forget working here, I am fully prepared to move in.

Too soon came the tannoy announcement that it was time to head in.

“If you would fill up the middle block and not cross the stage,” said the lady on ticket duty. “Fill up the middle block and don’t cross the stage. Did you catch that? Middle block. Don’t cross the stage.”

My turn.

“Can I get a playtext?” I asked before she could tell me about the middle block. No programmes for this show. But proper playtexts at programme prices.

She switched gears instantly, organising change while checking tickets over her shoulder “Middle block, please!”

“Thanks,” she said, as we exchanged paper money for paper playtext. “And-“

“- middle block, don’t cross the stage?”

“Right.”

As I headed into (to the middle block, careful not to cross the stage) I heard her giving the same instructions to the people coming in.

It did the job.

The middle bloke was nearly full, and the stage untrodden by our mucky boots.

It was my first time in the studio. I don’t know why, but I suppose that’s the whole point of this marathon. Forcing me to go where I haven’t been before. Even if that is literally just down the corridor from one of my favourite venues in London.

It’s small, as you would expect a studio to be. Seating on three sides - four rows in the middle block, and two either end - leaving an intimately sized stage space in-between. Intimate enough to open a show with slight-of-hand tricks. Intimate enough to feel the pressing power of the words. Intimate enough to nod along at the truth of them. Intimate enough to laugh. And cry. And not be embarrassed about either.

The vibe was relaxed. Comfortable even.

So comfortable that when the dreaded call came - for a volunteer from the audience - the show managed to avoid that ripple of tension that so often follows these requests.

A hand went up from the stage-left block. A volunteer! Our knight in shining armour was a young man in a dark tracksuit. And he performed admirably.

Show over, you only have to stumble out of the building and you are already at the traffic lights that will take you right over the road to the Shepherd’s Bush Market tube station. And then home.

Perfect.

Although now I have the rather awful task of trying to decide what my second, and final, trip to the Bush will be in 2019. Perhaps Pirate and Marley would offer my a private consult to help me choose? I’m sure they have excellent incite on the matter…

Read More

Jammy gits

All my many sacrifices to the theater gods have really been paying off recently.

After weeks and weeks (and weeks) of trying to get tickets through the National's Friday Rush, I finally managed to score a spot at not one, but two shows! They not only got me into Home, I'm Darling on Thursday, but also got me a prime central stalls seat for the Saturday matinee of Tartuffe. Now, some might claim it was because everyone in the queue was distracted by a desperate urge to see Follies, but I like to think it was the theatre gods doing me a solid after so two months of solid dedication to their cause.

So when Saturday afternoon rolled around, I was in a pretty good mood, ready to dedicate myself to the gods once more as I made my way for the first of three trips to the Vatican of British theatre this year.

I have to admit, I don't actually like the National. Or at least, not the building that it lives in.

All that concrete.

I'm sure it's an architectural wonder, and I'm just too bourgeoisie in my tastes to truly appreciate its genius, but to me, it just looks heavy and grey. A factory crossed with a graveyard. Both of which feel like the antithesis of what a home to art should look like.

Still, no one ever said serving the theatre gods would be fun. It was time to stop hanging around, gazing at the foundry and go instead and see what they've been manufacturing lately.

Queues by the looks of it.

The ground floor box office, the one that serves the Lyttleton theatre, the first of the National's three venues that I would be checking off on my marathon, had a line stretching all the way across the foyer.

I joined the end.

A moment later, an older couple did the same.

That is, they joined at exactly the same point in the queue as I had. Right next to me.

I glanced at the pair of them, and then at the space behind us. There was plenty of room, but for some reason, they thought the queue needed a right angle, and they were prepared to start that change in direction.

With four desks open at the box office, the queue was moving forward.

The people in front of me step forward. I follow their lead, closing the gap.

The old couple does too, knocking my bag as they keep right beside me instead of dropping in behind.

"Sorry," I said, turning to them. "I think we're getting a little muddled together here." I smile as nicely as I can while still being really rather pissed off.

The woman's eyes widen in innocence. "You're in the queue, and we are behind you," she sounding like a five-year-old who's just been told she can't take her teddy to school.

It takes me every little bit of emotional resource I have left over on a Saturday afternoon not to roll my eyes at this display. Rudeness I can take. The mock-offended tones of someone you can't admit their wrongdoing when called up out on it is too much to bear.

"Fine," I say, ignoring her as continues to pull the big-eyes. But when the queue shifts again I step forward they get in line behind me.

Ergh! People!

Theatres would be so much more pleasing to visit if they didn't exist.

I soothed myself by buying a programme. Surely the best programmes in London (except for mine... obvs) and only £4.50. Though I must admit to a little surprise when the usher gave the price. I remember when they were only £3, Travelex tickets were only £12 and the police force was made up of grownups...

Those were the days... when I was still young enough to sit in the front row. My back couldn't tolerate it now. Those tickets might be cheap, but so are the seats. For reasons that I could never work, except for a sneaking suspicion that whoever designed them thought that poor people should not be indulged which such frivolities as comfort, the backs of the sets in the first four rows are incredibly low. Meaning that you having to sit ramrod straight in them. I was willing to put up with it in my youth. But the combined effects of age and falling down an icy flight of stone steps way-back-when means that I take my cheap-arse up to the back of the circle nowadays.

But those brave souls chancing it on Saturday afternoon were justly rewarded when Denis O'Hare came out and started making his way down, offering them each, in turn, a daffodil.

As with the front row at the Tara Theatre, the first few refused, but they soon got into it, taking the man's flowers. I hope, unlike the invisible cucumber sandwiches, they were properly appreciated and didn't need to be swept away at the end of the show.

Come the interval, I was left in a bit of a quandary.

Sitting right in the middle of the row in the Lyttelton means that leaving the auditorium can be quite the undertaking. Those rows are hella long. And there is no central aisle.

But I had a blog post to finish, and for some reason, I can never get signal within the National's theatres. Not a sniff of a single bar. Now, I'm not saying that the National using mobile phone jammers, because that would be illegal of them, but I'm also not saying that it isn't ever so slightly suspicious that in one of the flagship venues for an industry that dislikes all forms of sensory output caused by phones, they don't feel the need to ever put up warnings or make announcements telling their audiences to switch them off. It's almost like they know that phones won't be going off during their shows...

So back into the foyer I went, where I could use the National's dodgy, but thankfully free, wifi to finish my post before beginning the long traipse back to my seat.

"Sorry," said my seat-neighbour as we did the awkward dance past each other. "I was looking at your t-shirt! It is Firefly! With... the guy!"

She meant Nathan Fillion, who was gazing out from around the edge of my cardigan.

I tried to explain it was technically not a Firefly t-shirt, but Spectrum - a made-up show devised by Alan Tudyk (who's face was lurking underneath the cover of my cardigan) in his semi-autobiographical web-comedy series, Con Man.

That must have been the wrong thing to say.

My seat-neighbour looked at me, nodded, and promptly didn't speak to me again.

Oh well.

It looked like I wouldn't be making any new friends at the National that day.

With a couple of hours before my evening show, I found a spot on one of the large doughnut-shaped stools in the foyer and set up camp, putting pictures into my post and doing a cursory proofread before posting.

"The time is approaching six pm," came an announcement of the tannoy. "Therefore we ask those using the catering facilities who are not seeing a show to kindly vacate their seats. Thank you for your cooperation,"

No, thank you for reminder, NT. It was time for me to leave.

I set off, doing the reverse of a journey that I took most evenings. Through the West End and up to Islington.

I'd been trying to put off visiting Islington venues during my marathon. I work in Islington, so I'd been trying to save these theatres for later on. When I'm worn out my months' worth of intense theatre-going, I thought it might be nice to have a few places left on the list where I need to nothing more than stumble down the road.

But that night I was heading to the Little Angel. The Studios rather than the Theatre. Not that it makes much difference, as they both show puppet productions. Puppet productions aimed at children.

Now, I have nothing against kids' shows. But I don't want to see them. Not by myself. I've already done that this marathon, and it was excruciatingly uncomfortable. So when I saw that the Little Angel had a show coming up, Carbon Copy Kid, aimed at grown-ups... well, I almost broke a key on my laptop in my efforts to book that ticket in fast.

So, there I was. Back in Islington. On a Saturday. I ended up walking past my theatre. To compensate how wrong and unnatural it felt being there on the weekend I popped in and said hello to the ushers on duty... and yeah, no, sorry. That didn't happen. I ducked my head down low and sped past, hoping no one would recognise me.

I think I got away with it.

Fifteen minutes later I was wandering the back streets of Islington, thinking there couldn't possibly be a theatre amongst all these apartment blocks, when I saw a large sign: Little Angel Studios. I had found it.

"Surname's Smiles?" I said to the girl on the desk that was serving as box office. For some reason, I always pitch this as a question, as if I'm not sure about what my name is. For the record, I'm fairly confident my name is actually Smiles. Improbable as that seems.

"Is that M Smiles?" She laughed,. "I mean, is that Maxine?"

It was.

No tickets to be had at the Little Angel, but they do have tasteful blue admission vouchers. Cornflower for adults and baby for, well, babies.

"The house is open, you can head up the stairs," she said.

There wasn't anything for sticking around for downstairs, so up I went.

I have to admit I am a little baffled by this building. On route to the stairs, I passed a large room which appeared completely empty except for a massive trough-like sink. The walls of the hallway are all stark white, with no indication that this place has anything to do with a puppet theatre, until you find the stairwell and suddenly there are old show posters on display.

It's a little creepy.

I didn't end up taking any photos apart from this one in the stairwell, partly because of the creepiness, but also because I worried that in taking a photo of a white corridor, I wouldn't be able to capture that creepiness and then all I get is you saying, "Maxine, it's just a corridor, what's so creepy about that," and I wouldn't be able to explain why it was creepy, and then you'd think I was weird, and we'd both have to live with that. Forever.

"But at least you got a photo of the actual theatre-space, Max?" you say. "Right? Right?"

Well no. I didn't.

But I have a good reason for that.

When I made it up the stairs and into the studio, the... actor? Puppeteer? Dude doing the show, was already on stage. He was all set up behind a sloped desk, holding up pieces of paper to communicate with the audience who'd already made it to their seats.

As I sat down, he held up one with a sketch of a mobile phone. There was a massive X over it.

Ah. No mobile signal jammers here there. I put mine on airplane mode and tucked it away.

I don't think he would have appreciated me taking a snapshot.

Pity though, as I really like the setup.

Around the desk, and framing our illustrator, was a proscenium arch, complete with curtains, made up paper - the swags and folds detailed in marker pen. I tried Googling the show to see if there were any pictures on the interwebs that I could show you, but found nothing. So it's up to your imagination to fill in the gaps on this one. Sorry about that.

The drawing of a phone was followed up by an old-school landline handset (no calls please), a snoring man (no falling asleep), a bomb (no terrorist action during the show please), and a sweet... wait, what? No sweets? I quickly popped a cough sweet into my mouth while he was greeting the next set of arrivals. I mean, come on - they're medicinal!

Through the medium of paper messages, he told us the duration (One hour, twenty minutes), gently berated latecomers (congratulations, you're the last people to arrive...), advised us when we were to begin (2 or 3 more minutes), and prompted us to applaud the man on the laptop who was also in charge of the sound effects via the medium of a loop station and microphone.

Nicely done.

After that, I went straight home, and fell into bed. Only to wake up eleven hours later still wearing my clothes and with a new coating of eyeliner smeared over my pillowcases.

It's been a really hard week.

The theatre gods are hard masters to serve.

Read More

Reaching the fourth level

There’s a moment in Home, I’m Darling when Katherine Parkinson’s floofy skirts take up the entirety of a sofa. In order for anyone to sit next to her, they have to coax her petticoats out of the way.

I don’t think I have ever felt so seen in all my years of theatre-going.

I too was having trouble with my skirt. A massive tartan number that could have comfortably cloaked the entirety of William Wallace’s army. I couldn’t seem to cross my legs without getting the toe of my boot caught in the hem, which was making the intricate act of uncrossing and standing up all the more tricky.

As was keeping tabs on all that fabric, which if neglected for a single would take off and work its way into the hinges of the flip-down theatre seat from where it had to be coaxed back out with all the patient tenderness of a fireman freeing a fat rat from a manhole cover.

And when it wasn’t on a death wish, it was making intimate acquaintance with my neighbour’s knees.

You might well be thinking that I probably didn’t need to wear a skirt that I already know to be problematic to the theatre. One might even go so far as to say that I shouldn’t wear it at all. But the lure of theme dressing was too great, and after seeing those gorgeous posters of Katherine Parkinson in her pinny, dotted all over London, there was no way I was missing out on the opportunity to play dress up.

Now, I do love me some fifties, but all that pastel perfection isn’t very… well, Goth, is it? So while big skirts are in, the palette was more Alexander McQueen than Her Maj, the Queen. And my biggest, stompiest boots were subbed in for the required heels.

Boots that insisted on getting stuck in my damn skirt every time I crossed my legs.

I really need to get that thing hemmed.

It’s that or pray to the theatre gods for my legs to have a late onset growth spurt.

Anyway, my boots freed from the tyranny of my skirt, I picked my way over to the front of the Royal Circle in order to get some of my patented dodgy dome photos. I do like taking pictures of the ceilings of these old West End houses. They are always so fantastically over the top.

"Just so you know, we don't allow pictures of the stage," said a voice from behind me. I wobbled dangerously on the step as I attempted to turn around. It was an usher, wearing one of those little ATG waistcoats that makes them look like old-timey train conductors. "But if you want to take pictures of the theatre..."

"I'm purely about the theatre," I assured her.

I neglected to mention that I had already got all the photos of the stage that I wanted while still trapped in my seat. As had everyone else in the audience.

But, out of deference to her efforts. I won't post them. I'm just going to hoard them for myself. Those photos are mine! All mine!

The Duke of York's is a handsome old theatre. Lots of gold and twirly bits. But to be honest, I'm starting to get a bit bored of these Edwardian West End Theatres. They've all begun to merge into one another. It doesn't help that they're pretty much all owned by one of three companies: the aforementioned ATG, which owns the Duke of York's along with the Ambassadors, the Pinter, the Phoenix, Fortune, the Savoy, the Playhouse, the Lyceum, and technically the Donmar (the building at least, but we don't like to talk about that), Lloyd Webber's company (Theatre Royal Drury Lane, the Cambridge, Adelphi and the Palladium, Her Majesty's, and the Gillian Lynne) and of course, Delfont Mackintosh (the Novello, the Gielgud, Prince Edward, Prince of Wales, Queens, Victoria Palace, Noel Coward and the Wyndham's). Visiting these theatres, being greeted at the door by front of housers dressed in identical uniforms, being handed identically branded tickets, seeing the same red seats and gilt walls, going to the bar and getting deja vu at the sight of the chairs upholstered in mushroom coloured velvet and walls cluttered with ornate mirrors.

In the interval, I went in search of some architectural interest.

The Royal Circle at the Duke of York's is on the ground floor, so the bar in the foyer. It basically is the foyer.

I dismissed that and headed upstairs.

Read More

The importance of being invisible

There’s a school of thought amongst theatre-people, or more specifically, theatre-journalists, that arts venues should be integrated into the daily lives of the community. Not just serving the locals, but being right there, amongst them, in the most literal, physical sense.

The Guardian for one have been banging on about it for a decade now. Ever since the financial crisis - just over ten years ago. Get all those empty high street shops, and hand them over to some artists to play with.

Which, I suppose, is exactly what Tara Theatre did. Except 20-odd years before we’d even heard of sub-prime mortgages.

Before Tara Theatre was Tara Theatre is was a chiropodists. And before that an opticians. And before that, a drapers.

I know all this because I looked it up.  Because it was the least theatre looking theatre I'd ever seen. And I've been to a theatre on a barge.

upload.jpg

Part of a terrace of shops, and still sporting its large shop window, it blends in nicely with all the other businesses on Garrett Lane.

Which may go some way to explaining how I managed to walk right past it. Twice.

Thankfully, I was alone in my lack of geographical awareness, as the foyer was packed when I did eventually manage to fgure out that this lovely well-lit cafe was actually a lovely well-lit theatre.

To be fair to me though, as theatres go, the cafe elements are strong in this one.

From the bank of bottles behind the box office, to the neat little table and chairs in front of that window, to the reading nook, and the jar of cookies on the counter.

upload.jpg

I stared at the cookies while I waited to collect my ticket.

They looked good. They looked really good.

They had Smarties on them.

Thankfully, just as I was about to break out my purse, the queue cleared and I was next in line.

Ticket acquired it was time to explore.

Which, given that the front of house areas are all fitted into a floor space meant to contain a drapers, takes a surprisingly long time. Most of which was taken up by the tiny garden. Covered by a Mark of Zorro of multi-coloured fairy lights and dotted with small tables and chairs, the Tara terrace really is the most delightful spot. Even if the frighteningly warm February weather had forsaken us and a more appropriately spring-like chill had taken over.

upload.jpg

 “Another big set of Indian doors,” cried out a woman as she stepped out into garden. “Look!”

The man she was with looked as he was bid, and then, without another word, they both turned around and walked back inside.

The doors were very impressive. As were the ornaments that decorated the walls, high enough that they blocked any hint of the busy street beyond. I can just imagine it would be the perfect place to bask in the summer.

Not so much in February. But I basked anyway.

It was almost a shame to say goodbye to it and head into the theatre.

The huge, carved Indian doors that lead through to the theatre space had been flung open.

With the bare brick walls and high ceilings, it could have looked like any fringe venue in London. But trust old Tara to do things differently. High up on the walls are massive carved shutters, sitting on runners just waiting to be pulled back by bright red ropes.

As I snapped some photos, something else red caught my attention.

A paper napkin. Doing its very best to envelop the thickest cookie I had ever seen in my life. It was topped with Smarties.

My row was filling up. There was no way to get out without disturbing them. I was stuck in my seat. Without a cookie.

The cookie owner sat in the row in front of me. I stared at his cookie longingly, regretting every life decision that are led to me sitting there, cookie-less.

Just as I was thinking these thoughts, the cast came in (all two of them), introduced themselves (as Ayesha and Kudzanayi) built the set (put up a banner), introduced the play (The Importance of Being Earnest), and started shaking hands. 

Oh. 

That wasn't a good sign. 

Hand shaking this early on was a clear indication that there would be high levels of interaction later on. 

I was right. 

The hand shaking was followed up by the offer of invisible cucumber sandwiches to those sitting in the front row.

I was not in the front row. 

I did not get an invisible cucumber sandwich. 

Don't get me wrong. I would rather not have an invisible cucumber sandwich, but if I did get one, I'm fairly certain I would have eaten it.

Whether it was extreme politeness or some other reason, every single person in the front row took a sandwich and then abstained from eating it. I don't know what happened to them (it's hard to keep track of invisible foodstuffs) but I like to imagine that they all got swept away at the end of the night.

"Untouched, again!" the stage manager would say with a disapproving shake of her head. "Such a waste." And then with a heavy sigh they'll be disposed of in the brown bin.

Anyway, more fool them I say, because the front row was soon called upon to provide all sorts of assistance, and they could have done with the sustenance. From acting the flowers to Cecily's watering can, to playing actual roles with actual lines, this was a production that involved getting, well, involved

So much so that the house lights stayed on throughout, in an artistic decision that theatre people might call "shared light," (in that the actors are working by the same light the audience are in) but around here I call "really fucking uncomfortable."

I froze, and prayed to the theatre gods that Ayesha and Kudzanayi wouldn’t need to look deeper into the audience for their helpers.

It was very stressful maintaining such stillness. Especially when you need to laugh.

That is, until the tongue clicking started. 

Both determined to fill the role of Lady Bracknell and resigned to sharing it, Kudzanayi Chiwawa and Ayesha Casely-Hayford both gave her a characteristic cluck that sent tingles racing across my scalp. Yup, for the second time in this marathon, I'd had my ASMR triggered by a play.

So relaxing. I unfroze and allowed myself to laugh along properly.

Which certainly helped distract me from the sight of the young man sharing his cookie with his companion. 

That cookie really did look very good.

Although, saying that, it does strike me as a strange sort of snack to have in the theatre. Can't think why though. My reasoning is probably based on it not being a traditional theatre foodstuff, like ice cream and overpriced wine. If I started seeing cookies consumed around the West End, no doubt I would thinl it perfectly normal in a matter of months. I mean, it's quiet, self contained, and doesn't cause too many crumbs. Why shouldn't we all eat cookies to accompany our play watching? 

Nicki, who you might remember from the Adelphi pie-eating-trip, regularly sneaks baked goods into theatres. I say sneaked, but according to her, the bag checkers wave them through easily enough. They're on the lookout for sandwiches. No. Seriously. That's what they've told her. Fondant Fancies are fine, but baguettes are banned. 

No mention on the status of invisible sandwiches. Presumably they get through without being spotted.

The play over, I retraced my steps, trying to get the photos I'd missed on the way in. 

Two months into my marathon and I've become very brazen. I even asked an usher to move so that I could get a photo of those carved wooden doors.

Once I'd thoroughly annoyed everyone, in was time to go. 

But, I still had one bit of unfinished business to take care of.

"How much is the cookie?" I asked at the bar.

"£1."

Well, that settled that then. I was having me one of those.

"Having a cookie?" laughed a perfectly strange man as I tucked it away in my bag. 

Honestly, I don't see why anyone is interested in what people do or do not choose to eat. As if they have nothing better to occupy their thoughts with...

upload.jpg

Pixel this

Praise the theatre gods, I got a new phone!

No more will you have to suffer through my dimly lit snapshots.

I’m sad to see my HTC go, but it was time. He was suffering. He couldn’t stay awake while not supping on a charger, and his camera whirred and clicked every-time he tried to use it. It was a cruelty to keep toting him around with me to the theatre every night. RID, my friend. Rest in a drawer.

And, not to sound cruel, but once I’d made the decision to let him go, I didn’t hang around for long before getting a new one. I was off to Argos before work and treated myself to a Pixel. Gen 2. I’m not made of money. But still, they’re known for the quality of their pics taken in low-lighting, which is just what I need for this marathon. Theatres tend to be dark places.

And, oh baby. What a difference it makes. I spent the entirety of my walk to Wilton’s Music Hall taking pictures of, well everything - street signs, architectural details, graffiti…

What? Okay, okay, okay. I hear you. No, seriously, I do. “What are you blathering on about, Maxine?” you say. “is this a sponsored post? Are they paying you, Max? Have you sold out? Stop with the corporate shilling and start writing about Wilton's Music Hall. I love Wilton's Music Hall!"

Yeah, well. I already knew that. 

And you know how I know? 

Because everyone loves Wilton's Music Hall. It's the default emotional setting when you think about that place. Not loving Wilton's Music Hall is like not liking puppies. Or chocolate. "Do you like Wilton's Music Hall?" is probably one of the six questions on the Levenson Self-Report Psychopathy Scale (the other five are just: Are you sure you don't like it? No, but really? Have you even been there? Final answer? Okay, but what are your thoughts on puppies?

You know what people said when I told them I was heading off to Wilton's for the evening? "I loooovve Wilton's."

Every. Single. Time.

And every single time it was said exactly like that. With the elongated looooovvvve.

After a while, I began to feel like I was stuck in an episode of Russian Doll, but with less dying and smaller hair.

So what I’m saying is - don't be thinking you're original.

Ya Basic.

We all love Wilton's Music Hall. It’s the pumpkin spice latte of theatres. Mostly because it turns us into a gaggle of overexcited Valley Girls when we talk about it.

And don’t worry. I’m not exempt from the love fest. I’m right there with you. Metaphorical iPhone in hand (I told you about the Pixel, right?), and not quite so metaphorical Ugg boots on my feet.

When I finally traipsed all the way over the Whitechapel I spent countless minutes taking photos of the exterior, with its heavy red-painted shutters, huge double doors and flipping massive carriage lamp.

upload.jpg

Everything about Wilton’s seems oversized. Even the alley it lives in is as wide as a boulevard. Standing outside it you feel like you’ve been transported to a model village, where the scaling is just ever-so slightly off. The details made too big to accommodate their maker’s clumsy human hands.

Feeling like the Major of Toy Town, I pushed the door open.

Inside, low ceilings combined with bare stone walls and a creaking staircase to give the air of a provincial castle. Iron bars block off wall apertures that could surely have imprisoned a witch in another age. Shadows dart around corners, giving the constant nagging thought that there’s a sword-fight happening just out of sight.

upload.jpg
upload.jpg

Perhaps they were, as I was there to see Pirates of Penzance, there might well have been some last minute rehearsals going on backstage.

Although it’s hard to imagine anyone smashing a sword on a person's head in this place. Everyone is so damn happy.

Whether I was blocking their access to cupboards, or sneaking into the balcony so that I could take some photos from up there, everyone went out of their way to be kind and gentle and apologetic.

Apologising to m. As if I wasn't the irritating twerp with a new phone, getting in their way. 

upload.jpg

I was beginning to think the powers that be at Wilton's, Mister Wilton if you will, must be putting something in the water.

I was there on a press ticket, and with it I’d been given a drinks voucher.

Did I dare use it? Would I come out of there humming Gilbert and Sullivan and wishing my gallant crew a good morning?

I really should, I thought, trying to convince myself. It’s all part of the experience, ain’t it? If I can review interval pie, then I should damn well review pre-show wine.

But I like pie. And I don’t like wine.

I stared at the voucher a good long time before deciding I wasn’t going to risk it. I was heading straight to my seat.

upload.jpg

“Row G,” said the lady on the door as she checked my ticket. “You’re just there on the left.”

She beamed, her smile as wide as a Pret barista. “Just past that twirly pillar over there.” I looked over and found the pillar. It was twirly. I must not have looked confident about the existence of the twirly pillar, because she carried on. “Do you see that girl with the white shirt? You’ll be near her.”

“Got it,” I said hurriedly, before she started offering to take my hand and personally escort me to my seat.

By the time the interval rolled around, I understood.

It was the show.

Happy shows make for happy audiences. And happy audiences lead to happy ushers.

It’s just maths.

And Pirates of Penzance is a very happy show.

The type of happiness that can only be felt when everyone involved is faking it.

Fake moustaches. Fake eyebrows. Fake ladies…

Ah yes. The fake ladies. 

Is there any greater sight than an entire ensemble of dashing young men swishing onto the stage wearing crinolines? If there is, let me die in ignorance of the existence of such a spectacle, because it would surely kill me anyway.

Still not trusting the wine, I spent the interval roaming around and pointing my Pixel at everything in sight. But what I should have done was switch my microphone on. Everywhere I went, men were humming refrains in their wives’ faces. “Are you converted yet?” asked one with a laugh. It turned out she was, as she hummed the next line right back at him.

upload.jpg

The humming continued right into the theatre. As I stood on the edge, trying to capture the sloped floor (if you ever want to know what it’s like to perform on a raked stage, may I suggest getting a seat at the back of the Wilton’s auditorium? You’ll soon learn the footwork required as you shuffle between the rows) different tunes clashed in a battle of hummers as the Gilbert and Sullivan acolytes filed back to their seats.

The emergence of the cast for act two did nothing to detract them, and the quieter moments were often punctuated by the echo of the fading notes as the hummers joined in.

And strangely, I found myself rather enjoying their contributions. With the pros on stage doing their stuff without the aid of mics, and the single pianist providing the accompaniment, it had the casual air of a boozy pub sing along. A very sophisticated sing along, for sure, but it felt... real.

upload.jpg

What an alarming thought.

Thankfully it didn't last long. Built to Victorian fire safety standards, it takes a while to get out of Wilton's. And as I waited to exit I had the opportunity to examine the beautifully desicated walls from close range. 

The distressed paintwork was not peeling, but Pollocked.  

It was all a charade. An illusion. A theatrical set.

It was... fake! 

And that’s something really worth praising the theatre gods for.

upload.jpg