Know your Onions

It’s the Park Theatre today!

I am very excited. Can you tell?

Not that I give a crap about the Park Theatre you understand. I mean, I’m sure it’s just swell. I’ve never been, so I can’t comment.

No, what I’m excited about is the theatre’s Getting Here page on their website.

A strangely specific thing to get worked up about, you may think. And I’ll grant you there is some truth in that. It is both strange, and specific. But I have my reasons. And those reasons are dog related.

After providing (very good and detailed) instructions on how to get to the theatre from the tube station, they go on to provide a video of the route. Featuring a dog. Called Hazel. It is super cute, and Hazel is adorable. And whoever came up with this idea is an excellent person and I approve of the entire endeavour.

My only criticism, and I’m not sure they are even taking notes at this stage, is that they say the walk takes four minutes, and yet the video is all of thirty seconds. If I had a touch more time on my hands, I’d be campaigning for real-time Hazel walkies. But as it is, I’m a bit busy. So off to the Park I go. Taking the suggested route, from the tube station. It takes about four minutes.

When I get there, the big glass windows at the front of the building are all open, and people are making full use of the the evening sun, sitting outside and doing the mostest to bring some European cafe culture to Finsbury Park.

There’s no sign of Hazel, but I’m sure she’s inside lolling around on a cool floor somewhere.

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I go in, have a quick look around for any potential dog action, and with no wagging tails in sight, head over to the box office.

I give my surname, and the box officer pulls the ticket out of the box and hands it to me.

I look at it and start laughing.

“Mr Today Tix?” I ask. “I like that.”

You see, when you buy tickets through the TodayTix app, as I did for this trip, theatres usually process the company as the buyer, and then handwrite the audience member’s name on each one in time for collection. I think almost all theatres that use the app do this. With the Southbank Centre as the notable exception. They actually went and keyed in my information so that the ticket printed with my actual name on it. But the Southbank Centre are some swish bastards. They’ve got the resources for that kind of service.

Saying that, I don’t think I’ve come across a theatre to offer the app a title so far.

It's nice.

There’s a small display of programmes on the counter. Three quid. Not bad.

“Can I get a programme?”

I can, and we go about the business of my handing over cash and him sorting out my change.

Now what?

There doesn’t seem to be much seating here. And it’s too early to go in.

I wander outside and find a bollard to lean against, and start sorting out all my stuff.

I make to slip the ticket in my pocket, but give it one final look.

Mr Today Tix.

How silly.

Out of interest, I get out my phone, go to the Park’s website, and try to set up an account. They’re running the standard Spektrix system to handle their bookings, and the Title field is freetext. Not a dropdown. Meaning that whoever set up TodayTix as Mr Today Tix has some thoughts on the matter of titling inanimate software.

I’m not sure how appropriate it is to be gendering apps, but still… I got a giggle out of it.

Right, ticket analysed, it’s time to turn my attention to the…

Shit.

I trot back to box office.

“Sorry! I didn’t actually take a programme,” I say, feeling like a right idiot. I’m really getting old. I can’t deal with late nights and alcohol. Despite all the shenanigans last night, I woke up feeling quite fresh this morning. Tired, yes. But not furry of tongue and sticky of eye. I was fine. It was only when the headache hit after lunch that I realised that the reason I didn’t wake up with a hangover, is because I woke up still drunk.

Honestly, once this marathon is over, I’m fully committing to a 10pm bedtime.

“Oh, did you not?” says the box officer, having the grace to sound surprised.

I take one and go back outside.

It’s a nice little programme. There are interviews and things. I’d pay three quid for it. I mean, I did actually pay three quid for it. But even outside the confines of the marathon, and research, and whatever else I’m using to justify my programme buying habit, I would pay three quid for it. It’s worth the coin.

From inside there’s an announcement. The house for Napoli, Brooklyn is now open.

I suddenly realise that I've come across has a comma in the title.

That's unusual. We had Life, Apparently at Hoxton Hall. And I'd made a big fuss about the comma then.

I hope this isn't becoming a trend. Punctuation confuses me.

People start to make their way back inside. But slowly. No one wants to give up the sun quite yet.

I wait a few minutes. I’ve still got time.

But then I remember I hate being in the sun, so I follow everyone back in.

Back across the foyer, past the box office and bar, down a short flight of steps and then…

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Getting out my ticket again because there are two different doors and I need to check my seat number to find out which one I need.

Funny. There’s no one out here. Both doors are free of ticket checkers.

I’m on my own.

Which is fine.

I know what I’m doing. I know my seat number and can work out which door I need like the big girl I am, but still. There’s usually someone directing traffic at these junctions.

For a brief moment I wonder if time has slipped away from me, that I stepped into a faerie ring on my way in, and without knowing, took hours to get to the other side. Perhaps the show has already started, and that’s why there’s no one out here.

I go through the nearest door, into a small antechamber, and emerge on the other side at the back of the stalls.

And there’s a ticket checker waiting.

Oh. Right.

That’s okay then.

“C43?” I ask as she comes over to me. The door I took had said seat numbers up to 43, so that must mean… “Am I on the end here?” I say, pointing towards the furthest seat on the back row, right down by the back corner of the thrust stage.

“Err. Yes,” she agrees and off I go.

The view… isn’t great.

Okay, it’s not bad. I’m sure I won’t miss anything of importance. But there seems to be a kitchen in my sightline.

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Well, I suppose that’s what you get if you shudder at the thought of paying more than fifteen pounds for anything.

Looks like quite a few people were shuddering. The theatre has been filling up, but the side rows are still on the sparse side and it looks like the balcony has been closed off.

As for my ticket, what fifteen pounds gets you is a spot on a bench right next to the wall. Wait, is it a wall. It seems to be moving… Just as I begin to wonder whether I’m hallucinating, or possibly still drunk from last night, the wall that isn’t a wall moves again. Like a curtain with the window open behind it. And then I hear voices. People are talking on the other side.

A second later, the house lights are down and an actor is emerging from behind the wall and placing a halved onion under each of her eyes in turn, trying to make herself cry.

My row is still half empty. While Madeleine Worrall’s matriarch Luda tries to get her cry on, I slide down the bench to get a better view.

The onions can’t get the job done. She must be all cried out. I would be too, if I had a daughter sent to a convent, with a broken nose after facing the wrath of my husband. Or a second daughter who refuses to eat. Or a third who had to be pulled out of school in order to help bring money in, and has cuts all over her hands as the result of hard labour.

That’s a well that even an onion can’t fill.

But oh, they try.

While one onion can barely make a space, a wagon-full may bring up the water level.

By the end of the first act, the stage is covered in the things. Hundreds of them. A few have bounced off the edge, despite the presence of the guard rail, presumably put there to keep the pesky things in.

Audience members in the front row pick them up as they retrieve their bags from under their seats. A few of them send their bulbs ricocheting across the stage like air hockey pucks, and they bounce into the set with a small thud.

But it was all in vain, as stage managers come out to reset for the second act, and they bring the big brooms with them, sliding the onions off into the various corners. Out of the way, but still very much present.

One of them starts to read off a check list of items why another confirms their presence.

“Six forks on the left.”

“Yup.”

“Six knives in the middle.”

“Yup.”

“Six plates with napkins on top.”

“Err. Three, fourfive. Yup.”

“Tea towels?”

“Yes.”

And on they go, detailing out this well stocked dinner service.

As the family settle down to eat, I wonder why I’m not feeling hungry, as I usually do when actors are munching away on stage. They keep on talking about what a great cook Luda is (and she herself agrees with that assessment), but all we’ve seen her do is pick at a few green beans. There’s no onstage cookery going on here. No working hob. No warm and hearty smells swirling around the auditorium.

I could do with something warm and hearty right now.

It’s not warm at all in here.

I put on my jacket and cross my arms, shivering in my seat.

Across the way I see a woman bring out her scarf and wrap it around her shoulders.

It’s freezing in here.

I can’t stop shaking.

Even when I emerge into what’s left of the sunshine, I have to keep on rubbing at my arms until the warmth manages to eke its way under my skin.

As I retrace my steps back to the station, I make a mental note to save my trip to their studio space for when it’s really hot. That air con is top notch after all.

When August hits, I might ask to move in.

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Doughnut Do That!

Back on the Southbank again tonight. I’m going to have to move. Get a second home. Or at least find a sofa to crash on. This is getting ridiculous.

It’s the turn of the Underbelly tonight. The Belly specifically. Neither of which I have ever done before. All that cabaret and comedy ain’t my thing. But there’s a circus show on at the moment that looks interesting, so here I go. Under Hungerford Bridge and off to the world of faerie lights and fake grass.

But first, the box office.

Things are off to a good start. There are purple signs pointing to the place, and the building itself, a wooden structure that looks like it spends its winters fulfilling the wrong of writer’s shed for some big time fantasy author, is right on the Southbank. There’s no missing it. It has BOX OFFICE posted outside in massive foot tall lettering. And an even larger sign next to the service windows, listing all the shows.

I’ll give Underbelly one thing. They know how to make a statement.

There’s only a couple of people at the window. This might be because I’m a little early, but far more likely is the fact that they push e-tickets hard here. Even on the email confirming my order (where I selected the option to pick up my tickets, natch) they take time to tell you how glorious e-ticketage is (“If this email has a barcode at the top, there's no need to queue at the box office!”) and let you know that changing your mind about the whole printed ticket business is only a matter of replying to the confirmation and everything e-tickety will be sorted out for you. No fuss.

This, I like.

I know that e-tickets are the future. I see it. I’m not stupid.

But Underbelly are still finding a way to serve old foggies like me, while also gently nudging in the direction of progress.

They haven’t got me this time. But, who knows… maybe next year.

For now, I’m waiting in the queue to get the real deal.

“Do you want to see my confirmation email or is just my surname okay?” I ask once it’s my turn. I don’t know why I ask this. Perhaps all that talk of barcodes threw me off.

“Err,” says the box officer, who is clearly also not sure why I felt the need to ask this. “Let’s go with surname first, shall we?”

I give it. And a second later a neat paper ticket is puttering out of the machine.

“What’s your first name?” he asks, double checking the ticket.

I give it, and with a nod, I’m handed my ticket.

Hurrah. What now?

I wander back the way I had come.

There’s a entrance here which looks fairly magical. All wooden decking and overhanding plants. But there are two bag checkers on duty and they look ready to check the fuck out of my bag. I keep on going. I’m sure there was another way in slightly further down.

There is. This one is slightly less magical. More of the astroturf and sunshine, and less of the faerie-glad. But the bag checker here doesn’t look nearly as intense, and I walk in without hindrance.

People are sitting around on the fuzzy green floor. That doesn’t look comfy. Apart from the likely wet bottom scenario going on there, I can well remember sitting on the all-weather hockey pitch back at school, and ending up with legs pox-marked with indentations from the end of my culottes to the start of my socks. I mean, that was a long time ago. So perhaps the fake grass industry has improved matters, but that’s not something I really want to explore right now.

I carry on.

The space widens out into something an area that makes me think I might have stumbled into a summer wedding.

Picnic tables huddle under bowers of flowers. Young women waft around in long skirts. And everyone has a glass of something bubbly clutched in their hands.

There are stalls everywhere. If you want crepes, there’s a stall for that. Burgers? Yup. Wraps? Yup. Prosecco? Double yup. That’s gone a whole area set off to one side.

All in the shadow of the massive curved tent that is The Belly.

I take a circle of the square. There’s a lot of people here. They can’t all be seeing the show.

A huge chunk must be here just to… hang out? Eat? Drink? Be merry?

They all seem very happy, laughing away in their groups.

I begin to feel a little awkward handing around by myself.

This place doesn’t really seem built with the lone theatre goer in mind. There’s nowhere to start that isn’t utterly in the way. And nowhere to sit that wouldn’t mean requisitioning a chair from people who actually have friends.

There’s some young women hanging out near the entrance to the theatre space. So I go over there too, tucking myself in against a blue shed which claims to be selling tickets and merchandise, but isn’t open for business.

A queue forms.

Someone comes out of the door, and squeezes himself around the rope bollard.

“Can I see your ticket?” he asks the young women.

They start flustering around, trying to dig out their e-tickets.

I pull my printed ticket from my pocket, and feel very smug about the whole thing.

But the ticket checker doesn’t want to check my ticket. He bypasses me and heads straight to the queue.

I get it. He probably thinks I pushed my way in front. So I stand around, waiting for him to double back to me.

The next lot are also fussing about with their phones.

With an internal sigh so great I can almost see it, he turns to me.

“Can I see your ticket?”

I show it to him.

“This is for our Sirloin Seats,” he says, taking it from me. “They have priority?”

“Oh?” I say, not knowing what to make of that.

“The queue for standard seats is over there,” he says, pointing to the door on the other side. “Enjoy the show!” He rips the ticket and hands it back to me, before moving onto the next person. Who still hasn’t found their e-ticket.

Well. Okay then.

I go over to the other door. But not before looking before me to check the signage. There are signs. Next to both entrances. Both advising on queuing. And in fact, both saying the exact same thing. “QUEUE HERE FOR SHOWS IN THE BELLY THEATRE.” I mean, I don’t know about you. But on reading that, I would queue there for shows in The Belly Theatre.

Oh well. I join the second, standard seat, queue.

“It’s already been ripped,” I tell the Standard ticket checker.

“That’s fine,” she says, and waves me through.

And in I go.

Up some metal steps and into the dark cavern of the tent.

It’s like walking into a cave. Cramped, with only a glimmer of light coming from the stage.

Seats are unallocated, so I edged myself between the rows until I get to the central block, about half way back. Yeah, that looks good.

I sit down.

Oh. Shit. Um.

Leg room. There’s a leg room issue. Or rather, there’s a lack of leg room issue.

Tell me, do you have these problems? It surely can’t just be me. I mean, I’m a little. Not in the kink way. In the literal way. I’m short. And I’m still struggling here. Is this normal? Do other people’s knees hit the seats in front when they go to these squishy theatres? If yes, then theatres really need to sort their shit out. And if no, and it really is just me, then can I get this fixed? Is there a cure? Because I bruise easily, and purple knees aren’t fun.

More people are coming in through the Fillet Steak entrance. I’m not sure why they need priority access. They have seats reserved for them right there, in the front few rows. Surely the real benefit would be swanning in at the last moment, when everyone else has been queueing and waiting and getting their knees bruised in these cramped conditions.

There’s a tannoy announcement. Sounds like we’re all about to take a flight.

“Please switch off personal devices that might distract you,” says the disembodied voice amongst pieces of advice about forming human pyramids on the plane.

The performers come out. I don’t know who any of them are (no freesheet), but they are all very bouncy.

It’s hard to feel sorry for my knees when this lot are literally throwing leaping off up massive trunks mere feet away from my tortured legs.

Now, I’ll admit. I’m not big on circus. I find it hard to get worked up about tricks. I wish there was a circus show out there with a proper narrative, rather than just the barest excuse for a story for the performers to hang their diablos off. But it is all very impressive. Even if they are just killing time while waiting for a delayed flight.

But the performers aren’t the only things flying around.

The audience flinches and cries of “ewww,” whip around as a freshly chewed piece of banana is spat into our midst.

I shudder. Then remember my poor knees. There’s no room for that sort of movement here.

But proving they can take it as well as dish it out, our waylaid travellers start spitting sweets up, into the air, where they drop neatly into their fellows’ mouths. Or on the floor. To be picked up. Reinserted. And sent on its travellers once more.

With one sweet remaining in play, the inevitable happens, and it is spat into our midst.

“What would you do, if this was our last show together?” they ask each other.

The answers differ. One wants to beat a world record. Another fancies having a go at lifting the entire troupe on his broad shoulders. Yet another voices a wish to perform at twice his body weight.

I should have seen it coming.

The inevitable happens.

It’s their last show. They are to disband.

“They gave me these back stage,” says the performer who wanted to double his weight. He holds out a plastic tray of doughnuts. He’s changed. He’s wearing a suit. A proper suit. With a shirt and whatnot. And under that, a fat suit.

He shoves a doughnut into his mouth, and offers out the tray to the audience.

Someone takes him up on his offer, and the doughnut is duly thrown in their direction.

I don’t think a smile has ever left my lips so fast.

He makes his way onto the stage and straps himself into the aerial straps, a doughnut still stuffed into his mouth. And up he goes, crashing into the set, twisting himself into knots, and chasing after his new found sugar addiction.

I have absolutely zero patience for fat suits. And even less for fat jokes.

Fuck. That. Shit.

I am in no mood to play along when we are called upon to grant our next performers final performance wish: to be treated like a rock star.

Underwear is thrown into the audience. Boxes of it. Bras and pants of every colour.

“Here, anyone not got one?”

More is brought out and lobbed around until we are all knickered up.

A white pair of pants lands on me. Not my style personally, but they’re clean, which is a relief.

At the call, we all lob our pairs of smalls down towards the waiting rock star. I’m surprised and a little bit pleased with myself that I managed to get mine down to the stage. Turns out I do actually have a muscle somewhere.

It does little to rid the bad taste of fat shaming in my mouth though.

I mean, seriously. Fuck. That. Fucking. Shit. Right. In. The. Bumhole.

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Farcing about

Next time I say that walking from Tufnell Park up towards Highgate might be a nice thing to do of an evening, please remind me that I'm not a fit person to make such statements. I'm not a fit person at all. Because that hill is not fun. It is the opposite of fun. If there was any fun to be had, it got left behind in Archway.

Shakey of limb and red of face, I make it to the Gatehouse pub and stand back to admire it in all its mock-Tudor glory, and catch my breath.

It's a fancy pub. I can tell that by the menu being posted outside in a shiny glass and metal box. The steps leading up to the door and a checkboard of ivory and terracotta. A glass lantern hangs overhead. And a cherub watches me balefully from his panel tucked under the door's canopy roof.

Something about the cherub is bothering me. His smug fatty cheeks, and wings coming out of his head, just seem to say: you can't come in here. Well, I won't be talked to like that by any plaster pipsqueak, so I walk all the way around the building looking for another entrance.

Over on the opposite side, there's another door. No cherub. But it does have a sign. "Pub & Theatre Entrance," it says in golden serifs.

It's almost like I knew. I've never been here before, but this marathon is starting to give me a sixth-sense about how these places work. Well, that's what I think. And it's either that or the cherub really was a smug little bastard who didn't want me walking in under him.

I go in. It's very dark here. All wood panelling and low lighting. The kind of pub you could imagine falling asleep with a hot toddy waking up a century later to find everything looking exactly the same. Oh well, barring any accidental encounters with a spindle, hundred year sleeps are not on the agenda for me right now. There's a door marked THEATRE EXTRANCE right here, so I think that's where I'm supposed to be heading. The wood-panelled aesthetic continues into the small foyer, offset by a pile of Edinburgh Fringe brochures and a chalkboard advertising interval drinks. Through another door (this one marked "Box Office Upstairs" with a handy arrow to point the way) and... I seem to have walked into a juniper berry.

Everything is purple. Or lilac, rather. The walls. The window frames. The ceiling. It's like the theatre had a mid-life crisis while reading taht Jenny Joseph poem.

When I am old, I shall paint myself purple. With a notice board which has too many posters, and looks a bit messy. And I shall spend my ticket income on sets and new writing.

And... well, you get it. I'm not a poet. My lack of rhythm extends beyond my inability to clap in time with music.

Up the stairs, round the corner, up more stairs and here we are, I guess. They really weren't kidding when they called this place Upstairs at the Gatehouse, were they?

Blimey, they're not short of room up here. I wide foyer, with the box office in its own separate room up ahead, and what looks like another bar off to the left and the theatre entrance off to the right.

I go to the box office. No balancing lurking in a corner, or balancing on a ledge here. This box office is a proper counter, larger than most off west end houses. It's also purple.

And there are headshots everywhere. I'm beginning to think I might be in the lair of a serial killer. One who is obsessed with fringe theatre.

I give my name to the box office lady, get my name checked off on a piece of paper, then she does something on the computer and a few seconds later, a paper ticket is printing. That's a sure sign of a box office system that is made of processes cobbled together, patched up, and in need of a good overhaul, but I don't even care because I got myself a paper ticket out of it, and it's frickin' purple.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask, spotting a display of them on the counter. They're three quid, which is a bit of a bargain as they look like there's quite a few pages going on there.

Programme and ticket acquired I make my way back to the foyer. It looks like the house is open, so I figure I should go in.

There's a pair of furry creatures balanced on a low table by the door. They're wearing dresses. I want to take a photo but the ticket checker is looking at me so I scoot over to her and show her my ticket.

Seats are unallocated, so she just waves me inside, and I walk straight into a living room.

Green walls. A sofa with cushions. Coffee table. The type of bookshelves that someone who doesn't read would own.

And about 100 chairs facing it.

The stage at Upstairs at the Gatehouse is massive. Yes, in pub theatre terms, but even more than that. It just goes on and on. Fitting what looks like an entire flat on it. A flat larger than most people in London would ever even get the sniff of the chance of living in.

I pick a seat someone in the middle row, forgoing my usual end of third row choice, as the end of the row is all the way in the distance and I'm not sure my legs can take the extra mileage after all those stairs after my mighty trek up the highest hill in the world, or at least London, or at least north London, or at least... I'm not Googling this. Just take my word for it. The hill is very high.

It's still early, and there aren't many people in yet, giving my a good chance to turn around in my seat and inspect what's happening behind me.

The seats all have those little plaques attached to them, where theatre fans have given money in exchange for the honour of having someone sit on their name until the upholstery gives out.

The back row is different though. Blue seats where the rest of us have red. Wider, and comfier looking too. And every single one of them has a reserved sign attached to it. Like, literally attached. As in the word 'reserved' is printed on a satin banner which flips over to indicate the reserved status of the seat.

Gradually people come in, and sure enough, most of the reserved seats are claimed.

The rest of us space ourselves out more. Most going for the front row, but a dedicated contingent choosing the separate bank over at the far end.

And almost all of them... gosh, how do I say this politely. Hmmm. Let's go with: almost all of them look like they live in Highgate. Yeah, that'll do. You know what I mean.

A man in a waistcoat leans against an empty seat to chat to some second rowers.

There's a lot of then going on. Chatter between the different rows.

Local theatre for local people.

It's a thing, I'm telling you.

The man with the waistcoat disappears, and comes back with a small stack of programmes.

"Does anyone need a progamme?" he asks, making his way down the row of seats, the programmes displayed in an attractive fan.

They are nice programmes, with a wrap-around image of a block of flats on the cover, which I'm enjoying. There's a short note from the playwright. And wee little pictures of mice scurrying around in between the biographies. Most interesting of all though, is the programme designer, Corinna Bordoli, is credited amongst the creatives for the production. And why not? Programme designers are integral to the theatre-going experience. At least, they're integral to my theatre-going experience. I like it.

Waistcoat-man is back again, hands-free of programmes now.

"I don't know if you're here for the post-show talk," he says, taking up position at the front of the stage area. "If not, I've got a nice surprise for you! The cast and the writer will come out and we'll have a nice chat about the play. It'll be in here. Not the pub. There's too many of us, though we'd all like to go to the pub." He throws out his arms as an apology for the lack of pub-location. "We'll give you a few minutes at the end, just in case you don't want to stay, but please do." Another apologetic gesture with his arms. "Anyway, we've got a play to get on with.." he says, leaving the stage.

His voice is replaced by one of the sound systems.

"Please take your glasses down to the bar during the interval, or at the end of the show," the disembodied voice says. "Switch off your mobile phones, or anything that beeps or vibrates."

"That would be interesting," a lady sitting in the third row whispers loudly as the lights dim.

Jennifer Matter rushes on stage. A minute later, she sits down, crossing her legs. Her red dress rucks up, revealing lacey stocking tops and suspenders.

There's a shocked gasp for a woman in the front row.

More gasps, and indeed, titters, follow as Matter takes off the red dress, to reveal the exact top of lingerie that you are probably imagining.

Ah, I can see what sort of play this is going to be. And yup, sure enough, despite the multiple references to millennials, safe spaces, trigger warnings, and all the rest of it, we are firmly in the realm of seventies farce. With all the door slamming, mistaken identities, outfit knicking, and gender confusion of it all.

It's enjoyable though, and the interval rolls around soon enough. I go off to explore what exacting is the Green Room and what happens in there.

Eating ice cream, apparently. Because that's what everyone is doing. With the pub below, the drinkers have all gone downstairs to fill their glasses. Everyone else is in here, buying two quid ice creams out of the massive freezer.

It feels like Flat Out’s writer, Jennifer Selway, not only wants to have her cake and eat it too, but also wants a slice of everyone else’s. She’ll put in all those grandious lines of there being nothing wrong with a gentlemen enjoying a good pencil skirt, but she has no qualms with using said gentleman for laughs when he puts on a dress. She wants us to nod knowingly along when a character declares she couldn’t sleep with someone who voted to leave, but then uses a character’s Ukraian accent as the basis for a crude joke.

It’s all a little tiresome.

And confusing.

Who is this play meant for?

The guffawing old men of Highgate? Or those young millennials, who Jake Mitchell’s property developing scoundrel so rightfully points out, aren’t prepared to feel sorry for someone with a second home in South Ken any time soon. Even if it does have rats.

As with all farces, the final scene takes a long time to wrap up., but we get there eventually.

I don't stay for the talk.

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Kill Bloggers

Right then. Here we are, back at The Pleasance. It’s my last trip of the marathon. Two spaces down, one to go. And I’m feeling determined. Not about the show. The show’s fine. That will happen... probably. I just need to make sure I get there on time.

No, what I’m psyching myself up for is the ticket.

Or rather the paper ticket.

Two times I’ve asked for one, and two times I’ve been fobbed off with inferior, and frankly unacceptable, e-tickets, while all around other theatre-goers fan themselves with their fancy yellow paper tickets, flaunting their superior negotiating skills.

This time however, I’m not giving up. It’s my last chance. If I don’t get a paper ticket tonight, then I never will.

I am fully prepared to do what it takes. Beg. Cry. Stomp my foot. Prostrate myself on the floor. Throw a full scale toddler-style temper tantrum. Hunger strike. Whatever. I am placing no limits on my behaviour in pursuit of this paper ticket.

As I walk over the grey cobbles that separate Caledonian Park and Shearling Way, I accidentally find myself as an extra in a music video, as some young person raps away while balancing on the low brick wall while getting filmed by his mate with an iPhone.

It’s not raining, but huge droplets land at random, and the threat of an oncoming downpour sends the rapper and his mate off in search of shelter before their song is done. At least, I hope that’s the reason, and not the woman wearing an oversized check jacket wandering around in the back of their shot.

I round the corner, and walk the last few minutes alone. The streets are really quiet round here. Those large wet droplets have scared away even the most ardent outdoor lovers. All the tables laid out below the Pleasance are empty save for a slick of dampness on their surfaces.

I go up the stairs, glancing over the railing to have a look at the big pulleys that hang over the courtyard below. They are fantastically heavy duty, and make a great picture with the cheerful bunty hanging there below and the bright signage of the Pleasance Downstairs theatre in the background.

There’s where I’m going to be tonight. The downstairs theatre. Last one on my list for the Pleasance.

Let’s do this thing.

I go inside and aim straight for the ticket machine. The bright yellow monster that sits next to box office. You may well ask yourself how I’d managed to miss it so completely on my previous visits. I sure ask myself that question every damn day.

The screens, which had previously shown adverts for upcoming shows, are dark.

I stand there, staring at it.

It can’t be broken. It just can’t. I refuse to accept it.

There’s a sign stuck to the front. It’s not an out of order sign though. If anything, it’s the complete opposite - giving instructions for use.

I decide to give it a go, as if pure force of will would spur circuits into action. I get out my card, and swipe it, as instructed. Upside down. Magnetic stripe facing me.

Nothing.

The screens remain resolutely dark.

“Is the ticket machine not working?” I ask the lady sitting behind box office. I try and say it as casually as possible, not letting the trauma raging beneath squeak out in my voice.

“No,” she says. “Sorry about that. Are you collecting?”

“Yes,” I say, swallowing my heavy sigh and sliding over to the desk. I really don’t fancy going all toddler tantrum right here but I’m steeling myself to the fact that I might just have to.

“What show is it?”

Errr. Fuck. Why can I never remember? My eyes land on a pile of freesheets resting on the counter. “Kill Climate Deniers,” I read.

“And the surname?”

“Smiles.”

“And the postcode?”

Err. My eyes cast around. Sadly there are no freesheets with my address lying on them. Somewhere deep inside, a neuron sparks, and I manage to say it before it splutters out once more.

She nods, and a second later a ream of yellow tickets are puttering out of the machine under the counter.

She tears them off, folds them up neatly, and hands them over.

“I…. thank you!” I say, taking them from her. I think my hand is shaking.

Is that it? Did I do it? Did I manage to get a printed ticket out of the Pleasance? And from their box office, no less!

I actually did it!

Or rather, the lovely box office lady did it.

No, we did it. Together. The pair of us. A team.

“There’s also a freesheet,” she says, indicating the pile.

I want to cry.

I take one. Then another. Just in case.

“The show’s in the downstairs theatre,” she says, pretending, very sweetly, not to notice the emotional crisis I’m going through in front of her.

“Oh, yes,” I say, managing to pull myself together for a few more seconds. “Do I have to go out and down?” I ask, pointing in the general direction of the pulleys.

“No. You'll go through here,” she says, pointing in the opposite direction, towards a black fire door off in the corner. ”Someone will call you when it's time to go down.”

I retreat with my prizes to the tables off to the side, where I stare at them for far too long.

I am really, really pleased with myself.

I take a photo of it and text it to a couple of friends.

They are perplexed, but do a good job of being supportively excited about my victory.

I lay the ticket reverently on the table and look at the cast sheet. It’s a decent cast sheet. There’s some stuff about blocking out the sun for the purposes of temperature control on the back, which is a little worrying, despite the cheerful looking drawing to illustrate the process (it’s done with balloons, apparently). I hastily turn it back over. Not sure I want to be looking at that. All sounds a bit super-villain if I’m honest. Something on the front catches my eye. A trigger warning. Or is it called a content warning now? Whichever. One of those.

“Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander audience members are advised that the following production may contain images of people who have died.”

I read it. Then I read it again, just to make sure I understand.

Is it… I can’t tell… are they trying to be funny here?

I break it down into parts, reading each one multiple times.

The first part, “Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander audience members are advised,” is very specific. But okay.

“That the following production may contain images.” May contain images? May? Do they not know?

Now, I’ve gone to print on programmes before a show is fully finalised. I know the panic that ensues when something comes up the day a new production opens and you suddenly have to coordinate the printing and distribution of several hundred programme slips. But I don’t think I’ve ever encountered this on a freesheet. A freesheet which has obviously, and I don’t mean to be rude here because I do it myself, been run off a photocopier, and therefore doesn't require much time to print.

Moving on. “Of people who have died.” People. Just people. A phrase as broad as the first one was narrow.

Why are only Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander audience members being advised of this? Are there Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander dead people? Is that why? If it isn’t, why aren’t we all being advised? And how do they not know? Is the showing of dead people somehow randomised between shows? French and Germans one performance, Americans and Marshall Islanders the next.

I am very confused.

A front of houser walks past. “Five minutes. Fuck, what’s going on!” he says to himself, as he makes his way to the box office. A minute later, he’s coming back. “Are you here for Climate Deniers?” he asks the few people hanging around. We nod. We are.

Five minutes soon becomes three, then two, then…

“The house is now open for Kill Climate Deniers,” says the front of houser, taking up position in the pivot point between the bar and the foyer. “The show is one hour thirty minutes with no interval. There's no remittance so if you have to go wee-wee do it now. Err,” he pauses. “There's an adult way to say that…” He regroups. “You can take drinks in plastic cups and... Follow me!”

He marches over to the fire door, and opens it for us, nodding as we flash our tickets at him.

Down a staircase lined with posters made of posters - all collaged together with a sign on top pointing the way to the loos and the bar in one direction, and the downstairs theatre in the other.

There’s someone to meet us at the bottom, ready and waiting with a ticket beeper in hand. I do like a ticket beeper. When it’s not my phone that needs beeping.

“Sorry,” she says as a packet of cigarettes drops to the ground and she crouches down to retrieve them.

No need to apologise. I’m just here to get my ticket beeped!

She obliges and I go past, up some metal steps and onto the next person.

I show her my ticket.

She waves me past. “It’s free seating,” she says with a hand movement that indicates she has no interest in my paper ticket and it might as well be yesterday's Evening Standard for all she cares.

I put the ticket away safely in my pocket and go in.

It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up with what I’m seeing. Somehow, this is not what I expected. The stage is sunken, surrounded on all four sides by purple seat. Double seats, I notice. Since telling my seat-neighbour at Soho Theatre that double-seats were a thing that didn’t exist I've been seeing them absolutely everywhere.

Turns out people have had to coordinate their sitting down together in theatres all over London, and I didn’t even notice.

That is not my fate tonight though. I have a double-wide all to myself.

In fact, everyone in the audience could have claimed a wide seat of their very own if they had a mind to. There aren’t many of us here. Not that it’s empty. Just… not full. Really not full. We are in serious Tuesday-night levels of not-fullness right now.

But the banging eighties tunes blaring over the sound system are doing their very best to fill the space and the energy is happy, if not exactly bouncing.

A door opens.

Not a door.

The door. The door we had come through earlier as audience members.

But this is definitely an actor. He’s holds up a copy of the playtext. The same playtext that had been available for sale from the box office for the mighty sum of five pounds.

Kill Climate Deniers.

It’s his play.

I mean, it’s not his play. The play was written by David Finnigan, and this dude is Nathan Coenen playing the role of David Finnigan (or Finig, according to the cast sheet). But for the purposes of us sitting, hearing this tale, it’s his play.

He taps the front of the book, in what must be the most meta use of a prop in theatre history.

He tells us about the title, and all the spiralling problems that resulted from it.

Which, I mean, okay, it's a little bit inflammatory. But with all the Tumblr kids threatening to eat the rich at the moment, merely killing a climate denier sounds a little... twee. It's hard to imagine anyone getting worked up about it.

But all these explanations are only a framing device for the actual play. The one that is apparently riling everyone up. A play about terrorists, the Australian environment minister, her press rep, and some quality eighties bangers.

The cast rush in and out of the doors. That first door, and another one the leads from the outside world straight onto the stage, so we get glimpses of daylight every time they come on.

Good thing the rain has cleared up.

"Bloggers mean nothing,” says Kelly Paterniti in her role as press rep when Felicity Ward's environment minister is confronted by an online journalist. She scans the audience, daring the bloggers to reveal themselves. “If you are a blogger, you mean nothing.” I purse my lips and try not to giggle. You tell ‘em love, bloggers are scum.

But she’s not done with her blogger-baiting. “If there is a blogger within earshot I hope they get sick and die.”

I press my lips together even harder, and stifle the cough that is suddenly attacking the back of my throat.

It's hard to stay mad at her, she's wearing a great dress and I kinda want it. Dammit. Costume envy strikes again, and isn't going anywhere fast as Bec Hill appears wearing an amazing cut off leather jacket with the most extraordinary black eyeshadow action going on, that I am definitely going to attempt, but fail to recreate, at some point very soon. And clearly pink Lennon glasses are now a trend in London theatre, because look, Hannah Ellis Ryan is wearing them too. God, this cast looks cool.

That is, until they start to dance.

Don't get me wrong, it's not that they can't dance. But when you are attempting to recreate a rave atmosphere in a theatre, it helps to have more than ten people in it. And having the story stopped in order for the playwright, who isn't actually the playwright, to tell us more about the history of the play, means we're stuck in a Sisyphean loop of building up energy only to have it put on hold and let to drain away before starting it up again.

A few people in the front row bop around to show willing, but I'm not a bopper even at the best of time so I leave them too it.

The cast point guns at people, take swigs from an audience member's drink, and accuse an innocent man in the front row of writing for the Daily Mail. All with the playwright-who-isn't-a-playwright there to step in and apologise on his play's behalf, rendering it all rather... sweet really. Made toothless by cavities.

After the bows Felicity Ward leans forward towards the front row. "Thank you for being a nice Tuesday audience."

Yeah.

I wonder what the playwright, who is actually the playwright, thinks about paper tickets.

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Absolutely Harrowing

I've lived in London for over ten years now. Closing in on a dozen, now that I think about it. And I've been a theatre-fan for a good number of those. So, it's amazing to me how many theatres I haven't been to yet, and plain haven't even heard of, or likely would have heard of, without the push of the marathon.

When I get to one of these new-to-me venues, I have a lot of questions that need answering. What type of work do they programme? What are the audiences like? Do they provide freesheets? You know, that sort of stuff.

It's not often my first question is: how do I get in.

I'm standing outside the Harrow Arts Centre. It's a nice building. Very nice. Red brick. Old. Surrounded by gardens. Very pretty.

There's a little enclave outside the door, with wooden benches set into the brick walls. Very cosy. The sort of place you could imagine sheltering from the rain at a church fete and falling for a naice young man sporting a woolly jumper and a stutter.

The door, however, is dark. There's no sign of life inside. There's no sign of a sign.

I'm beginning to worry that I might have got the wrong building, and that I've been traipsing all over the gardens of some company away day centre, and any encounter with a young man in a woolly jumper would be closely followed by a radio call to security and possibly some dogs being released in my direction.

But no, there's the banner up by the road advertising a solitary matinee performance of Coppelia. This is def the right place. Just possibly, the wrong door.

I decide to have a walk around the building. See if anyone else is having this problem.

Somewhere a car door slams, and then a second later, a couple emerge from behind a hedge, hurry across a flagstoned courtyard and disappear through an automatic door.

Well, I might as well go after them then.

Engraved in the stone after the door, it says The B.G. Elliott Hall. I don't know who B.G. Elliott is, or why The was carved with a different font to the rest of the message, and I really hope I'm not going to find out. I walk over slowly, fully expecting a B.G. Elliot to come marching out and order me off his property. Possibly while wearing a woolly jumper. But no one does. Instead, I find myself in some sort of antechamber. There's another door in here. And another sign above it. This one says: Harrow Arts Centre.

Thank goodness for that.

Inside it finally, finally, begins to look like an arts centre. There are flyers everwhere. And posters. And roller banners. There's even a sign for the Box Office, with an arrow pointing to... a closed door.

I look at the door.

It does look very definitely closed. The type of closed that does not appreciate being opened.

Okay then. Perhaps I don't need the box office. The pre-show email hadn't mentioned e-tickets or anything of the sort, but then it also hadn't given any advice on transportation other than for car drivers, and also misspelt the word queues ("ques"), so perhaps that email isn't the best crutch to lean on right now.

I press on, further into the building, turn left, and see a queue (or possibly 'que') of people coming out of a door, a door that, if my mental geography hasn't let me down, should be to the box office.

There's a sign on the door. "Public Notice," it says. "The Box Office opening hours are Monday - Friday 10am - 5pm." It's well past 5pm now, but there is a show on tonight, so I imagine they are making an exception.

A few minutes later, I'm at the front of the queue.

"The surname's Smiles?"

"Can I have your order number?" says the lady behind the desk.

"Umm... yes?" I say, pulling out my phone. I don't think I've ever been asked that question before at box office. Not unless there was a problem, or I was asking for something unreasonable, like a ticket exchange.

I find my confirmation email and recite the order number, and she types it in. Soon the ticket machine is puttering out my ticket. She gives it a good wiggle and a tug. It did not want to come out. Probably because the ticket stick was put in the wrong way round. Or at least, I presume the logo isn't supposed to be upside down. Not that it matters much. With the logo positioned on the ticket's stub, it'll be torn off soon enough, leaving nothing but a plain white, unbranded piece of card. The shame of its upsidedowness lost to the recycling bin.

"Just the one?" asks the box office lady, giving the ticket a once over before handing it to me.

"Yes... just the one." I didn't even try to convince my friends to come to this one. Bless them, they do try. But Harrow is an Overground journey too far for even the strongest of friendships.

"Where am I heading?" I ask.

I don't know what prompted me to ask that. I don't usually. Perhaps I've encountered too many closed doors on this trip to have faith I'll find the right one. Or maybe I just want to make it really clear that I'm the loner who doesn't belong here to the box office lady.

She blinks at me in surprise.

"Err," she says, as if she's never been asked this question before, because, presumably, simply everyone knows where the Studio theatre at Harrow Arts Centre is, and what is this person that she is now having to deal with? A person who comes to the theatre, by herself, and doesn't even know where it is? She's definitely not paid enough for this, and she'll be making a note so that she can bring it up in her next one-to-one. "Head out of this building," she starts, pointing back out the door.

I'm sorry, what the what? Outside?

She sees the alarm on my face and presses on. "Go left from the car park and you'll see a sign for the studio theatre. The medical centre will be the opposite."

"Right," I say weakly. "Thank you."

Bloody hell. I'm glad I asked.

I stop outside in the corridor to quickly make a note of what she said. More for my own use than the blog. "Left. Car park. Sign. Medical centre," I mutter to myself as I battle against the auto correct to type it out.

From inside the box office I can hear a very loud customer talking very quickly. "Can't find my email, but can I buy a ticket?"

"Sorry, it's all sold out."

Blimey, I would never even have thought of that. Buying a new ticket because I can't find the confirmation email from my last one. No wonder the show is sold out if that's how the people of Harrow sort things out. Rebuying tickets because they can't figure out the search functionality on their emails. Oh well, at least it's generating some income for the arts, I suppose.

I go outside. I'm not entirely sure where the car park is, but I follow the building around, back to where I had heard the car door slam earlier, and yes. Here it is. And as promised, there's a sign. I walk down the road to get a better look at it. I'm not wearing my glasses and can't quite read it.

It lists all the delights of the Harrow Arts Centre: Elliot Hall, Studio Theatre, Medical Centre, Swimming Pool, Cafe and Bar. With arrows all pointing in the same direction. That's convenient.

I turn left and am instantly lost.

There's hundreds of buildings here. Fancy brick ones. Whitewashed ones. Ones that look like are falling apart. Ones that look like they housed pigs in another life. And others that probably have a sweat-shop in them right now.

But down a path lined with some of the more dispiriting examples, I spy a crisp white sign, gleaming out from all that peeling paint-work. "HAC Studio Theatre."

I'd found it.

And so has everyone else. There's a line coming right out the door.

It rather looks like I've stumbled on the hit show of Harrow.

I hear the ticket checker before seeing him. He's bantering away with everyone coming through the door.

"You'll be having the stay out here with me," he laughs to a group of women, before letting loose a beaming smile on the next person in the queue.

We shuffle our way forwards into the foyer. There's a little desk in here. But it's not being used. And doesn't appear to have been used since 2004. There's a TV resting on top. It has a built in VHS player.

The ticket checker chats away to everyone in turn, seeming unperturbed by this historical artefact resting on the desk not three feet away from him.

"That's two," he asks the man in front of me in the queue. He looks closer at the print out. "Just one?" he says, looking up at me.

The man in front confirms that it is just one.

The ticket checker takes my ticket. "Thank you, madam," he says, handing it back. No banter. Barely even a glance.

Right then. I go into the studio. It's dark, long and low, and makes me think of an industrial chicken coop.

Ridgid rows of chairs are packed in.

This should be my cue to head to the front, to claim my spot at the end of the third row, as is my preference in unallocated seats. But instead, I turn the other way, heading for the first raised row, just behind the door. When the choice is between proximity and a rake, always choose the rake. That is my free and personal advice to you.

It's a bit tight in here. I had to clamber in around the chair in front so as so to disturb the nice ladies at the end of the row. There's a free seat between us, but that is doing nothing to save my legs.

I may only be a shade over 5'3" but that's not short enough for the squishy legroom here in the studio. I really hope no one sits in front of me, as they are going to end up with a knee in their back.

As soon as I have this thought, someone plonks themselves down in the seat in front, only to discover my knee in their back.

He jerks his seat back, but when he finds no relief, he looks behind him to discover the cause of this obstruction, only to discover my apologetic face.

I try to rearrange myself, but a big group has just come in and the ticket checker is trying to find seats for them all. The nice ladies at the end of my row move down with a smile. "Someone can sit on the end there," one says.

The doors are closing. There's still five minutes today but we are locked in together in the darkness.

We all sit and awkwardly look our host for the evening, Pariah Khan, sat on a table, his legs swinging, his head bowed as he reads a book.

A young woman a few rows ahead of me looks back and holds my gaze for a second too long before turning back around. It was a look of curiosity and recognition. We're the only two white girls in the audience. The only two white people.

The ticket checker comes back in to let people through and give a countdown to the tech person. Four minutes to go.

Three minutes.

Two.

Khan begins. He's come to Britain to explore what this country has to offer. To travel about. fall in love, and watch football at a reasonable hour.

"This is really good," says the man sitting in front of me, leaning towards his companion.

I'm glad he's got something decent to distract him from the knee in his back.

A minute later, a phone rings. First quietly, but louder as its owner rummages through her bag in search of the disastrous noise machine.

Khan stops, his face a still mask as we all collectively hold our breaths, waiting for the phone to stop ringing.

"Did you remember to turn your phone off?" he asks, with a sly side-long glance as the ringing eventually comes to a stop.

Unfortunately, no number of side-long glances will stop the sounds of the radio bagging through from the foyer, as messages are relayed through the hundreds of buildings that make up the Harrow Arts Centre.

But Khan presses on, taking us on a tour of this strange country of ours. Even when a woman in the front row decides to stand up, put her coat on, make her way to the door, and let it slam on her way out.

At the end, applause still going, Khan uses the flipchart that has been his companion and time marker throughout the performance to display the credits.

The clapping quietens as we all watch him flip pages.

"You can carry on applauding!" he says, showing us the director's name (Eduardo Gama).

We dutifully do so, but it's not the same. Just think how much better it would have been if they'd been a freesheet.

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It's just not cricket

It’s the benches that are to blame.

Now, I understand why some theatres have a bad rake. When you’re trying to fit in as many seats as possible into a small space, sometimes you are limited by the frickin-ceiling. But when there are only two rows, the reason for placing the second of these on a platform that barely clears a couple of inches, doesn’t not a logical decision make.

Especially in a studio space, where you just know the cast is going to be sitting on the floor.

I have a theory. If you were to plot the size of a cast against the number of minutes spent at floor level, you’d get a classic exponential curve. Okay, perhaps they’d be a spike for the solo-players - they like to do things standing up, but after that, it would be bums on the ground for the majority of the run time, falling rapidly as the number of credits on the cast list increases, until you reach those massive community project casts, which are all-standing, all the time.

Just as I am having these thoughts, the lights go out. We are left in darkness, listening to Arly Ifenedo and Amina Koroma fret in the dark as they try and figure out where they are and what’s happening to them. The answer appears far too easily for our outside eyes. They’re on a ship. A slave ship. Packed in with hundreds of others just like them. They are strangers, but not for long. They are driven together by proximity, pain, and a shared language amongst so much confusion. Sister forged in blood rather than born in it.

They never leave the ship, but Koroma’s play covers a lot of ground: differing races and religions, obviously, but not just between the slavers and their prisoners, but also between the girls themselves. Female genital mutilation is breathed about in whispers between the two of them, and forms the basis of choice for Ifenedo’s character. Her choice to run from being cut had her fleeing into the path of her captures. And her prayers result in her being faced with another choice: return, and face the blade, or stay, and face the slavers. It’s here that the play lost me, I must admit. Both of these two options too awful to contemplate or to weigh against one another. My mind and my emotions shrank away from it.

On the way out, our front of houser hands us feedback forms. To help the artists with the development of their work. I tuck mine away in my bag.

I never fill these things out.

I’m really

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Glitter in the Rain

I’m really happy right now. Like, stupidly, happy. Bouncing down the street, happy. I feel like the Sharky Twins in Wolfie, throwing pocketfulls of sequins all over the place as a physical  manifestation of all the shiny joy that’s gurgling inside me. I have no reason for this happiness. I’ve been to some great fucking theatres recently. That helps. And people keep on smiling at me. That’s true. And also strange. Not sure what’s going on there. You’d think reading a black-bound copy of one of Kafka's short stories would be enough to put anyone off, but no. There they are, on the tube, gurning at me. It’s so weird I can’t help but gurn right back.

It’s all very troubling.

My happiness has grown to such excessive levels that people are starting to notice.

“That’s very positive of you!” said one of my co-workers this morning.

And she was right. It was very positive of me.

And it wasn’t even ten o’clock. Far too early to be positive about anything, let alone work.

If this goes on any longer, I’m going to get my Goth-card revoked.

But even after a full day listening to Nightwish on blast, I’m still springing my way through the rain like Tigger after a long session snorting lines of icing sugar at a birthday party.

Oh well. Might as well make the most of it before the inevitable crash sends my friends into intervention-crisis-mode again.

Damp of clothes, but not of spirits, I arrive at the Soho Theatre. it’s my second trip here of the marathon. I seem to be working my way down from the top. I’ve done the upstairs studio, now it’s the turn of the theatre space on the second floor, with only the basement left to go.

I give my name at the box office, basking in the reflection from the neon pink surround.

The lady behind the box office stares at me, waiting.

“Oh sorry,” I say. I had forgotten where I was. The theatre of a thousand shows. “It’s for Citysong.”

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A cat called Ghost

It’s Tuesday night, and I’m crouching on the ground in the middle of what looks like an industrial wasteland, clucking my tongue. It has just started to rain.

The reason I’m here is that I think there might be a theatre around here somewhere. I’m not exactly sure though. I’m just following my intuition on this one. I find, that when you’re in doubt about the location of a fringe venue, it’s always best to take the route that looks most likely to contain your murderer. That’s where fringe theatres tend to live. In the most scary of all the available options.

As to the ground crouching and tongue clicking, I've just met a cat. Pure white and very pretty. We’re making friends

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Witness her gate-crash my tiny hell

It is way too early on a Saturday morning for me to be awake. The sun is high in the sky and the birds outside my window are tweeting up a storm, but I am not ready for any of this nonsense.

Whatever demon possessed me to book a noon-time matinee has now vacated my body and left me to suffer through the morning all by myself.

At least I'm off somewhere rather thrilling today. Somewhere that I hadn't even heard of before this whole marathon thing. I'm going to the Crossrail Roof Gardens, which is apparently a place that not only exists, but also has a theatre. So, that's fun.

What does one wear when one goes to a roof garden? Layers, according to the email I got a few days ago from the good people at The Space who are behind the events there today. Says right here that it's covered (so no need of waterproofs, which I'm not entirely convinced I own anyway), but "it is 3 storeys above ground level so it can be a bit chilly."

I look doubtfully out the window. It doesn't look chilly. But sitting for two hours in the cold doesn't sound like much of a good time, so I stick a cropped sweatshirt over my dress and then sling on my 49er jacket on top of the whole thing. That'll do.

I don’t actually know where this place is, but thankfully the email has got me covered, with chunky paragraphs of directions both from the Canary Wharf tube station and the DLR.

“Take the large escalator up from the ticket hall,” it says. Well, there’s no mistaking that. The escalator is fucking massive. I take it.

“Turn right out of the main exit and walk through Reuters Plaza past the clocks.”

I don’t know what Reuters Plaza is, but I do see what looks like a little outcrop of clocks, planted like a walkway of trees either size of the path.

“Walk straight ahead through the set of glass doors underneath the steps and continue straight through until you come back outside.”

I spot the glass doors underneath the steps. They look dark, and a little bit grim. As if they belong to a political consultancy firm, utilising data analysis to bend democracy to their will. This is not the type of door that I would walk though. But the instructions have got me this far, might as well see where they lead me.

Turns out where they lead me is to a shopping centre.

Terrifying.

What next? “Straight through until you come back outside.”

Okay then. Straight through it is and Ooo… they sell salt beef here. I could do with some of that. Nope. Don’t get distracted. Straight through. Off we go.

I push my way through one set of doors after another, feeling very dramatic as they swing shut after me, leaving me blinking in the bright light of Adam’s Plaza. Well, I’m guessing this is Adam’s Plaza. That’s where the instructions say I should be, so let’s just hope they’re right.

It’s quiet here. Just a few smart looking people strolling around in the shadows of skyscrapers. There’s a bridge overhead. Linking one building to another, like a relic from some dystopian film set, where the rich never stoop to walking at ground level and the rest of us are left in the shadows to fight it out over the rat droppings.

There’s a couple of sloppy fountains, the type where the water gushes over the edge and into a waiting drain without the showy travesty of flying through the air first. There’s nowhere to sit though. No benches. This square was made for walking, not hanging around in.

But I hang around all the same, leaning over the railings, looking into the murky water of the docks and feeling a bit of a rebel. A tired and slightly complacent rebel, but a rebel nonetheless.

It occurs to me, that if I’m after views, I’d probably get better ones on a roof garden than in a square, so I bring up that email again and see what it has to say for this last part of my journey.

“The entrance to Crossrail Place is in front of you,” it says.

It’s that building next to me, I suppose, now that I’ve gone off course.

“Go up the escalators to the Roof Garden and follow signs for the Performance Space.”

Well, aye aye, Captain. Will do.

I go inside. There’s a staircase. And signs for a lift. I ignore those. The email said escalators and if the email says escalators then I am damn well taking the escalators.

Ah, there they are. I see them. I hop on, and ride up in style to the first floor.

There’s a piano up here. One of those Instagram-bait painted pianos that are left out in public in the hopes that some maestro will play it and we’ll have a nice viral video to distract us from the end of the world.

The entrance to the bridge is here. The dystopian one. It’s actually a tunnel, and looks even more science fiction from this angle. Quite the dramatic visual, actually. A spaceship's corridor stretching out to infinity. There’s already someone crouching down in front of it to get a photo. I take a photo of him taking a photo. Mainly because I don’t want to wait for him to finish up.

One more set of escalators and then we’re there! At least, I think we’re there. Trees and plants and a transparent roof. If this is not the roof garden, then it’s a pretty darn good reproduction.

I wander between the bushes, following the winding path.

There’s a sign here, pointing the way to the performance space. And a giant robot. Not sure what business a robot, giant or otherwise, has in a rooftop garden, but glad this place is covered. Wouldn’t want him getting all rusty when it rains.

Turns out, I don’t need the signs. I can hear the space. It sounds like singing.

I stop, trying to make out the words. Something about knowing someone is bad news because they have tattoos. It would almost be offensive if it weren’t so hilariously sheltered.

I turn a corner and I see them. The singers. Their childish faces just about visible through the foliage. They are very young, thank goodness. I would dread to think what kind of grownup is scared of tattoos.

There’s more signs here, for the Bloom Festival. That’s why I’m here. A few days filled with free events, split into ticketed slots of a few hours each. Mine doesn’t start until noon, and I still have a few minutes left, so I go for a wander.

I don’t get far though before I find something very exciting.

A short-story machine! I do like a short-story. I even write the bloody things on occasion. Mostly as gifts (my poor friends… they are very sweet about it all, but how they must suffer). The intro above the machine claims it can print one out of a one minute’s read time, two minutes, or five minutes. Just tap the button and a short-story of that length will be printed in some eco-friendly manner, just for you.

I immediately hit the five minute button.

Nothing happens.

The one minute button is lit up though.

Perhaps they are out of stock of the five minutes.

I try the one minute button instead.

Nothing.

Oh.

Okay.

I walk back to the performance space to watch the end of the singing.

It’s fairly open here, with nothing but the plants to shade the stage from view.

The kids finish and file off stage.

It’s time to go in.

No one stops me as I squeeze myself through the leaving audience-members. No one asks for my name, or to check that I have a ticket. I don’t suppose it matters when it’s free.

Two steps in though, and my path is cut off.

Someone is blocking the way in.

She’s grabbed one of the festival-workers wearing a Bloom Festival t-shirt. She’s talking very fast. It’s something very important.

She wants to leave flyers on the benches.

I wait for her to finish. And wait... And wait...

Who knew there was so much to say about flyers.

Eventually she moves enough to let me pass and I go in.

It’s very much a garden theatre. A floor level stage, with curved benches on three levels, backed by a wall of greenery. It’s like a mini amphitheatre, except more garden centre than gladiatorial. I pick my favourite seat, third row - right at the end. Which here is a nice little corner, cuddled up with the leaves.

A Bloom t-shirt wearer comes out and begs the seated audience to stay. “There’s lots more coming up,” he says invitingly. “Stay. Please!”

They go.

There aren’t many people left.

I mean, it’s a small venue. Only three rows and not all three go all the way around. The third row could probably only fit ten people if they were intent on getting cosy, but still.

There are some kids on stage. They give a short play about trainers. It’s cute.

Parents watch their offspring through the medium of their phone cameras.

People walk past the theatre. Some pushing buggies. A few stop to look in, just as I had done, but none cross the threshold.

I can’t blame them. Two people wearing Bloom t-shirts are blocking the entrance. Their backs turned to the gap in the fence. There’s no way a buggy could pass through without them having to ask for the Bloomers to move.

The children finish their play.

There’s another changeover of the audience.

It’s a younger crowd now. Teens.

The stage is empty. And remains so. No one knows who’s meant to go on first.

The teenagers are all called to the front to work out the order they’ll be going on. This goes on for quite some time.

Straws drawn, and first victim selected, a Spotify ad blasts over the sound system.

The young performer makes a swift joke about it as she struggles with the microphone.

Something tells me that these guys haven’t had the chance to rehearse in this space. Sound checks are presumably just a test of coolness round this way.

There’s a crunch of broken twigs behind me, I turn around and find a photographer lurking amongst the vegetation, like a creeping pervert on Hampstead Heath.

I turn back around.

A woman pushing a pram manages to inch her way into the space by using the other entrance, thereby avoiding the Bloomers.

That brings the grand total of people in the audience not directly involved in the performance up to three.

The photographer must have climbed their way out of the boscage, because they are now down by the stage.

I scroll through Twitter while I wait for the next act to begin. I see a photo of me. Sitting in the third row of the Crossrail Roof Gardens.

Great.

I look longing at the group of old people, laden down with shopping, sauntering past. They pause, watch one of the performers sing a song, and then move on.

Another woman arrives. She’s also a bit older, and carrying a great number of bags. She takes a seat on the bottom bench, and then, after a moment of consideration, picks up the largest of the bags, climbs up the benches, and then dumps it in the second row, blocking my exit, before going back to her seat.

Gradually, more people arrive. They go sit by the older lady. She greets them all with a lifted hand and a wide smile, until one half of the space is packed with what looks like three generations of a single family.

The teens finish their set. Within seconds, every single one of them has gone.

The next performer arrives, and she starts setting up a table full of props.

The family all get up and take up new positions in the middle of the benches. The prime spots, head on to the stage.

With the bag to my left, and the family everywhere else, I am utterly trapped.

There’s no one else here. Just me, the family, the Bloomers, the creeping photographer, and a single performer: a spoken word artist.

I seem to have found myself in a private performance.

One of the group looks around at me, her eyes scraping up and down as if trying to work out how I had managed to wangle my way into their family show. Frankly, I’m wondering the same thing.

The spoken word artist asks us to raise our hands if we believe in luck. I’m not sure I believe in anything right now, least of all luck. I keep my arm down.

The poem is all about the serendipitous-stuff apparently. Not that I can tell. I hear a lot of words, but over the sound of the breeze blowing itself through the roof gardens, I can’t figure out how any of them join together.

The microphone stands unused and unnoticed as the performer's words are lost to the wind.

A few minutes later, the words stop and we all applaud.

Our performer goes over to one of the Bloomers and whispers something.

“Are you finished?” asks the Bloomer.

She is indeed, finished.

The Bloomer comes forward to the mic and draws the session to a close.

It’s time for me to get out of here.

“Excuse me,” I say to the woman boxing me in. I stumble over the bag, down the steps, and flee.

But then I stop.

There is one last mystery to solve.

I walk out, past the performance space, leaving the gardens behind me.

There, up ahead, is a sign. “Giant Robot.”

It’s a cafe.

Oh well.

Perhaps I can get myself a salt beef sandwich, u think as I hurry back down the escalators, past the sloppy foundation, under the tunnel, and back through the shopping centre.

I stand before the salt beef place.

It's closed.

Of course it is.

I trudge back to the tube station, sans salt beef sandwich.

At least I got another theatre checked off the list today.

 

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Stag Party

It's June! It's Pride month! And I'm off to the self-styled "home of the UK’s LGBT+ Theatre."

Yup, I'm off to Above the Stag.

It's almost like I planned it,

Now, if I were a decent blogger (or even a decent liar), I'd tell you that's exactly what I did. But I'm not, and I didn't. I was actually intending to get this one checked off the list in May, but a last-minute diary reshuffle had me bumping the home of the UK's LGBT+ Theatre over a couple of weeks. And it's only while I'm walking through Vauxhall, and seeing all the rainbow-tinged goodness everywhere, that I connect the brightly-flashing dots, and apologise to the theatre gods for spending so long bitching them out for messing with my calendar. I should have known they had this shit covered. I mean, someone has to. And I certainly don't.

It's a warm evening, and it looks like there's more people hanging out, drinks in hand, on the small square of grass outside the entrance, then there are gathered within.

I lean against a tree and try and get a photo of the theatre, but it's completely impossible. I can barely even see the entrance through the absolute party that seems to be going on our here. All I'm getting is a hazy purple light, glowing from within the curved glass frontage. A halo hanging over the heads of my fellow theatre-goers. It's all rather magical.

Despite the image conjured by the name, the Above the Stag is not actually above the Stag. It's not above anything, let alone a pub. If anything, it lies underneath. Tucked within one of the railway arches that live near Vauxhall station.

I decide it's time to go in.

It's pretty busy in here too. There's a massive queue at the bar, and every day is filled. No wonder the people are spilling out onto the street.

One end of the bar has been assigned to box office duties. There's a big sign screaming TICKETS up on the wall behind. The queue is significantly shorter on this end. There's only one person in front of me.

Not that anyone's serving. There are two people behind the bar and they are rushing back and forth, measuring spirits, pouring glasses of wine, and taking payments, all at the same time, as they fight to get through this queue of thirsty theatre-goers before the doors open.

But with our queue now composed of two, we manage to attract the attention of one of the bar people and she comes over to deal with the business of ticketage.

When it's my turn, I give my surname and the bar person taps away at my name on the touchscreen behind the counter. A second later a small printer buzzes, and my ticket emerges, printed on thin receipt paper. All very fancy.

The doors still aren't open, so I suppose I should find somewhere to stand. At least, I think they're not open. I don't actually know where they are. None of the doors around the edge of the room looks likely. And there's no THEATRE sign to match the TICKETS one above the bar.

But the bar is full, and there's still a healthy queue of people intent on getting their drinks, and no one looks overly concerned about going anywhere quite yet, so I find myself just hanging around, waiting for instruction.

I find myself darting back and forth as I try and get out of people's way. It really is very busy in here. All my darting and side-stepping gradually moves me from one side of the bar to the other, and I find myself standing amongst a small group, all clutching receipt-paper printed tickets in their hands. There's a set of double doors down here. Unmarked. Unlike the loos right next door. Through the small windows set into the doors I can see show posters. This must be it. And these people must be all the keen-bean theatre crowd, just bursting to get into the space. Or possibly, given our location busting for the loo. I can't quite tell. Bursting for something or other, for sure, though.

A voice comes over the tannoy. "Ladies and gentleman, the house is now open for Fanny and Stella. Please take your seats."

We look at the doors, and then at each other.

"Are we...are we just supposed to open the doors ourselves?" someone asks.

We all look back at the doors.

They are still closed. And don't look likely to open of their own accord any time soon.

This is getting ridiculous. What we need is a hero. Someone to step forward and liberate us from this bar, guiding us through the parted doors towards the promised land of the theatre.

Just as I am debating with myself whether that person could, or indeed should, be me, I am saved from such brave actions by a woman who pushes her way through the group, places her hand on the door, and pulls it open.

We all follow on meekly behind, passing the weight of the door between us as we go through.

We turn right. The light of the theatre almost blinding with its brightness. It's probably not a good idea to follow a guide towards a bright light, not unless you're prepared to never come back, but it looks so inviting I can't stop myself.

The posters on the wall shift from colour-filled sweet-wrappers, with the saturation turned up to max, to the text filled advertisements of the old music halls.

"Know where you're sitting?" asks a man dressed in a dandified top hat and tails.

He chats away, making bants with everyone coming through the door.

I find my seat without assistance, but I can't stop looking over at the dandy by the door.

He looks really rather familiar. If only I had a freesheet...

Except, hang on. Someone sitting in the row in front of me is flicking through something. A booklet. The kind of booklet, that if I didn't know better, would say looks exactly like a programme.

He stops mid-flick, turns back a page, and starts reading.

There are pictures interspersed with the text. Photos. Headshots.

That's a fucking programme.

He has a programme.

Where on earth did he get that? I want to lean forward and ask, but he's just a couple of seats too far along the row for that to be reasonable.

I sit back, and prepare myself for the long wait until the interval.

It's alright, I tell myself. At least I know there are programmes. They exist. Out there. Somewhere. And I'll find them, buy one, and damn well look this actor's name up before I combust.

I distract myself by looking around. It's nice in here. Wide seats. Allocated. And a magnificent rake. I can see right over the heads of the two tall blokes sitting in front of me.

"Oo. Lots of room here," says my neighbour, kicking our their legs to demonstrate the amount of room there is.

This is fringe theatre to the lux.

Every now in, and the doors closed, our dandy friend, whoever he may be, steps onto the stage. He's going to be our compere for the evening, in this tale of Fanny and Stella, the OG drag-queens of Victorian London.

And they're signing? Like properly. Not just a music hall ditty to illustrate what they're all about. But like, an opening number about sodomy. On the Strand. The cast's voices and the single piano fight against echo of trains rumbling overhead.

How did I not realise this was a musical? Oh well. I'm sold, bought, and paid for. Three times over. This is hilarious.

Too soon it's the interval, and still giggling, I make my way back to the bar.

I'm on a mission after all. Gotta get that programme.

I walk over to the bar. If they're anywhere, they must be here. And yes, there's one. In a display on-top of a glass case of confectionary. That was easy.

Buying one however, now that's where it gets tricky.

I'm already surrounded on all sides as everyone tries to place their drinks order at once.

A woman elbows me out of the way to get to the bar, and flags down a passing staff member to serve her.

"Sorry, sorry," she says, just as her wine is being poured. "I ordered sauvingnon blanc."

The server looks from the bottle in her hand, to the two glasses of red wine she just poured. "Yes, yes you did," she says, covering each glass with a napkin and going to fetch the right bottle.

The other server behind the bar comes up. He sees me. And another woman. He dithers between the two of his, finger-gunning as he decides who's up next.

"Sorry," I say to the other lady. "I just want a programme. Can I get a programme?"

"For which show?" he asks.

I'm stumped.

"Umm," I say, pointing vaguely in the direction of the theatre.

"Fanny and Stella," steps in the other lady, demonstrating more grace than I could ever be capable of.

"Yes. Thank you," I say, nodding to her. "That one."

He goes off to fetch a programme. They're £2.50, which isn't bad. Not bad at all.

Programme now acquired, I decide that I should probably get out of the way.

I flick through the pages until I get to the biographies. Ah, there he is. Mark Pearce. I scan his credits. I don't have to go far. Fourth line down: Maggie May. That's where I've seen him. At the Finborough Theatre.

Isn't that something.

I flip forward to the credits. Bit of a habit of mine. I like seeing who works on shows. And for the first time in a good long while, I see someone credited for the programmes. That's lovely. I like that. I'm certainly not mentioned as the producer of my programmes anywhere. Perhaps I should start sneaking my name in there... anyway, good on you Jon Bradfield. You've done a great job. Love the interview with the writer, Glenn Chandler. Very nice.

The bar's getting crowded again. Really crowded. Without taking a single set I seem to have been swept along, away from my little corner, into the middle of the room. And people are still pouring in from the theatre doors. I didn't think that small space could even hold this many people.

"Please take your seats in the main house for Fanny and Stella," says the man over the tannoy.

The main house.

The. Main. House.

That's why there are so many people.

That's why I got asked which programme I wanted.

Above the Stag isn't one theatre. It's two.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, with bells on top.

We're skirting dangerously close to 300 theatres now. Finding a new studio that add to my list is really not what I need right now.

No time to think on that now, I'm going back in, ready for the trial of William Frederick Park and Ernest Boulton, otherwise known as Fanny and Stella.

But, hang on. There's someone crossing the stage. Someone very much not wearing Victorian dress. She's holding a wine glass and shuffling along.

The cast stop to stare at her in wonder.

"She's going through a stage," says Mark Pearce.

The audience groans in response and the woman throws up her arms in a shrugging apology as she heads towards her seat.

"Oy!" he rejoins. "That's the best joke in the whole show."

The pianist pulls a face.

Pearce points a finger at him. "Don't you start!"

It doesn't look like anyone's starting. They've all forgotten their lines.

Tobias Charles' Fanny taps Pearce on the chest. "I know where we are," he says. And after a few false starts, we're back up and running.

And oh, this is bliss. Silly and sordid, with all the sad bits delivered with high kicks and jazz hands, and Kieran Parrott's impossible Stella-pout.

Heaven.

I'm not even mad that I have to come back for that studio space now.

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Pinch Me, We're In Finchley

It’s just past 6 o’clock. The evening one. The sun is blazing. And I’m in Finchley.

This is weird. I haven’t been in Finchley at 6 o’clock in a good long time.

I’m not sure I even remember what this place looks like in daylight anymore.

Did I get the time wrong? Have I, perhaps, left work two hours too early today? I check my phone.

Nope. But I do have a message from Helen.

“I’m just walking from the station!”

“Me too.” I reply. “I’m next to the Barclays.” I pause. Barclays maybe isn’t quite the landmark I think it is for people who don’t actually live in Finchley. “Opposite Tesco,” I add.

There’s no missing the Tesco. It is honestly the single best thing about living in Finchley, that Tesco. It’s a nice one. Big enough that it has everything you could possibly need (from my favourite Sriracha, to a decent Kosher section for all my Bamba and halva needs) and yet not so big that you walk out of there staggering under fifty kilo bags of jasmine rice and an equestrian fly rug.

But I haven’t dragged Helen all the way to the end of the Northern Line to shop in the big Tesco. Oh, no. We have something far more exciting planned.

We’re going to the theatre.

My local one.

For once I’m going to be the one to stroll home post-theatre in time for an early night, curled up under my duvet and happy in the knowledge that Helen is still on a train somewhere.

I’m really quite excited.

“Oh okay I see a Tesco”

And I see Helen. Waving at me and standing out from the Finchley locals like a Bengal tiger in a pet shop. With her huge, circular, mirrored sunglasses, she looks like some sort of exotic bug. I doubt Finchley has seen the likes of Helen before. And I’m not sure they’re quite ready for her yet.

“I brought cupcakes!” I say, holding up the pink and maroon Hummingbird bakery bag. Its Helen’s birthday tomorrow, and we’re celebrating in style. Theatre and cake. A classic combo.

“This way,” I say, taking the lead.

It’s not often that I get the opportunity to walk someone around my home-town. It’s rather fun.

We’re not going to the theatre quite yet. We have to stop to make first.

Just to make sure that Helen gets the full Finchley experience, we’re going to meet a neighbour of mine. Someone who has made an uncredited appearance on the blog before, but now it’s time that you meet properly: it’s David. Arts writer extraordinaire, master of prose, tamer of choreographers, and most importantly, a Finchley native.

“Oh. My. God,” I say as Helen and I make our way into David’s kitchen and see the table laden down with plate after plate of food. There’s an asparagus and pastry thingy. A bean salad thingy. A beetroot and cucumbery doodad. And olives and almonds and bread and… I am suddenly the hungriest person in the world, because let me tell you, David can fucking cook, and this all looks proper amazing. He’s even used herbs from his own garden, which is just plain showing off if you ask me.

I would take a photo. I really want to take a photo. It’s all so damn pretty. But it feels like it’s probably wrong to take a snapshot of someone else’s cooking. So I don’t. Sorry. You’ll just have to take my word for the deliciousness of the spread.

The sun is still shining, so we take it all outside.

“I haven’t read Orlando,” says Helen, casually, as the subject of the show we’re seeing comes up.

“I’m sorry, what the hell?” How on earth has Helen managed to get through life without reading Orlando?

“Have you?”

“Of course!” Twice actually. But I don’t like to brag.

“How do you have time to write your blog, work full-time, go to the theatre every night, and still read all the books you do?”

Oh, Helen. Such a flatterer. But it’s true. I am a miracle.

Not that Helen’s a slacker. She’s currently finishing off a masters as is about to embark on a PhD.

“I’m not sure if you have this problem,” she says, as the subject of writing her dissertation comes up. “But I have trouble finding a way in. I know what I want to write.” She pauses. “Sort of. But it’s finding the…” she finishes with a jabbing hand gesture.

“You just need to start anywhere,” I say, as if I have any business giving writing advice. “Lay some words down and worry about the opening later. You find out what you want to write by writing.”

Thankfully David, an actual real and proper writer, is able to give some proper guidance on the matter. Plagiarism. Apparently.

“Now, Robert Icke,” says David, knowing exactly the kind of reaction he’ll get from the pair of us at the name of the young director.

Helen eagerly leans forward, keen to hear more. She loves Robert Icke. I, on the other hand, slump back in my seat with a groan.

It’s a good thing it’s time for cupcakes. Eaten in a hurry because we still have to get to the theatre. Honestly, I’m not mad at it. While a Hummingbird cupcake should probably be savoured, there’s something luxuriously hedonistic about chomping the whole thing down in two bites, and then running out without helping to tidy up...

But there was no getting away from Icke. I’m in the presence of two superfans. It was always going to come up.

“Look,” I say. “I just… don’t like the way he makes his characters speak. They sound. Asif. They. Were. Dropped. Onthehead. As. Babies. I mean, why do they have to talk so slowly? I can’t stand slow talkers. Not in real life. Not on the stage. I feel I’m a very tolerant person-“ Helen laughs…. rude. “-but I can’t deal with slow talking.” I pause. “Or cyclists.”

That matter now cleared up, and with the sun in our eyes, we race up to Tally Ho corner (“Finchley sounds bucolic,” was Helen’s reaction to that place name) around the bus depot, past the Lidl, and there we are: the artsdepot.

I scurry across the square to grab a photo. David and Helen aren’t waiting. There’s no time. They’ve gone in.

“You don’t even have to pick up your ticket any more,” David says wryly as I finally make it inside. “You have people to do that for you.”

Helen is at the box office counter. Presumably pretending to be me.

She must be doing a good job of it, because she’s been given the tickets and we’re off again, crossing the large foyer that seems to take up the entirely of the ground floor.

“Take a photo of those,” orders Helen, pointing to the pretty origami lamps above our heads.

“On it,” I say, pointing my phone in the lamps’ direction

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Almost like a Thursday

It seems to be my destiny to always book theatre trips during big sporting events.

I just got off the tube at Oval, and apparently there’s a thing going on.

Half the roads are closed, and the other half are crowded by people who don’t seem to be doing very much. But whatever they are doing, they are doing with purpose. There’s a lot of looking around and nodding with emphasis at one another.

Who knew London had so much sport?

I’m early, so I trot past the theatre to the other side of the road, and have a stroll around The Oval. Now, I may not know a lot about sport, but even I know there’s probably some cricket going on in there right now.

It’s a funny old place, isn’t it? The Oval, I mean. You can see all the backs of people’s heads of the crowds sitting in the stands down from the pavement. They look so venerable sitting up there, the backs of their necks reddening in the sun. I hope they brought some sunscreen with them.

There’s a general wail of noise coming from inside. It’s utterly intelligible. A wall of pure noise reacting to whatever is happening down on the field (ha! I knew that one. Not a pitch. A field). Over the tannoy I can make out the voice of a commentator. From what I can tell, he’s saying words, but I don’t understand a single one of them.

Nope. Sport isn’t for me. Words are hard enough as it is without adding this whole new language to the mix.

I’m heading back to where it’s safer.

Safer, anyway.

I loop my way back to the appropriately named Ovalhouse.

It’s very blue. Blue panes in the curved glass wall. Blue frames around the windows and the doors. An enormous blue sign tied to the side of the building, and sagging under the weight of its own massiveness.

Someone has been taking style tips from the Blue Elephant…

Inside, blue floors, and blue armchairs are added to the colour mix. There’s even a blue pillar stuck in the middle of this pleasingly oval-shaped foyer.

I may enjoy a touch of theme dressing, but I must bow before the master here. This is a level of commitment that I could never hope to replicate.

Doors lead off in all directions from this glass-walled oval, giving me intense hall-of-mirrors style dizziness. Thankfully, I don’t lose myself on my way to the box office window.

I complete the surname-in-exchange-for-ticket transaction, and then head over to the other side of the oval towards the cafe.

It’s nice in here. Quiet but not empty. There’s lots of rustic wooden tables giving off basement kitchen in Maida Vale vibes.

There’s a stage over on the far side, where I presume they have live music when it isn’t a quiet Wednesday night with a cricket match going on over the road.

I claim a table all to myself and have a look around.

There’s the door to the upstairs theatre, over by the bar. I won’t be visiting that one tonight, but I make a mental note of its location for my return.

I’m going to be in the downstairs theatre. The main space. At least I hope I am. Because I’m looking around and I can’t see it. Is it back in the mirror-maze like foyer? I don’t remember seeing a sign for it. Just the cafe, the box office, and the loos.

I could go back and check, but I’m comfy now. And besides, no one else looks like they’re in any rush to go anywhere. I might as well settle back and relax.

A few more people come in and take up the surrounding tables. Others head for the bar. But this is a hushed crowd. Or perhaps the better term would be: laid back. After spending last night having my pockets picked at the Aldwych, it feels nice just being sat here, by myself, and not being asked to buy something.

A young woman wearing a headset steps up onto the stage. “Ladies and gentleman,” she starts, and we all pull ourselves out of our daydreams to listen to her. “The doors are now open, over in the furthest corner of the bar.” She points the way into the next room, just beyond the bar.

Nice. I love it when an announcement comes with directions.

We stumble to our feet, gathering our things with the slow care of a hungover student attempting to clean their flat the morning after their first flat warming.

As one, we make our way into the next door. There’s a counter serving food on one side. And a door over in the far corner. Is that it? We all stop. The people at the head of our caravan turn around, eyes wide with confusion.

“Is that…?” one asks.

I’m thinking the same: is that?

There’s no sign. And no one there to check tickets.

But people are piling up behind us. There’s nowhere to go but forward. Onwards!

There’s a corridor through here. It doesn’t look very theatrey. If anything, it looks like the corridor outside a primary school classroom. I swear I see coats hung up on hooks as we press on.

Through another unlikely looking door, and there, thank goodness, is a ticket checker. He’s got one of those beeping machines to scan tickets so you know he’s legit.

That doesn’t explain the presence of the chalk board behind him.

“BRIAN. FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS,” it says, surrounded by tiny, fluttering hearts. The message, I’m sure, is connected to the show. The writing is too well done, the hearts too perfectly placed, to have been placed by anyone other than a theatrical. But the chalkboard? Does that always live here? I was kinda, but not really, joking about this corridor looking like a school earlier, but now I can’t shake the feeling that by day, this place plays host to a few hundred pre-teens intent on learning their ABCs.

I get my ticket beeped. Funny how I don’t mind the beeper when it’s a paper ticket on the receiving end of the beeping, and not my phone. Perhaps my reputation as a neo-luddite isn’t quite as deserved as everyone seems to think.

Into the auditorium, walking around the dark spaces formed by the bank of seats. The brick walls are painted black, but there are bright rectangles set amongst the gloom. I squint at them, trying to make them out. Lines of white, left by a thick brush, form the canvas to sharpie message of love. “YOUR LIFE MATTERS BRIAN,” one says. “KEEP SAFE BRIAN SEE YOU OX RIP XX,” reads another.

Around towards the stage and up the steps to find a seat. There are more messages to Brian up here. An outpouring of loving words, written on luggage labels and tried to the metal railings.

I want to stop and read them all, but I’m blocking the way. And besides, seats are unallocated and I better hurry up and pick one if I want to score my favoured place: third row, at the end.

The cast are already on stage. Moving in slow motion. Their faces twisted into grimaces of despair.

This is not going to be a happy evening.

I’m here for Custody. A new play about a young black man (I’m guessing the famous Brian here) who dies in police custody.

Well, I say play, but with all this slo-mo going on, I suspect there is going to be more than a little, what they call in the biz, “movement.” I might go as far as to say, “movement” tipping right the way into physical theatre.

Everyone in the audience keeps their heads down, struggling not to make eye contact with the performers and almost visibly flinching whenever they creep a peek and spot one of the cast looking their way.

Instead they focus on their flyers. Everyone has a flyer tonight.

That’s what people do when they’re aren’t any freesheets available. They grab a flyer.

See? It’s not just me that wants a memento. Any bit of print with the title of the show on it will be picked up by an audience member, given half a chance.

A man sitting in the row in front of me flicks at the side of his flyer, expecting it to open up to reveal more information inside.

I can’t blame him. As information goes, the flyer is a little lacking. Marketing blurb and dates of the run are all very nice, but when it comes to matters of who is actually standing on the stage in front of you looking like they’re just stepped on a very sharp thumbtack, they can’t compete with a freesheet.

It’s starting now.

Layered words as the cast form a Greek chorus of grief. Brian is dead. And no one is taking the blame.

Mother, brother, fiancé, sister. They tote around bags, clutched tight to their chests, hugged under arms, and slung over shoulders, a literal baggage that will only be laid to rest at the end.

Except, they don’t leave.

While the performers in You’re Dead, Mate left us stranded and alone, as we clapped in the dark, the cast of Custody stay with us, returning to vacate state. The lights come on. An usher crosses the stage in front of them to open the door. The cast are unseeing, as all they see is pain.

We look around at each other. Are we supposed to leave now?

I tentatively grab my jacket and slip it on.

I spot a few others doing the same.

Small groups get to their feet, unsure of themselves as they make their way to the exit.

No one wants to look at the cast as we file our way past them.

We leave them alone in their anguish.

It’s palpable. Hanging in the air. Heavy. Seeping off of the stage.

No wonder they move so slowly.

I would credit them, but… well, you already know what I’m going to say, don’t you? Let’s do a thing. Let’s say it together. I would credit the cast but… 3…2…1… THERE ARE NO FUCKING FREESHEETS.

Ah. That was fun.

But seriously, there were no fucking freesheets.

“Feel free to write a message on your way out, if you'd like,” says the woman with the headset.

She indicates a small table in the foyer. “Please write a message to Brian,” says a small sign. There are luggage labels. And pens.

Someone is already jotting down her thoughts.

“What should I…?” she asks as she finishes.

“Just tie it up here,” comes the reply. There’s a string pinned up behind the table, waiting for the messages.

I move on. Words are hard.

The cricket must have finished now.

The tube is packed.

I head north, finally managing to get a seat around London Bridge.

Two men come and sit either side of me. They lean forward so as to continue their chat. Usually I would offer to switch. But I can’t move. I still feel the heaviness of the play pushing down on me.

“It's very busy,” says one, tacking in the still-busy carriage. “Something must be going on tonight. It’s almost Iike a Thursday.”

Almost.

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What Do We Say to the God of Death?

“Where are you going tonight?”

Bless my coworkers. They do try and be supportive of my mission, even if they think it’s completely bonkers.

“Katzpace?” It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. I think that’s how you say it.

“Cat space?”

“Katz-pace,” I try again, feeling altogether less confident about my chosen pronunciation. Perhaps it really is Cat Space.

They give me a look. “Are you going to a cat cafe, Maxine?”

“I don’t think so…?”

I mean, who even knows anymore. I’ve been some weird-arse places lately. Perhaps Katzpace really is a cat cafe masquerading as a theatre. I sure won’t be the one to complain if that’s true.

I check the website.

No mention of cats. Or even a cat.

They do have a tagline though. “London’s coolest theatre.”

Well. That’s something. I hope they’re being literal because it is very, very warm today. And I don’t do well in the heat.

And it’s not even sunny. Just muggy and disgusting. On my way south of the river I stop on Blackfriars Bridge to try and grab a blast of that cool air coming off the river.

The breeze remains resolutely still. Bastard.

Oh well. I make my way down onto Southwark Street, passing The Bunker and the Menier. Borough Market is looming just ahead. It should be around here somewhere. I carry on, eyeing up all the buildings on the other side of the road. Nope. Nope. That’s not it. Pub. Pub. Pub. Nope. Not that either. That’s a bank.

I think I’m gone too far.

I cross the road and double back.

The proximity doesn’t help. My eyesight surely can’t be this bad.

Just as I’m reaching into my bag to grab my glasses, I spot something. A crowd of young people gathered around a doorway. They look like the sort of people who might attend London’s coolest theatre.

They’re really pushing that tagline hard. It’s even written on the A-frame sign positioned out on the pavement, and stencilled onto the doors.

I’m beginning to get a bit worried.

Katzpace may well be London coolest theatre. But I am not London’s coolest theatre-goer. I barely scrape the top five.

The sign above the door is for Ketzenjammers. A bierkeller, apparently. I don’t know what a bierkeller is, but I’m guessing it has something to do with beers and cellars.

The stairs inside lead down. The walls are covered in a mural featuring beer steins in a battle with what looks like wine bottles. Ah yes, the great Wine War of 1262.

At the bottom of the stairs, I have a chose. Left or right. Both directions look equally deserted. Katzpace is supposed to a basement theatre, but we’re already below street level.

I pick a direction at random, and turn left.

More empty corridors. More turns. This time I go right.

There’s a door here. I go through.

Tables. And benches.

All empty.

Is this what a bierkeller is? Twisting corridors and empty rooms?

There’s another staircase. Very industrial looking and metal. It has a sign stuck right in the middle.

You. I've got you. Let's a programme. The bars open if you'd like to get a drink and take it in.

“Youre Dead, Mate. DOWNSTAIRS. BOX OFFICE & BAR @ 7pm. SHOW @ 7.:30pm.”

Thank goodness. It looks like I’m going the right way.

Expect, there’s another sign. A content warning one. You know the type of thing: this production contains nudity, forced religious indoctrination, and faeries offering forbidden food. That kind of thing. Except this one is followed up by the warning that readmittance is not allowed if you need to leave the theatre. After the gentle care taken at Bernie Grant to both warn and protect their audiences, this seems a little mercenary. We’re going to be throwing all of the words around, and you better be strong enough to handle it, because there’s no chance of a time-out here.

Further down I think I’ve found it. The bierkeller. Long curved ceilings mold themselves around the long rows of tables below. Lone theatre-goers sit at tables, not talking to each other.

There’s a table right at the base of the stairs. It’s after 7pm. This must be the promised box office. I wait awkwardly on the bottom step until the queue has cleared.

Eventually, one of the three young people sitting behind the desk looks up.

I give my surname.

She finds my name on the list and gives it a tick. “Yup. I’ve got you. Here’s a progamme,” she says, handing me a freesheet. “The bar is open if you’d like to get a drink and take it in.”

Getting a drink in a bierkeller is probably the thing to do. But it’s Monday. And I’m alone. And, well, I don’t want a beer.

I take myself and my freesheet to an empty table.

The freesheets may not be programmes, but they are pretty swish all the same. Decent paperstock. Nice full page print of the poster image. Printed in colour. Run off on a photocopier, but I’m not judging on that.

And could have done with a proofread. Katzpace is misspelt in the thanks (Katzspace), which doesn’t seem all that grateful. But you know, typos happen. As literally every post on my blog will testify.

Year 3000 is blasting over the sound system. It what seems to be an attempt to inject atmosphere in this vast, empty space.

Strangely empty, now that I come to think of it.

I look around. The lone theatre-goers seem to have disappeared. Instead, there’s now a queue over on the side of the room. From behind the line of people, a neon sign glows. “Katzpace Theatre.”

Looks like we’re going in.

I hurry after them, trying to stuff the freesheet into my bag while also attempting to get said bag over my shoulder.

The neon sign points the way to a pair of low doors. Tall people need not apply.

It’s dark in here. Really dark. The only light seems to be coming from a small lamp on stage.

I peer through the gloom, trying to work out the best place to sit.

There are three banks of seats.

The central tier is on a rake. That looks like the best option, but it’s full already.

The side options are empty. Three rows. No rake.

I take a chance and go for the second row, hoping all the tall people are kept at bay by the low hanging door frame.

A second later, someone sits in front of me.

She’s not even that tall, but I can’t see a damn thing.

I scoot along right to the edge of the bench, where I find a slither of a view between a pillar and the lady’s head.

That’ll have to do.

Others are not so content with their lots.

“We don’t want to spend an entire fucking hour in bad seats,” says a bloke sitting in the row behind me.

They get up and start testing out different locations.

They’re not the only ones.

People pop up and down in different rows, clambering into spare seats and darting back out again as they try to negotiate themselves the best possible view in a giant game of musical chairs.

And they’re all so young.

I don’t think I’ve even been in an audience where the average age is this close to twenty.

In three weeks I’ll be turning thirty-three. Thirty-fucking-three. The same age that our lord and saviour, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, had Fleabag 2 and Killing Eve on our tellie-screens. Oh, and Jesus was crucified. But no one cares about that anymore.

And it’s fine. Totally fine. Like, I’ve been Googling what people have accomplished by the age of thirty-three. But you know, whatever. We all go at our own pace. Some people write era-defining scripts or start religions that span millennia, and other people go to watch a lot of theatre and write silly blog posts about it. It’s all good.

I mean, Mary Wollstonecraft wrote Vindication of the Rights of Women at thirty-three, laying the foundation for feminism, and I have a This is What a Feminist Looks Like t-shirt that I sometimes sleep in. So, I’m doing my bit to the continuing efforts to crush the patriarchy. Sort of.

And Amelia Earheart flew the Atlantic, which is something I’ve yet to accomplish even with the benefit of easyjet.

Samuel Smiles gave a speech that was to become the foundation to his book, Self-Help. A book which went on to sell 20,000 copies in its first year, and is still in print 165 years later. And I’ve… been bested by my own ancestor.

But it’s fine.

All. Fine.

It could be worse. Alexander the Great was already dead by my age. And yet still managed to conquer the known world.

I can’t even conquer the known theatre-world.

Turns out though, I’m at the perfect play. Cos our hero is having a similarly angst-filled evening.

But even worse, because like Alexander the Great, he’s dead.

Twenty-three years old (because of course he is) and he’s having a crisis. Unable to go back, and not ready to move on, he’s having to be comforted by the only entity available - Death himself.

Not exactly who I’d want as a councillor, if I’m honest, but deaders can’t be choosers. And he’s met everyone. Literally everyone. Even Alexander the Great. I suppose if anyone has any insight into the human condition, it’s him.

It’s a brave writer who takes on that character. I’m not sure I would have had the guts in a post-Terry Pratchett world. But it’s an even braver writer who decides he also wants to play the part. I mean, good on you, Teddy Morris.

The young people seem to be enjoying it too. They’re laughing themselves sick. The kind of hard, explosive laugh that you only get from audiences that are mates of the people on stage. The kind of laugh that’s filled with the shock and surprise of finding out that your weirdo friend is actually pretty talented.

Death and his patient leave the stage and we’re plunged into darkness.

“Are they coming out?” someone asks as the applause stretches out into eternity.

Turns out they’re not.

They’ve moved on.

And we’re left to make the most of our lives.

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The Secret Language of Flowers


With cautious glances at one another, we take up places around the edge. Balancing on knees, or curling around our legs.

A few people decide that sitting on the floor is more than they signed up for, and head for the benches by the wall instead.

Angelique keeps on talking. The party isn’t going so well. She’s spotted her boyfriend with another girl, and his dealer, the one she really doesn’t like, is there.

And… oh god. Her voice sinks as she tells us what happens next. I clutch tight at my knees, twisting around to follow her as she moves around us, wanting to look away but at the same time not being able to take my eyes off her.

There’s a crash.

As one, our heads snap towards the window behind Dennis-Edwards.

Another crash.

A young girl peeks through the blackout curtains. It’s the boys with their football.

The girl’s mother gives her a look and the curtain is dropped back into place.

But the lure of the teenage boys and their football is too much for her, and soon she is peeling open the edge of the curtain once more to look outside.

Angelique moves around the space. She wants to show us the vase of blue flowers she has put in her new home.

They're basic but bright, she says. But perhaps more than that, they embody new beginnings, and hope. Of sun-filled days. Of her own shop. Her own life. Away from those who see her as a resource and not a person.

Outside, it’s still swelteringly hot. The party next door is still going. The music still blasting.

But the streets are empty. Deserted. I walk towards the tube station, swinging my jacket from my arm.

Everything smells of heat and tarmac and fast food.

Despite the pain, I miss Angelique’s world. Her lack of nonsense. Her drive. And the lush freshness of her flowers.

I should really go buy some.

Maybe for my birthday. That’s coming up in three weeks. Three weeks and one day. Not that I’m dreading it or anything.

Still, flowers would help. Peonies, I think. They’re my favourite. I wonder what they mean. Angelique would know.

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Attack of the Vapours

I’m taking you somewhere exciting today. Somewhere I’m fairly confident that you haven’t been before. I know I certainly haven’t.

It’s just down here. On The Cut.

No, not The Old Vic. Carry on, keep on going. Yeah, yeah, not the Young one either. We’re crossing the road here.

Yup. That’s it. Over there. Or at least, I think it is. I have to admit that I’ve marched up and down this street a thousand times as I make my way to one theatre or another (the aforementioned Vics, young and old, the Union further down, and the neighbour-theatres of the Menier and the Bunker further still, not forgetting the Vaults and and Network over on the other end) and I have never, not once, noticed this place.

I mean, sure. I could see there was a bookshop here. A theatre bookshop even. But I had no idea that there was a theatre lurking within.

I hope you didn’t either, or I’m going to feel rather stupid showing you this.

I stop outside, just to double check that I have, in fact, got the right place. I’m looking for the Calder Bookshop Theatre and the big shop sign says THE BOOKSHOP THEATRE. Ah, close enough. I go in.

There’s a wooden desk over on the right. I’m guessing that’s the box office for the evening. There’s a laptop sat on top, and that’s usually a sign of box officeiness in the lack of… well, an actual sign.

There’s a group of woman standing in front of it. They are all talking busily. Are they in the queue, I can’t tell.

A second later, the man behind the desk spots me.

“Can we move over?” he asks the ladies. They shuffle half a pace to the left and start chatting again.

I make full use of this small concession of theirs and squeeze my way over to the desk.

“The surname’s Smiles?” I say. “I emailed a few days ago?”

Ah, yes. The email.

Here’s the thing. The Calder Bookshop Theatre doesn’t have online booking. Now, this isn’t the first time I’ve encountered such a thing on this marathon. But it’s the first time that I’ve actually attempted to negotiate such a system. I’ve still yet to tackle Baron’s Court and their utter lack of a presence on the old interwebs. Thankfully, the Calder does have a website. And a note directing you to either call or email them if you are after some ticket action in your life.

Well, there was no way I was calling. I haven’t willingly picked up the phone since 1989, and even then it was the Fisher Price variety and I was lured in by the grinning face printed below the rotary dial. So email I did. A few days ago. Basically just asking how one goes about this whole process, as I have never negotiated a ticket purchase via email before. Turns out it’s easy. And someone emailed back that evening saying that a ticket had been reserved for me and I could pay on the door when I arrived.

Brill.

The man behind the desk taps away at his laptop. “Ah yes! Paying full price?”

Yes. I mean… I guess…

I handed over the cash.

“How much are these?” I ask, indicating a pile of handsome looking programmes on the desk.

“Please take one! They’re free!”

I perk right up. The only thing better than a programme is a free programme.

There’s no need for tickets. So I’m left to wander the shop.

Wander is perhaps too strong a word. Shuffle would be the more accurate descriptor. It’s rather busy in here. Turns out the Caldor is not quite the secret I thought it was. Plenty of folks have managed to not only hear about this place, but also negotiate the tricksy ticket buying procedure.

Who are these people? And how did they get here?”

Calls of “how very nice to see you!” ring around the shop, growing ever more high-pitched.

“Have your performed here?”

“No. Gosh no. Oh, wait… have I?”

“I’ve just finished on the poetry festival.”

“… the actors’ workshop.”

“… the writers’ retreat.”

They’re all bloody theatre people.

It always makes me cringe a bit when the entire audience is composed of people who make theatre. It feels so insular. So self-congratulatory. Like a private members’ club. A bit… “this is a local theatre, for local people; there’s nothing for you here,” if you get my meaning.

When I’m in crowds like this, it does make me question this whole theatre thing. If the only people coming to your show are other theatre people, then really, what are we all doing here? Are we really such an isolated industry? Creating shows for our friends? Our in-group? Our tribe?

Just the thought of that being the case makes me feel all squicky.

And even worse, I’m a bloody theatre person too. So, I’m just perpetuating the problem by being here.

I go off to the far corner and have a look at the books. Books are good. Books are quiet.

There’s a curtain back here. That must be the entrance to the theatre.

A woman emerges.

“It’ll be about three minutes until we let people in,” she says to the nearest person. “We’re waiting for people to arrive.”

I commented on this holding of the curtain for latecomers back in my Blue Elephant post, and the artistic director ended up tweeting me to explain it. But no justification is necessary. I think this is a great and wonderful thing for small theatres to do. Latecomers cause so much more havoc in small spaces, it’s far better for everyone involved to wait a few minutes. And besides, if your audience really is drawn from such a small community, you might as well do your damndest to serve it.

She disappears back behind the curtain, only to pop out a few minutes later. This time holding a torch.

“Are you happy to wait?” she asks the nearest person. “I just have to pop to Sainsbury’s to get some batteries for the actors that they can see.”

Well, it would be churlish to say no now, wouldn’t it?

She leaves the torch on top of a convenient bookshelf and leaves. Supposedly to get batteries.

I spend my time looking at the programme. “Victorian Woman in Bed,” it says in a curly script on the front cover.

I look at it very hard, so as not to get distracted by the books. You see, I have a problem when it comes to books. It’s not that I don’t like books. Quite the opposite really. I’ve got shelves and shelves of the damn things at home. Double stacked. With piles of them on the floor. On the window ledges. On my pillow. In the bathroom. The kitchen. On the stairs. You think I have a problem with programmes? You wait until I show you how many copies of Rivers of London I own (Three. People keep on buying it for me. It’s a great book. But please, I don’t need anymore).

I’m not going to pretend that it’s not an uncommon problem. I’m not one of those twats on Twitter that likes to pretend they’re quirky just because they have a pile of unread books waiting on their bedside table. There’s even a Japanese word for it: tsundoku. And if there’s anything to kill the eccentricity of a trait, it’s having its own special word to describe it.

And actually… I read my fucking books. So, there.

The battery-buyer returns. Avec batteries.

I get jostled further into my corner as she retrieves the torch and starts slotting them in.

“Right,” she says, with the air of a job done. “I’ll go get the actors ready.”

They must have been prepped and ready to go, because the curtain is drawn back and we’re going in.

Gosh, it’s tiny in here. Really small, and rather cute.

The walls are bare brick, and the seating is upholstered in plum coloured velvet.

There’s only four rows. With a slim aisle down the middle.

I head to what is now officially my favourite seat: third row, right on the end.

The actors are already on stage. All dressed in their finest Victorian nightwear. One of them is even in bed.

Has there ever been a play more perfectly designed to attract me? Victorian women. In bed. I mean, fucking hell. That’s my soul, my dream, my aesthetic (as the kids say) in one simple sentence. It’s what I yearn to be.

But what kind of Victorian woman in bed am I? That’s the question.

I’m glad I’m going to get four examples tonight to help me choose.

First up is Charlotte Brontë. Now obviously I’m a huge Brontë fan. Charlotte especially. Jane Eyre is my gal. Whenever I’m feeling poor, obscure, plain and little, it’s Ms Eyre I turn to for a dose of no-nonsense snappy comebacks. Although when I get to that quote, I have to stop, because I am actually soulless and heartless.

Charlotte’s taking-to-her-bed involves pregnancy. And a lot of throwing up. And a lack of clean nightclothes.

Not sure I’m really up for any of that.

My fantasies are more of the frilly-nightgown variety. Vomit need not apply.

Moving on. And it’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The poetess (a word I am determined to bring back, alongside aviatrix. Now, usually I hate gendered job titles, but these ones are so damn great I think they should be brought back with such enthusiasm and force, they take over and dominate to become gender neutral). She has squirreled under her blankets and she’s absolutely determined not to come out. Her bed is her sanctuary. Her defence against the world. I can get behind this. Except staying in bed means spending the rest of her life with a nosy sister, and an overbearing father. Whereas getting up means being whisked away to Italy by a handsome man.

Hmm. Not sure about this one. Let’s circle back to it when we see what else is on offer.

Next up: Emma Hardy. Wife of Thomas Hardy. Now she has some faboulous hats. An I do enjoy a hat. And she’s a writer. This one has definite potential. Except there’s the whole Thomas issue. And the being unappreciated, unpublished, and unhappy.

Maybe not.

Thankfully we still have one left.

And it’s the lady with the lamp, the ministering angel, the saviour of Scutari: Florence Nightingale. I do like Florence Nightingale. She invented the pie chart, you know. And I love a pie chart.

I think we might be onto a winner here.

Now, I’m not good at that whole, you know, caring thing. So being a nurse is out. But we’re past that by this point. Florence is at home. In bed. And I am totally on board. She’s dictating letters. Ordering men about. And generally being the boss from the blankets. There are even cats keeping her toes warm. And you know how much I adore cats.

Yes. When I take to my bed, I shall be doing it in true Florence style. Bonnet and all.

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Lost in Space

Is Streatham Space Project the newest venue on my marathon thus far? I think Streatham Space Project is the newest venue on my marathon thus far. Not even a year old, it opened in June last year. I doubt they’ve even taken the plastic wrap off yet.

And, yup. It is very shiny. Very shiny. Golden even. The walls are positively gleaming in the evening sun. I don’t want to insult the people of Streatham by saying that it looks like a little gleaming nugget within a pan full of gritty river water, but… I’m just going to leave that sentence hanging there.

There’s a little laminated sign stuck on the sliding glass doors. “We are… OPEN to the public. C’mon in!” it says. I’d love to know what incident prompted the creation of this sign (probably lots of locals sticking their head around the door and asking if the place is open to the public, and can they come in) but as someone with the anxiety, who even five months into her theatre marathon, still gets a little nervous going into new places, I really appreciate it.

For all the millions the Opera House has spent on their Open Up project, a simple sign on the door can do just as well.

I follow the directions and go inside.

It’s nice in here. Less of the shiny and more of the earthy, as branches circle the ceiling lamps, and photographs of trees crowd the walls. Signage is big and clear and in caps. STAGE one way. BAR and TICKETS the other.

Now, that’s a question. Tickets. What am I needing to do on that? I have an e-ticket. But one thing I’ve learnt on this marathon is the stuff you get sent by theatres aren’t worth the pixels they’re printed on. E-tickets are confirmation emails, confirmation emails get you admission passes, admission passes are stickers, and stickers are brill. Nothing means anything, and it is always best to ask.

The box office and bar take up the back wall of the cafe space. I head over and join the queue. There doesn’t seem to be any differentiation between the two spaces, as the two blokes behind the bar jump from one side to the other, box office to bar, and back again, as each person in the queue asks for different things. Tickets or drinks, or some tasty combination of the two.

It’s my turn.

“Do I need to pick up a ticket?” I ask. “Or is it just e-tickets?”

“Just e-tickets. We’re completely paperless here,” says one of the blokes behind the bar.

“Great.” I mean, not great. I fucking hate this paperless trend. It’s the red flag of a dying civilization. The end of a golden age of theatre that stretches back centuries. A victory of bean-counters over memory-makers. But, still. Great. At least I know the situation.

Although… completely paperless? Oh dear. That doesn’t bode well for potential freesheet action.

Oh well. I’m not going to think about that.

Instead I step into a side room. It looks to be a gallery and there’s some pretty amazing photos of trees by Mark Welland on the walls. The kind of photos I wouldn’t mind owning, and certanly don’t mind taking a few minutes to look at and ponder over. I do like a tree.

I get distracted by a bing-bong. An actual bing-bong. The sort of bing-bong that would open an episode of Hi-de-Hi! on a Saturday morning.

“Welcome to Streatham Space Project,” the voice on the tannoy says. “Just to let you know that show tonight, Freeman, will start at 8 o’clock, and the doors will open at 7.45. So you have plenty of time to queue at the bar. If you could make your way to the Stage at 7.45 that’ll be great.”

Oh. See, now. I was sure the start time was at 7.45. I was rather banking on it, as, let me remind you, we’re in Streatham. And that’s a long way from Finchley. Which is where I live, and more importantly, sleep. Those fifteen minutes could well be the difference between me just having a cheeky late night, and being so tired that I want to die.

I double check the website. Yup, start time 7.45. No mention of doors. So either the Space Project is still working on out some issues in their communications, or the performance is running behind.

Bing-bong!

“The house will be opening in a few minutes for Freeman. Please have your names or tickets ready to be ticked off the list. Please make your way to the auditorium.”

My quiet corner next to the fire safety equipment is soon overrun with people flapping around A4 pieces of paper that they’ve printed-at-home their print-at-home tickets (paperless my arse).

“Is this the queue?” someone asks. We all shrug in response. It is now, I guess.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” says one of the blokes from the bar. He squeezes through us, holding a laptop in his arms. “Excuse me.”

He makes it through to the other side and with the laptop balanced in the crock of his arm, beams at us all, ready to take names and check the not-so-paperless tickets.

Well, here I am, the paper-whore with only my name poised and ready to give at the door.

“Smiles?”

“Err…”

“It’s S-M-I-L-E-S.”

“S-M-I…” he types up with one finger, the laptop wobbling on his arm with every key-press. “Maxine?”

That’s the one!

I go in.

I’m running out of words to describe black box theatres. They’re black. They’re shaped like a box. There’s a single bank of raked seating. The stage is at floor level. I’ve been to at least a hundred of these this year. Probably. I haven’t actually counted.

The stage is actually surprisingly small given the amount of seat there are in here. It feels a little out of proportion. A little squashed. Like a pug’s snout. Still cute, but makes you wonder about the conduct of the people who created them.

I plonk myself down at the end of the third row. That seems to be my go-to seat in unreserved theatres at the moment. Just far enough away from the stage so that you don’t feel exposed. But closed enough that it still feelings incredibly intimate.

Someone comes to sit next to me, and the intimacy increased by an alarming factor. He manspreads out his knees, bumping and jostling my own knees out of the way. Then, room cleared, he pumps his legs together, as if working away on an invisible Thighmaster.

The lights dim and the leg exercises finish. Thank goodness.

Thirty seconds later, he’s checking his watch. He sighs. Deep and shuddering.

Something tells me this is going to be a long evening for the both of us.

He sighs through the performers creeping around after one another to Grieg’s In The Hall of the Mountain King and shouts of “Tory scum!”

He sighs as the names of black people who have been killed by police officers are projected up the screen. So many names they overlap and merge into one another, forming a solid wall of white.

He sighs through the Equus-style horse made up of dancers and ridden around the stage. The horse ride that would lead to William Freeman be imprisoned, and beaten brutally, for five years.

He sighs through the shadow puppet failed-assassination of Edward Drummond. The failed assassination that would lead to the M’Naughten rules.

He sighs as Sarah Reed undergoes the most harrowing assault scene I’ve ever seen on stage.

He sighs through the lindy hop. Through the gospel singing. Through court testimony and horrific murders.

He sighs. He sighs. He sighs.

He sighs as we laugh. He sighs as we cry.

He sighs through it all.

I’ve never felt so sorry for someone in my entire life.

An hour later, we’re out.

“More info on the show if you’re interested!” says a front of houser, standing by the exit and handing out leaflets.

I am very much interested. I take one.

Outside, I stop to have a look at it. It’s full of information about mental health. Signs, symptoms, courses of action. All good stuff. And nicely printed too. But not a single thing about the show. No cast. No creatives. I write this post ignorant of the names of any of the performers who sang and danced and wretched out hours for a full sixty minutes.

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Cover Me In Dead Stickers

"You look really cool standing there with your sunglasses," says Helen by way of a hello.

Leaning against the outside wall of the Rose Playhouse in the early evening sunshine, wearing my sunglasses, and my 49er jacket, and my stompiest boots that are so worn the leather is peeling away at the heel, I do feel pretty fucking cool. Not gonna lie.

"Have you seen the ruins of the old Globe?" she asks.

I haven't, so we wander down the road together to take a gander.

"They're just over here," she says, pointing at exactly nothing.

"It looks like a car park?" I say, peering hard at the empty courtyard.

"You can see the circle there," she says.

"Ummm," I say. There is a circle on the ground, made from the pattern of the cobblestones, but it isn't exactly what I'd pictured from the word 'ruin.' "Unless Richard the third is buried under there, I don't really see the point..."

"Honestly, I just wanted to see the disappointment in your face when I showed it to you," she laughs.

Well, jokes on her because I still attempt to take a photo. But whoever set this place up clearly did so without Instagram in mind, because it's impossible to get a shot of all the lettering set into the stones. And the railings are very unphotogenic.

That done, we return to the Rose.

It doesn't look like much from the outside. There's a wall, made from the type of polished grey stone that looks like it belongs in a premier league footballer's bathroom, and the doors. You can't miss the doors. Large. Red. Panelled. And definitely the portal to hell.

"I think we're just meant to push them?" I say doubtfully.

Helen does so.

They open.

It's dark and cool in here. Not what I expected from hell's foyer. The walls are white. And covered with a woodcut design on one side, with a big scrolly banner reading "Welcome to The Rose. Bankside's First Theatre." Well, at least we're in the right place.

The other side is all glass. There's a counter. And people sitting behind it. The box office then.

"Are we too early?" asks Helen.

One of the ladies behind the counter frowns. "No?" she says, as if the doors to this place look as if they were designed to keep out a raging hoard of peasants for at least a century.

Helen looks at me. I look at her.

She's waiting for something.

"You booked," I say, finally realising what's happening.

"Oh!" she says, jumping into action and giving her name.

"For health and safety, I need both your names," says the lady behind the counter. "In case there's a fire."

"My name?" I say, leaning over the counter. "Smiles."

"Yes?"

"Shall I spell it?"

"What's your name?"

"It's Smiles."

"Name please?"

"Max Smiles?"

"I need your name."

"It's Maxine. M-A-X-I-N-E."

She writes this down, then looks up again expectantly.

"Err, Smiles? S-M-I-L-E-S."

"Oh! That's a nice name."

It is a nice name. But it's not an easy one to live with.

She places two freesheets on the counter. "Here you go. And your tickets. You'll need to hand these back when you go in."

XXXADMISSION PASSES

We're allowed through the door then, into another foyer. This one is far more interesting. There's a model of the old theatre ("The Globe totally ripped this place off," is my thought on the matter) and there are display cases full of tasty little knick-knacks.

"I really like that ring," says Helen.

I go over to look at it. It's Helen's birthday coming up soon and I have not a clue what to get her.

It's pretty. And not overly expensive. I wonder if I can distract her long enough to buy it.

I read the information card.

"Umm. Here's the thing," I say. "I would get it for you, but the inscription says 'think of me, god willing' and I'm not sure we're quite there yet in our relationship."

"Maybe next year," says Helen, thankfully not sounding too disappointed.

More people are starting to arrive. We find ourselves amongst a group of people peering into display cases.

From behind the black curtains comes a voice.

"I will murder you and all your ancestors."

Blimey.

"What was that?" asks Helen.

It's Emily Carding. Warming up.

That name may sound familiar for a number of reasons, but in marathon-world it's because this is the fourth time Carding has featured in this here blog. Yup, you heard right. Fourth. Little bit stalkerish of me, but what can a girl do? Not go to plays with a talented actor in unusual spaces? Hardly. And if you're wondering whether Carding is aware of my - shall we call it 'loyalty'? - then I am happy to inform you that yes, she is. And she approves. Or is at least sweet enough to pretend that she approves. Now stop asking.

A front of houser appears. "It's very cold in the space, so if anyone wants a blanket, we have some." She points at one of those stripey bags that students use to heft around their laundry. "I would advise that you take one."

"Oh my..."

Helen laughs. "You look so excited."

That's because I am so excited. "They have blankets!"

I don't tell Helen this, but there's a reason that I'm so excited. I've been pitching the idea of ordering logoed-up slankets at my work for years. I mean, picture this: You're in the theatre, watching a play, or... as this is my idea and my theatre, some high-quality contemporary dance, and you are all snuggled down in your seat, comfy because you are covered neck to toe with a great big fleecy blanket, with sleeves. We cannot forget the sleeves. You need your arms free so that you can read your, very reasonably priced, and beautifully edited, programme. Now, isn't that the dream? And the Rose has made it happen! I'm almost annoyed that they got there first. But no matter, my ones will have sleeves. That's still an innovation and I'm claiming it as one.

"Would you like one?" asks the front of houser offering up a folded-up fluffy blue blanket.

I definitely do.

"Now," continues the front of houser once the business of the blankets is complete. "Before you go in, please switch off any non-Elizabethan devices.

"You're very lucky. Richard of Gloucester himself will be showing you to your seats."

"Do we need to curtsey?" someone asks.

Apparently, curtsies are optional.

We form a queue.

From the other side of the curtain we hear the greetings being passed out as people are taken in and we inch ever closer to the door.

"Let me take that from you," says the front of houser on the door, reaching for my ticket.

I'm next.

Carding appears, all hunched of back and black of suit.

I kind of want to curtsey.

She grasps my hand and gives it a firm shake as she welcomes me in with a frenzy of words.

She holds out a placard. I duck my head under the red ribbon.

I'm to be Buckingham for the evening. Duke of.

She motions me to a seat. I'm sat next to a small boy. One of the Princes in the Tower. Of course.

On the other side is the King. I can tell he's the king because he's wearing a crown. It's made of paper and has more than a touch of a Burger King feel about it.

Helen's next.

She's to be a queen. Elizabeth. The Woodville one. She gets a crown too. She looks very happy about it. I'm a bit jealous.

You may have guessed by now, but this rendition of Richard III doesn't follow standard procedure. With only one actor (Emily Carding), the audience has to get involved in order to bulk out the cast.

I've done one of these before. You remember. The Hamlet one. I was Ophelia. It was... terrifying.

But, as this blog will testify, I'm a glutton for punishment. And besides, I'm a touch more familiar with this play. I've seen it before, for one. It's even featured in this marathon. I'm hoping that will help.

Except, who is Buckingham again?

Am I a Yorkist or a Lancastrian?

Whichever one I am, I hope it's the red rose side of the Rose Wars because I'm wearing a dress covered in the damn things. After the success of my Over My Dead Body dress at Hamlet, I thought I'd made an effort this morning and try a touch of theme dressing. And, as I don't own any dresses with white roses on them, it appeared I had no choice but to align myself with the red rose cause.

Something I only realised might be problematic when I was heading out to vote this morning, as I'm fairly confident that you are not allowed to wear political symbols inside the polling station. I really didn't want to be turned away. Partly because I didn't have time to go back home and change, but mostly because I wasn't even voting for Labour this time around. But, as it turned out, no one noticed. And I got my cross in the box without issue.

Thing is, I'm starting to suspect that Buckingham was not in the white rose gang.

I pull the blue blanket across my lap to hide my shame.

It looks like we're all seated now, ready to go.

This place is small. Long and narrow, with seating on three sides. Nothing interesting there.

But the fourth side. Now... that's something.

As Carding takes her place in the middle of the stage and starts her opening speech, the void of the old Rose theatre glimmers darkly behind her. The architectural dig, covered from the elements by a thinly walled building, is open behind her. The stage effectively a viewing platform for the ruins. Proper ruins. Not like that shitty car park Helen tried to fob me off with earlier.

Carding is a very modern Richard. And it's not just the snappy suit. She's armed with an iphone and she's not afraid to use it. She reads allowed a series of constantly pinging texts, takes a selfie with Lady Anne, and fixes me with an intense stare as she has a phone call with Buckingham.

And no one is safe from that stare.

As Queen Lizzie comes under its forcefield, I look over at Helen. Her fringe is all squashed down by the paper crown. Her face is rapt.

And then the dead-stickers come out.

I was very excited about the stickers. Ever since I saw Carding tweet about them this morning. I love a sticker. Any sticker. But a macabre sticker? Fuck me. That's a whole other level.

I was so excited I messaged this to Helen.

XXX

And yes, that avatar I'm rocking is indeed Edmund Keen in the role of Richard III. How very observant you are. Well done.

It's actually from a painting at my work. I love that painting. It's in a part of the building that I call the demon's corridor because it is always freezing there. I like to think it's haunted. Possibly by Edmund Keen. I have no evidence of that. Other than the painting. But I take my theatre ghosts where I can find them.

The king is the first to go. After Carding checks my neighbour's pulse, she declares him dead and slaps a sticker, printed with the word DEAD in big capital letters, on him.

He's not the last.

Stickers are getting stuck all over the place.

Carding orders Lady Anne to be by her side for the coronation. The dutiful wife. She doesn't look happy about it. I'm impressed. She's really good.

I'm ordered up too.

I leave the safety of my blanket behind and walk onto the stage, taking up a spot to the right of the throne.

Carding hands me the paper crown. This is my big moment. I'm feeling both more terrified and more powerful than I ever have in my life. A emotion-combo that probably goes along with the job. I never thought I'd feel close to the Archbishop of Canterburys, but this marathon has been taking me to some weird head-spaces. But I bet the Archbishops of old never had to contend with a paper crown. It's so cold I'm shaking. I'm not sure I can move my hands. I do my best, plonking it on Carding's head, but she has to rearrange it to get it to stay down.

When it comes to it, can someone let the royals know that I won't be available that day? It turns out that I'm not quite cut out for kingmaking.

I'm sent back to my seat and the safety of my blanket.

Carding rolls her chair over to me and asks what we should do about Hastings. I pull a face. What is to be done about him? She runs her finger across her throat. Well, yes. We could do that. I copy the gesture and nod my head.

Dead-sticker.

Dead-sticker.

Dead-sticker.

Carding hands two dead-stickers to a young woman and orders her to kill the princes.

The young woman walks over. "Sorry, you're dead," she whispers to the young boy sitting next to me, as she gently sticks him with his dead-sticker.

I'm feeling very alone now in between all these corpses.

It doesn't last for long.

It's soon time for my execution.

Carding comes over, hunched of back and intense of stare, and sticks the dead-sticker to my left side, just above my heart. She slaps it into place with the back of her hand.

I should be sad, but I can't stop myself from grinning. I really wanted a dead-sticker. I'm so pleased.

Also, turns out my red rose dress wasn't so inappropriate after all... double-crossing demon that I am.

Eventually, there's only one dead-sticker left.

The paper crown slips from Carding's grasp. She reaches for it, but it's too far away. She looks done for. But she has the just enough left in her for one more act. One more dead-sticker.

I hold my breath.

Silence.

And then a second later, applause.

Carding gets to her feet.

I breathe again.

She grins. All traces of Richard left lying on the floor.

"Please return the placards. The stickers however, are yours to keep," she says, pointing at me.

Yeah, there was no way I was giving up my dead-sticker.

"I can't believe you didn't die!" I say to Helen as we are released from our seats.

"I can't either! I really wanted one."

"Oh, take one. We have lots," says Carding, stepping in to give Helen a sticker. That's fair, I suppose. Elizabeth Woodville is dead, after all. She has been for a good long time.

"Let me take that from you," says a front of houser, relieving me from my blanket. "Are you staying for the talk?"

There's a talk after the show, about the Rose.

"Do you want to stay?" I ask Helen.

She doesn't.

We leave.

"Hang on, the door's locked," says a front of houser, rushing out of the box office in order to let us out.

As the door opens, warmth hits us. I stop shaking.

"Shall we get pancakes then?" says Helen.

I had previously suggested pancakes as part of my post-immersive theatre plan. Interaction really takes it out of me. The slightest sniff of audience-engagement sends me crashing as I burn up every little molecule of adrenaline in my body. And after something as intense as this... well, I knew that I'd need sugar, and I'd need it STAT.

We begin walking, up the stairs to Southwark Bridge Road and off to get us some carby goodness.

"She's really amazing," says Helen. I'm relieved. I knew if anyone would like this kind of thing, it would be Helen. She managed to enjoy You Me Bum Bum Train. Immersive Shakespeare is nothing to her. But still, there's always the worry when taking friends to shows like this. "The way she brings you into the text..."

"You know what I find amazing. That you know what to do, you know? Like, I'm bad at people. We know I'm bad at people. Especially reading people. And yet... it's totally clear what's expected. Like, when she was taking people's hands, and they stood up, I was confused about how they knew to stand up, but..."

"She tells you. Without having to say a word!"

"Exactly!"

"Like when she handed you the crown. It was obvious what you had to do."

"Totally."

"And that bit with Lady Anne and the gun. Where she said 'seriously, this is going to be messy,' so Lady Anne knew what to do."

"Yes! I don't think I've ever seen anyone so hyper-aware of their surroundings. Playing off everything, and everyone."

"There was this moment, at the end, when she's dying and there was some kind of noise in the distance, and it was actually had this perfect synchronicity because she reacted to it, bringing it in and..."

We're nearly at the pancake place now, so our conversation turns to one of tables and menus and drinks and ordering.

"Are you both alright?" asks the waitress, looking at us with concern. "You are both dead?"

"Yup!" we say cheerfully. We're both still proudly wearing our dead-stickers.

She waits for further explanation, and seeing that no more was coming, laughs and plays along.

"You must be hungry, being dead," she says, taking our order. Two dutch babies. One sweet. One savoury. And two hot chocolates. Laden with whipped cream.

Almost worth dying for.

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Behind the Pink Elephant

I have two thoughts as I make my way down to the Blue Elephant Theatre. Firstly, that it was a lot further south than I had anticipated. A lot further south. I thought it was close to Elephant & Castle tube, but I passed that ten minutes back and I’m still going. The other is that it after all this walking, it better bloody be blue. I’m willing to accept that my fantasies of it being shaped like an actual elephant may not come to pass, but a lack of blueness is will be unbearable.

“Watch it,” shouts a cyclist as he screams past me on the pavement.

Fucking hell. The cyclists of south London are intense. Only been here half an hour and that’s the third one who seems intent on murdering me.

I pick my way across the road carefully, checking both ways at least three times.

South London be dangerous, y’all.

Can’t even stroll down a pavement without… wait. Where am I?

The shops and bustling high street have fallen away behind me. I’m alone. Standing in what looks to be very residential area. Is there really a theatre here?

I check my phone. According to the theatre’s website, it should be just around this corner - opposite the large block of flats.

I turn the corner, feeling more than a little doubtful about the whole thing. Not being in the shape of an elephant was one thing. Not existing at all was quite another. I’d go as far as to say that I’d be quite upset if, after walking all the way from Islington, the Blue Elephant turned out to be, well, a pink elephant.

Thankfully, it’s not a drunken hallucination, because there it is, and… while not completely blue, there are definitely some blue elements. Doors and shutters and the swinging sign are all painted a very lickable shade of azure blue. And even better, the sign has the model of an elephant in it.

A family walk past, the little girl bouncing along in a Disney-print onesie.

“The theatre’s open today!" she shouts, excitedly pointing towards the building.

Her mum doesn’t seem impressed. They are running late. There is no time for possibly-non-existent theatres.

I’m running late too. I should go pick up my ticket.

It’s even bluer inside. Doors in that tasty azure shade are everywhere, surrounded by a more tasteful navy blue.

A (blue) sign points the way to the box office. Left, and up the stairs.

Not that I can go up them. There’s a couple of young ladies picking up ticket, and the three of us are taking up what little room there is on the few steps that separate the entrance from the landing that is serving as the box office.

They have one of those tiny hole-in-the-wall windows, but the space looks so small that the person serving is hanging out in the doorway, leaning into the office and the landing and back again, without moving his feet, as he processes the two woman.

By the sounds of it, they’re getting free tickets. Some sort of initiative for locals. Which I would be totally in favour of if it were not for the fact that my local theatre doesn’t seem to do these things.

Oh well.

Finally, it’s my turn.

“The surname is Smiles,” I say.

“Smiles! I remember the name ‘Smiles’,” he says, beaming. I laugh. I’m used to the reaction my name gets, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love it every time it happens.

His finger runs down the list. “Ah, Max. Of course.”

Of course.

He hands me an admission pass. Laminated and a bit worn looking, but it’s large, and blue, and most importantly, it has an elephant on it.

“And your programme,” he says, handing me what is very clearly a freesheet. “The bar is upstairs.”

Up the stairs I find more blue doors. These ones with stickers of elephants on them. A pink elephant on the left. And a blue elephant on the left. The blue elephant has a moustache and a bowtie. The pink elephant has a flower tucked behind its ear. A presume this display gender-normative elephant-accessories is meant to indicate loos lurking on the other side of the doors.

I decide not to investigate further.

More stairs. And there’s the bar. It a nice room. Packed full of little tables covered in mismatched table-clothes. There’s a table over by the far side, and low stools around the perimeter. It’s saved from looking cramped by the high vaulted ceiling. The angled beams are painted deep navy blue.

And there are elephants. They’re hiding all over the place. One behind the bar. Another hanging from one of the beams.

I’m in serious danger of finding myself playing a game of hunt-the-elephant, so I go to sit down, picking a table covering in a sparkly tablecloth. I’m in that kind of mood.

The bar begins to fill up.

Everyone seems to know everyone else. I begin to wonder if I’m the only person here who actually bought her way in.

A woman walks over to the table behind me. “We’re starting a little bit late,” she says to them. “There are still, like, seven people not here. I don’t know who they are, but they’re on the list.”

Yeah, that’s the problem with free tickets. It’s very easy not to turn up when you’ve got one. It takes a financial commitment not to succumb to the lure of Netflix.

It’s well past eight now. I’m starting to get a little worried about the length of my journey home.

“Welcome to the Blue Elephant for the first night of Justice, taking place in the theatre downstairs,” says a woman, who has clearly also got home-time on the brain and wants to get this show rolling. She runs through a serious of warning: haze, depictions of sexual violence. “And, errr, one thing I’ve forgotten.” She pauses, trying to remember the last thing on the list.

“Nah,” calls out someone else. “That’s about it.” She turns to everyone else in the bar. “Sorry if there was something else.”

Everyone whoops and staggers to their feet. Ah. Not locals then. But mates of the cast. I’m sure of it. No one is that enthusiastic about theatre unless they know someone involved. Not even when the tickets are free.

But they are not making for the stairs. They have one more thing to get sorted before they go into the auditorium.

As one, they head towards the bar.

Definitely friends of the cast.

Back down the stairs. Past the pink vs blue loos. Past the boxy corner office. Past the entrance. And on to the theatre.

“Amazing,” says the guy from the box office, who is now on ticket checking duty. He takes my admission pass and I go in.

There’s a single bank of seating. Raked. The stage is at floor level. It’s covered in chairs. Both lined up down the sides in a way that sets my teeth on edge (actors sitting on the side of the stage in scenes that are not their own is a trope that went from being pretentious to hackneyed decades ago), but also piled up on the floor, and hanging from the rig. And there, along the back wall, is a tower of broken chairs, with looks like it has more than a passing nod towards the Iron Throne.

We’re not in Westeros anymore, Dumbo.

I ignore the chairs. I’m much more interested in the cushions.

Small. Fluffy. And lined up on the benches.

It looks like I’m in for a comfy evening.

Or a very uncomfy one. Depending on what they are covering up.

I squeeze myself down to the end of a row, so that I can lean against the metal bars on the end.

Now that I’ve sat down I can see that the rake isn’t all that great, and I am super pleased that no one is sitting directly in front of me.

As soon as I have that thought, the theatre gods intervene. The guy from the box office comes in. He looks around for a spare seat before deciding to ease himself down the full length of a row, and sit directly in front of me.

Now, I’m sure he had his reasons, but I don’t think I’ve ever, in all my years of theatre going, in my 120+ theatre trips this year alone, in thousands of shows, seen a front of houser sit anywhere that didn’t have easy access to the aisle.

And usually the one closest to the exit.

You know, to facilitate matters in the event of an evacuation, or, I don’t know, help an audience-member if they need help finding the pink loos.

He hoikes his elbow onto the back of the bench, and settles in.

I just pray there isn’t a fire.

The play is about knife crime. Or possibly the outrage of stop-and-search. Inequality in education. The ineffectiveness of the police. Class, maybe. Race, definitely.

The company is young. Very young. And they are trying super hard.

It’s rather sweet.

And wow, I’m super patronising.

Oh well. I’m sure they’ll go far as long as they ignore the bitter old trolls, like me.

At the curtain call, one of the cast members steps forward. They are raising money for Steel Warriors, a charity that melts down knives and builds playgrounds. They are asking for any spare change to be dropped in buckets as we leave.

Another cast member steps forward. “I’m supposed to talk about Wooden Arrow now,” he says, referring to their plays producers and looking very embarrassed about it.

Half the audience explode into laughter. No doubt the half that make up Wooden Arrow.

He goes through a short spiel, and looks very relieved when he reaches the end of it.

It time to go.

It’s still light outside. And warm. The perfect evening. Which I will spend trapped underground as I take the long journey home.

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Demon Theatre of Fleet Street

I thought I was well past the point where I was able to shock my coworkers with my theatre-going, but the expression on their faces as I wrap my scarf around my neck and breezily say that I'm just popping out to watch a play tells me that I've hit a new low.

Turns out, slipping into an empty seat at the back to catch the matinee in your own theatre is one thing, but running down to Bridewell Theatre in order to squeeze a short play into your lunch break is quite another.

Oh well. Doesn't matter. I'm already halfway down Farringdon Street and too out of breath to worry about my rapidly deteriorating reputation in the office.

I haven't been to the Bridwell Theatre before, but I've seen the signs for it, so I'm not entirely surprised when I step out of the smog of grey suits on Fleet Street and into a quiet little side-street that looks like it's pitching itself as a location for this Christmas' glossy Dicken's adaptation.

Two ladies chat outside the front door to the theatre, but apart from that, it's entirely deserted.

I'm guessing lunch-time theatre can't really compete with M&S sandwiches in the life of a city worker.

I'm up for it though. A 45-minute play in the middle of the day sounds great. It's just a pity that this place is too far from my work for me to ever justify coming here outside of my marathon. Best make the most of it.

Huh. This place is not nearly as exciting looking inside. After a brief interlude involving floor to ceiling tiling, those old Victorian stones have given way to white walls and grotty floors.

But no matter. There's a good old fashioned hole-in-the-wall box office. It even has a circular speaker thing set into the glass. The metal surround is inscribed with the directive to: SPEAK HERE. I do, giving my surname, and I'm handed a small entrance token in exchange.

They are small. And laminated. There's a picture of a sandwich on the front (cucumber on wholemeal) and a poorly hyphenated set of terms and conditions on the back. I'm disappointed. Somehow I had got into my head that the Bridewell was connected to the printing industry, but I couldn't imagine any proper printer producing this sort of nonsense.

To be fair, that connection may exist nowhere outside of my own fuzzy memories, and no be based on anything even approaching reality. In which case, the tokens are just fine. And cucumber sandwiches are totally ace. But like... not on brown bread. Don't be gross, people. No one wants that shit in their lives. It should be white bread or nothing when it comes to cucumbers. And plenty of butter. The good stuff. Yeo Valley, or Kelly Gold if you must.

"The house will open at five to one," says the man behind the window. "We'll ring a bell."

That's only a couple of minutes away. I better start exploring.

I follow the signs down to the bar.

Oh, blimey. That's not what I expected. There I was, traipsing down the white-walled staircase, never knowing that the basement bar was lurking underneath like the Phantom's lair. Bare brick walls. Metal beams holding up curved arches. And there, squatting between the tables like an old man waiting for someone to buy him a pint is, oh my god, is that a printing press?

I fucking love a printing press. I’m always trying to drop hints to our printers that they should invite me around for a tour, but they are doing the absolute mostest to change the conversation to one of paper stock, or types of fold, which I suppose is also good.

I go over to have a proper look at it.

I suppose it could be a printing press. If what you're printing is shirts and by press you mean, wash out the dirt. They're washing machines. I'm in an old laundry.

Oh.

I'm beginning to think I really did imagine the whole printing thing. Which is worrying.

Still, it is nice down here. I do like old machines, even if their purpose is to remove ink rather than print it. I like that you can see how they work. This wheel turns, that cog rotates, then this plate lowers, yadda, yadda, yadda, and your socks are clean!

It's surprisingly busy down here. All the tables are full.

I'm trying to work out how many of these people are here for a sneaky pint during their lunch hour. But none of these people look like the type to work around here.

There's less in the way of suits than I would expect. And far more anoraks than is reasonable.

I feel like I've somehow stumbled group in their pre-meet for a walking tour of the Lake District, rather than a bunch of city workers taking a short rest-bite from their heady day propping up capitalism.

There's a rustle of Goretex as they all stumble to their feet and make towards the door.

They must have heard something I didn't because the queue to get into the theatre is starting and if I don't hurry up and join it, I'm going to be stuck right at the back.

Back up the stairs, through the door by the box office, and via a small foyer taken up by some rather fetching blue curtains, and we're into the theatre.

It's a standard black box, with raked seating, and a rather fantastical lighting rig - meal bars jutting off at all sorts of wonderful angles. Each side of the space is lined with slim metal columns, the type you'd find on an old factory floor. I rather like it.

It takes a while for everyone to settle.

There are considerably more people here than I could ever have expected. Lunchtime theatre is clearly a thing, and I feel like I've been missing out. Someone needs to tell all the pub-theatres in Islington, because I want to get in on this action.

After five months in marathon-mode, even 90-minutes-no-interval is starting to feel like a chore. With a standard 7.30pm start, you're still not getting out before 9pm. And then there's the journey home, and by the time you've got your coat off, put the kettle on, and shoved all the clothes off of your duvet, accomplishing the coveted In-Bed-By-Ten prize is a bit of a challenge. If you ask me (and I'm sure you are), 45 minutes is the perfect length for a play.

I didn't know anything about this one, but with such a short run time, there wouldn't be much room to go wrong.

Even so, Stanley Grimshaw Has Left The Building manages to pack it in: family tensions, false allegations of violence, missed messages, Elvis impersonations, and not one - but two - twists, before the clock runs out. There's even a reverse of the man-sends-his-inconvenient-female-relative-to-the-madhouse trope, which was very pleasing.

I would credit those involved, but there wasn't a freesheet to be found. Which if the Bridewell really did have a connection to the printing industry would be really fucking embarrassing for them.

Now, I have to know - where did I get that idea from?

As I hurry up Farringdon Street on my way back to work, I quickly Google it.

"Housed in a beautiful Grade II listed Victorian building, St Bride Foundation was originally set up to serve the burgeoning print and publishing trade of nearby Fleet Street, and is now finding a new contemporary audience of designers, printmakers and typographers who come to enjoy a regular programme of design events and workshops."

They even have a library dedicated to printing and its associated arts.

Oh, Bridewell Theatre. Dedicated to the print trade and you can't even put together a freesheet. For shame. For shame!

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Wheely need a change

I’m feeling a bit down at the moment. A trifle low. A touch, if I dare say it, sad.

I hate admitting it. Not because I’m ashamed or anything like that. It’s the reactions I get to these statements that keep me quiet. I don’t know how it is for you, but when I tell people that things are a bit sucky in Maxine-land, they either brush it off with a series of dismissive noises, or they take the exact opposite approach, going into hyper alert, as if I’m about to off myself right then and there in front of them. When what I really want is for them to pat me on the head, agree that everyone is terrible, and tell me that it’s all going to be okay, because they are going to beat up everyone who has ever wronged me.

Okay, I hear it. You’re right. That’s not the way to handle things.

I can beat up my own damn people.

In the meantime, as it is mental health awareness week, I’m going to admit to you that the marathon is really getting to me at the moment.

It’s the relentlessness of the whole thing.

It just goes on and on and on.

For nearly five months, I’ve been going to the theatre almost every night. And then filling in every free moment in between shows with writing about them. Thousands of words. Hundreds of thousands of words. Three whole novels’ worth of words. I’m not even kidding. No wonder at least half of them are misspelt.

And, you know, it’s a bit lonely.

I don’t mean the going to the theatre part. Because I’m very often not alone. And, as someone pushing the limits on how far one can sit on the introvert scale, going to the theatre by myself never bothered me anyway. It’s the loneliness of the marathon itself. The fact that I am entirely on my own in this enterprise. The lovely people that accompany me on my trips don’t have to spend the evening desperately trying to recall fragments of conversations, or their intervals making notes on their phones. They don’t have to give up their lunchbreaks to writing blog posts. And their weekends to emailing PR companies. They don’t live within the confines of a spreadsheet.

I sometimes think about it akin to being jetted off on a solo mission to Mars. Thousands of people will be involved in the enterprise, but in the end, when it comes right down to it, no matter who is on the other end of the shuttle’s radio, they’re up there, all by themselves. But at least that lonesome soul goes in the knowledge that they have a place in the history books set aside from them. Somehow I don’t think they’ll be a ticker-tape parade waiting for me at the end of this year.

Anyway, all this maudlin moping is just a build up to saying that I was after something different. Something I hadn’t seen before. Something to shake me out of my funk.

So, I’m going to the circus.

Well, I’m actually going to Shoreditch Town Hall. But I’ll be watching circus. The new Barely Methodical show: SHIFT. I’m pretty stoked.

I even bought my ticket. With money.

Mainly because I just couldn’t face dealing with a press person long enough to ask for comps, but still.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love press people. I love especially theatre press people. They do a job that I in no way ever want to have to do (again). But putting in ticket requests requires being nice. And I’m in no mood to be nice right now. Wait. No. I don’t mean that. I am nice. Most of the time. I suppose what I mean is: positive. Asking for tickets requires a certain level of bouncy cheer and enthusiasm that I am not capable of at this moment in time. I’m too busy embracing my inner Eeyore to use the required amount of exclamation marks in an email.

Still, even after I’d made the decision to lay down my debit card in the pursuit of another check mark in my marathon spreadsheet, it didn’t mean I wasn’t in full money-saving mode.

And as I analysed the seating plan for tonight’s performance, I realise that the cheapest seats are all gone. Greyed out. Not there.

Dammit.

I click through a few more dates until I see them. There. Thursday night has some. Up in the balcony. Well, that was no good. I’d already made plans for Thursday. Oh well. Second price down it was then. I picked my seat and bought the ticket and then…

Shit.

I hadn’t clicked back to Tuesday. My ticket was for Thursday.

As soon as the confirmation email landed in my inbox, I forwarded it onto Shoreditch Town Hall with an abject apology and a begging request for them to exchange it.

Nine minutes later, it was done. Ticket exchanged. Followed by a friendly command to enjoy the show.

Ah. Now that’s the stuff.

While I respect press people, it’s admin staff that I really admire. They are the real heroes in theatre. The ones who turn chaos into order, dreams into reality, and an outing into an experience. I would lay down my cloak on the wet ground before them if they hadn’t already organised for building services to sort out that dangerous looking puddle outside the front door.

I could almost forgive them for having e-tickets.

Not that this stopped me from heading right over to the small podium positioned just inside the very fancy foyer of the town hall to absolutely double check that printed tickets were not a thing that would be happening in my life tonight.

They’re not. But I take it with relative good grace, and do not in any way express contempt for the future of this planet we call home.

They do have freesheets though.

There’s a stake of them on the counter. I take one and go off to explore.

As former town halls go, Shoreditch must be on the more sophisticated end of the scale.

Where Battersea Arts Centre is all collages and finger paintings and a bee strewn mosaic floor, Shoreditch has oversized faerie-lights and light up screens in place of posters and a more geometric approach to tiled flooring. They even have a ladies powder room, which I took to be the loos until I saw that they did actually have loos. Accessed through an entirely different entrance. The door to the powder door was blocked off, so in lieu of being able to ascertain its actual purpose, I’m going to imagine a line of vanity tables inside, complete with soft pink lighting and deeply padded chairs, where ladies touch up their makeup with fluffy puff-balls and leave a trail of lipstick-marks in their wake.

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