afterglow — Blog — The London Theatre Marathon

"Taxi!"

I'm not a taxi, but I look round all the same.

We're at the traffic lights on Waterloo Road and a man is hanging out of the window of his car, waving at the black cab next to him.

"What's that building called?" he hollers at the black cab. With a huge sweeping gesture, he motions over to big building opposite us.

I feel like shouting back that it's The Old Vic, but I think the cab driver has it sorted.

I cross the road and peel away. I'm not going to The Old Vic tonight. I've already been to The Old Vic. So, unless The Old Vic decides it's opening a new studio theatre, which wouldn't surprise me given that all the other theatres seem to be doing it at the moment, I have no business in the place before 2020.

Instead, I slip down Cornwall Road, away from all the cafes and restaurants and general bustle of the area, to a road that looks like it got lost on its way to an industrial estate.

There, little more than a door in the wall, is the Waterloo East Theatre.

And it's packed.

I can barely make it through that door in the wall, the corridor inside is so crowded.

Pushing through into the foyer area doesn't help. If anything, the press of people is even more, well, pressing, in here.

Through the jam of backs and elbows and shoulders, I can just about see a sign indicating the presence of a box office and I make my way towards it. Only through careful examination of who are holding tickets do I manage to work out the existence of a queue. I join it.

A minute later, it's my turn.

I give my surname.

"Ah yes!" says the box officer, turning to reach for the ticket box. "I was marvelling at that earlier. I had a wager with myself about whether you'd be really glum. But you're not!" he adds hurriedly.

"Well, with everyone saying how great my name is the whole time, it's hard to be glum." Which is true.

I spot something on the counter. A sign advertising programmes for two quid. Well, it's advertising ‘programs’ for two quid because apparently we're American here in the Waterloo East Theatre. That or they're actually shifting some really niche computer software. I decide not to point this out. Don't want the nice box officer thinking I'm letting my surname down.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask.

"Yes, but they're over at the bar, actually."

Somehow I manage to make it over to the bar on the opposite side of this miniature-sized foyer.

Past the loos and a ladder leading up to a terrifying-looking balcony.

At least, I think they're the loos.

The gendered signage in the forms of dancing silhouettes is a little confusing.

As for the ladder.

"That convenient door," says someone. "I'm sure that's the entrance, and not rather up those inconvenient stairs."

"The stairs do look very inconvenient," comes the reply.

"I wouldn't want to try them."

Nor would I. I'm very glad to here that we will be accessing the space through a door. At ground level.

I reach the bar, and pay my two pounds. Getting a handsome programme in return.

I have a flick through.

More American spelling. Theaters instead of theatres abound. They should rename this place the Waterloo Iowa Theater.

I wouldn't mind so much if they didn't flip-flop between the two throughout. Theatre or theater. Doesn't matter which. They need to pick one and own it.

The cover is very much on-trend, in that you would know you were seeing a gay play without ever having to read the marketing copy. Lots of abs. Lots of soft purple lighting. I'm beginning to think of it as the Above the Stag aesthetic.

Judging by the fire code violation that is this overstuffed foyer, it's clearly doing the job.

The men are out in force for Afterglow. And a couple of women. And by a couple I mean literally two. Me and another girl. She's over by the bar, buying herself a very small glass of wine.

The man behind the bar retreats through the convenient door, reappearing a few minutes later. "Apologies for the delay," he says to us all. "We had a slight technical problem which is now solved, so we'll be opening in a few minutes."

"Thank you!" someone in the crowd replies.

I use the time to look around.

Brick walls alternate with corrugated iron. All coated with a layer of framed playbills, and what looks like drawings of actors. There's Alan Rickman as Snape. And Carrie Fisher with her big bunned Princess Leia. And Charlie Chaplin as... Charlie Chaplin? Literally can't name any of his roles.

A chalkboard advertises the price list for the Wet Bar, which is a term I know the meaning of, but will never understand.

The front of houser reappears. "We are about to open the house. It's very busy tonight so please sit in your allocated seats," he says, in what must be a first for this marathon. I've encountered a fair few seat-swappers along the way, but never enough to warrant that kind of announcement. Apparently, at the Waterloo East, seat numbers are only a suggestion.

"No phones inside the auditorium," he goes on. "Under any circumstances at all."

Shit. Well, that's okay. I'll just have to be super sneaky about my auditorium photos.

"Anyone spotted with a phone will be removed."

Double shit.

"Switch off social media and enjoy live performance."

Okay, Grandad.

I put my phone away in my bag. I don't want to get kicked out. I'll figure the photo problem out later.

The box officer is on the door now, and I show him my ticket as I pass through.

We file into the auditorium, the ceiling curving over our heads. We're in a railway arch. The natural home of fringe theatre in London.

The stage is tucked in at one end. With a proper, full on set.

Rising away from it is a very narrow block of seating. So that we're not just sitting inside a railway arch, we actually get the experience of sitting within the close confines of a train.

I climb the stairs until I reach my row, but am left blinking at the seats, not knowing where to go.

There are seat numbers. I can see them. But they've been stuck on the backs of the seats. Am I supposed to lean over to find out if I'm in the right chair? That sounds way more acrobatic than I am capable of on a Sunday night.

I look at the row in front. We're starting at 'one' on the aisle. That's simple enough.

I decide to count my way into my seat, and hope for the best.

"There's no seat numbers?" says a bloke staring out my row.

"They're here," says his companion.

They both stare at the numbers, before deciding to sit next to me.

I now understand why there's a pre-show announcement telling us to sit in our allocated seats. It really is more complicated then it sounds.

A second later, they are getting up and leaving the row.

They stand awkwardly in the aisle and a group of young women squeeze in.

"Shall I get out?" I ask, standing up to let them through, and realising there isn't much room for passing.

"No, it's okay," says one of them and they press on, my leaning as far back as I can and them side-stepping their way to their seats.

This must be what they mean by intimate theatre.

And then the play starts, and... I mean. I'd heard that things were rather... But this is very...

They are naked. They are all naked.

And it's fine. Because I am a grown up. At the theatre. And it's actually a rather good play. With excellent actors. Who just happen to be naked.

And... hey. I just got elbowed. The man sitting in front of my just elbowed me! Stuck his pointy arse elbow in between the seats and rammed it back into my knee. And... hey! He just did it again.

What a twat.

No matter. He seems to have got control of himself now. Back to the play.

I love all these characters. Even when they are awful And I swear if this ends badly, I am going to be very upset.

They've really got to stop having shower scenes though. I'm not sure I can handle any more.

Gasps ring out and there's a quiet moan of "noooooo," as one of them does something awful. Bastard.

The girl sitting next to me starts to sniff.

First a delicate one, but then a great big snotty one. She's crying.

Oh gawd.

She's not the only one.

Sniffs and sobs surround me on all sides.

Those bastards drew us in with well-lit abs, and now they making feels explode all over the place.

That's not fair.