"Just to warn you," I type out slowly on my phone, careful not to make any typos. "I'm a little bit drunk."
In truth, I'm a lot bit drunk.
I'm still at my work Christmas lunch and people keep on bringing me drinks. A Brandy Alexander has just landed next to my plate. It's disgustingly sweet.
I want another one.
It's a good thing I have to leave early. Only six hours after the drinking started.
I can still walk though. Which is good. And type. I think.
Pretty sure I can get to my next theatre in one piece too.
On the train a woman leans over to me.
"Does this train go to Catford?" she asks.
I blink at her. "Yes?" I say. I hope it's going to Catford. Because that's where I need to be.
I get out my phone, hoping she doesn't have a follow-up question for me.
There's a message from Rosie.
"I'm very much here. I'm a queue."
I read that again.
Did she just say she was a queue?
"Sorry I'm in a queue.
"I'm not A queue."
Oh good.
I was beginning to think those Brandy Alexanders had gone to my head.
I type back. "Im on the train. About ten minutes out. Wanna pick up the tickets?"
I stare at it. I can't remember how to do apostrophes.
Fuck it. I hit ‘send.’
"Yes! Under 'Smiles?'"
"That's the one!"
I keep my head bowed, trying very hard not to make eye contact with the Catford-bound lady.
"Got em!"
Thank goodness. I was worrying that I might have to slur my postcode over some poor box officer.
Now, I know what you're thinking. That if I do insist on getting drunk and going to the theatre, then I should by rights be slurring over box officers, if for no other reason than to tell you about it.
But here's the thing, I'm going to the Broadway Theatre, and I've already done the box office thing the last time I was here, so I know they are housed off in their own little room down the road. And I know it looks like it's the set of a touring version of one of Agatha Christie's lesser-known Poirot novels. I don't need to repeat the experience. Much to the relief of box officers everywhere, who no doubt have already had too many lushs breathing alcohol fumes over their counters this panto season.
On the short walk from the station I suck in as much cold air as my lungs can stand, but all that means is that by the time I spot Rosie standing outside the entrance to the Gothic horror castle that is the Broadway, my head is feeling more than a touch woozy.
"I'm just going to take a photo," I tell her, diving across the road towards the slim island in the middle of two streaming rows of traffic.
This is not going to go well for me.
From my position on the island, I can see all the children cramming themselves through the doors for a night of pre-Christmas fun.
I really need to get my act together.
A couple of photos.
A couple of deep breaths.
Back into the breach I go.
"Sorry," I apologise to Rosie. "I'm feeling a bit out of it at the moment."
I get the feeling I'm going to have to do a lot of apologising tonight.
We go in.
The foyer is packed.
Rosie goes off to find the loos and I turn around, trying to make sense of this chaos.
A little girl in wellington boots is bouncing up and down, treading an avalanche of spilt popcorn into the carpet.
Behind me, the bar as been turned into a sweet shop. The shelves that you'd expect to be laden with bottles of spirits, are now playing host to a tower of plastic tubs, filled with pastel clouds of candyfloss.
The queue is long.
But down the other end, is a large water dispenser, and two stacks of cups.
I head towards it.
A small boy is struggling with the tap and the dispenser wobbles dangerously. His dad jumps in to help, holding the dispenser steady as the boy stands on tiptoe to fill up his cup.
Cup filled, I grab one for myself. One of those big pint size ones that lairy men wave about at festivals.
I fill it to the brim, then manage to drain half of it by the time Rosie comes back.
"Want some?" I say, lifting the cup to show her.
"Straight gin, is it?"
I probably shouldn't tell her I was on the gin at noon. And that was after the morning mimosas.
We go upstairs.
Usually, when I'm taking someone to a show, I do try and get good seats. Down in the stalls, if I can afford it. Even for bloody panto.
But the stalls were all sold out, so off into the circle we go.
Shame.
"Christ," I say, sitting down. "Look at this shit legroom."
I point at my legs, which do not even slightly fit in this row.
I try twisting to one side, and manage to get myself in, but that will only work as long as no one sits next to me.
Rosie twists in the opposite direction, towards the aisle.
"Did you get a programme?" asks Rosie as we pivot away from one another.
"Shit," I say, the horror stopping me while I'm still fighting off my coat.
I had totally forgotten about programmes.
I am a lot drunker than I thought.
I wriggle out of my sleeve and dump my coat down next to me.
Although we are technically in the circle, we're not in a balcony. There's a clear line of seats going down all the way to the stage. The only differentiation, a long tech desk cutting across the auditorium.
So from our perch at the back, I have a clear view of the audience.
Little kids wave around light-up roses, for Beauty and the Beast rie-in value, and miscellaneous flashing knickknacks that don't have any apparent connection to the show. But no one has a programme.
"No one has programmes?"
"Maybe they don't have any?" says Rosie. "What kinda of panto doesn't have programmes?"
Even the amateur panto I saw last night managed to pull together a programme. Even the tiny Portobello Panto had a programme.
If the light-up rose sales figures are anything to go by, shifting a few thousand programmes shouldn't be too hard in this joint.
The lack of programmes is not a good sign.
Rosie senses my distress and asks about the other pantos I've seen.
I give a run down, finishing with a sigh. "I hate panto." I mean, I did kind of enjoy last night’s, but even so, the sentiment runs deep and can’t be dammed by a single positive example of the genre.
"Why? I love panto!"
Oh dear.
I give her my theory: if performers have to work so hard to get a response from the crowd, then maybe it's their show that needs more work, and not the audience.
"Welcome to the Broadway Theatre and to our 2019 panto," comes a voice over the sound system. Down by the tech desk I can see a woman speaking into the microphone. She gives a few of the standard rules, but then follows them up with: "to the front row, do not leave your seats in the middle of the show, due to pyrotechnics."
Ooo.
Well!
Things are looking up.
Who needs programmes when you've got fireworks!
And on that happy thought: we're off.
Silly Billy doesn't take his time teaching us his whole call and response deal.
I shrug at Rosie, but do my best to join in.
Rosie leans down and pulls something out of her bag and offers it to me.
I blink at it, trying to make out what it is in the darkness.
"What are they?" I ask, giving up.
"Macarons!"
Ooo!
I take one.
"Way too sophisticated for this show," I say, waving vaguely at the stage and spraying crumbs everywhere.
But even that doesn't manage to lower the tone.
I watch, stony-faced. Even by panto standards, this seems terrible.
As three cast members finish their barrel through a low-rent version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, involving the chucking of five bog-rolls into the audience on multiple occasions, I turn to Rosie.
"Did that actually happen?" I ask. I'm still fairly drunk. It could well have been just my imagination.
She looks at me in confusion.
"Hasn't that happened at your other pantos?"
"No!?"
"The Twelve Days with toilet roll has happened at every panto I've ever been too!" she counters.
Blimey.
Clearly, I'm sat amongst hundreds of other panto connoisseurs, because the second the Dame and Silly Billy come out with Super Soakers, people are reaching for their coats and hiding under them, ready for the liquid onslaught.
"Kinda glad we're not sitting in the front row now," says Rosie.
I nod in agreement.
December is not the month I want to be walking home in damp clothes.
An usher walks through the aisle carrying a tray of ice cream and sets herself up in the corner.
It must be the interval soon.
Thank gawd.
I'm not sure my sodden brain or tortured knees can take much more of this.
One scene stretches out after the other. So long that I fear for the ice cream that must surely be melting away in this overheated space.
But eventually, it comes. The interval.
"Being drunk does not help," I say.
To my surprise, Rosie agrees: this is not a good panto.
"Because we're in Catford, I really thought they'd be more jokes about cats."
I snort. That is by far the best joke of the night.
"It's just all impressions!" Rosie goes on.
This is true. Silly Billy is too busy showing off his catalogue of celebrities to be the sweet sidekick I'd encountered elsewhere. Instead of being simple but steadfast, Silly Billy is actually a bit of an arsehole.
"Has there at least been a slosh scene in the other pantos you've seen?"
What? "What?"
Rosie looks at me in shock. "Where they throw gunge...?" she says slowly. "It usually happens before the interval, so they have time to clean up."
Oh.
Crikey.
I shake my head sadly. There has been no throwing of gunge at any of the pantos I've seen.
Usually, I would not class myself as, well, pro-gunge, but if ever a show needed a bit of intentional mess, this is it.
Half-way through act two, Rosie perks up, clapping her hands in excitement as the Dame suggests making a cake.
But she is left disappointed as the gunge fails to make an appearance, and instead we get a return visit from the Super Soakers.
Later, it's my turn to perk up when Super Soakers are replaced by swords, wielded by some actors in very tight trousers. Which is the sort of high-quality art that could make me convert to the panto cause. But too soon, it is over, and Silly Billy is back, waving up a pile of kids onto the stage who absolutely do not want to be there.
"This is excruciating," I whisper as Silly Billy asks a small boy whether he likes the look of an equally small girl.
"This is awful," agrees Rosie. "I think I'm broken. I thought I liked panto!"
"I'm so sorry," I say, meaning it.
"You ruined panto for me, Max."
I bristle. It wasn't me! I just bought the tickets.
I had no hand in this... monstrosity of a show. And I will not be held complicit in this nonsense.
I will the curtain to go down, but I fear we are stuck here forever. The show will never end.
Kids rush down the aisle to the front, to dance by the stage.
They don't get long.
The announcer I spotted at the beginning rushes in and shoos them back down the aisle. She crouches at the end, blocking off the front of the stage. The kids carry on dancing as twin foundations of fireworks explode on stage.
And that's the end.
We're free to go.
I pause on the stairs to take a photo.
“Sorry,” I tell Rosie as she waits for me. “I just really like that window.”
“Oh! I thought you were taking a photo of the exit sign!”
Rosie is savage.
"It was long," sighs a yawning child in the foyer.
"Three hours," replies her mum.
I look at the time.
Holy shit, she's right. It's ten o'clock.
I tell Rosie this. "Three hours for panto? That's way too long for a family show. What about the children's bedtimes?" she says, scandalised.
What about my bedtime, more like.
I slump into my seat on the tube home. Not even caring as a full-blown scuffle breaks out in my carriage.
"Don't want to back down? Let's go. Let's go right now!" shouts one guy, standing up.
"Oh, you fucking Tory wanker!" shouts the second, aiming a palm at the first guy's shoulder.
The shoulder-push is returned, with an added collar grab from the first guy. "Get out of the country!"
Those sitting close by shift down a few seats.
The young woman sitting opposite me twists around to place her legs up over her boyfriend's so she can get a better view of what's going on.
"I'm here. We're all right here! Let's go!"
"Can you shut the fuck up mate? You're being very aggressive. Very aggressive. On the tube. Some people are terrified! Absolutely terrified!" he shouts, waving his arm around to indicate the rest of us, watching them sleepily.
Honestly, fighting is so much more entertaining with swords and tight trousers involved.