Just rip my fucking throat out already

It's Saturday morning. And I'm still very, very ill.

Okay, it's past noon and I'm mostly just feeling sorry for myself, but the point still stands.

I'm tired. And I have a cough. And the only show I want to be seeing is the immersive drama: The Duvet. Very conceptual. It involves lying under a duvet. And then being left alone for twelve to fourteen hours. Cups of tea are lovingly placed on the bedside table next to you by a silent and unseen presence. Sadly, I couldn't get the funding. So here we are.

At the Bloomsbury Theatre, for another go at the Bloomsbury Fest.

I'm just gonna pause right now and say that I'm actually super grateful for the Bloomsbury Festival because I was having the absolute worst time trying to find a show in the studio space in the Bloomsbury Theatre to book for. Ten months I've been waiting for something to be programmed that not only qualifies for the marathon, but also, you know, is on a day I can actually attend. And yes, the festival has been booking up churchs and common rooms, adding extra venues to my already overlong list, but it's given me the opportunity to check off this one, so... I can forgive it.

This place is surprisingly big. Lots of glass. It could easily be a fancy office block. Home to hundreds of accountants. If it weren't for the oversized scribble of the Bloomsbury Theatre sign I would never have guessed what was lurking inside.

I go in.

The foyer is almost empty except for the excess amount of wood panelling striping the walls. There's a box office off to one side, sealed behind glass walls.

"I'm collecting for Declan?" I don't know why I felt the need to say the name of the show. Something about this place makes me feel like I need to explain my presence. Perhaps because it's a university theatre. And the knowledge that I wasn't clever enough to go to UCL. And now I'm here. Creeping about their theatres.

"The surname's Smiles," I add hurriedly, just in case she thinks that I'm the Declan I'm collecting for. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

The box officer doesn't seem bothered by my stuttering incompetence. From behind her glass screen she looks at her computer. "Is that Maxine?" she asks.

It is.

A man appears at the counter next to me.

He leans in to talk to the other box officer. "We're performing on Sunday," he tells them. "And I was just wondering whether you could tell us our ticket sales."

I don't get to find our how well my neighbour's show is doing, because my box officer is sliding a ticket under her screen.

"Where is the studio?" I ask at the exact same time as she attempts to give me directions.

"That's just downstairs," she says.

I thank her and go in the direction she's pointing.

Wood panelling competes with dark brick walls as each try to prove that they are the most seventies.

Downstairs, the stripes of pale wood win out, as the dark bricks give way to white walls.

It's busy down here. Turns out it's not just me prepared to wake up early on a Saturday morning to see a one man show in a Bloomsbury basement.

That's a cheering thought.

My biggest fear throughout this entire marathon has been the possibility of finding myself as the only audience member at a show. It hasn't happened yet, and by the looks of it, it won't be happening today. Not even close.

"Ladies and gentlemen," calls out a front of houser. "If you'd like to fill in from the front without leaving any gaps, that would be very helpful."

There's a gentle stir towards the door.

I follow them, handing my ticket to the ticket checker, who tears off the tab before waving me though into a small lobby.

There's a table and chairs in here. An old show posters on the wall.

Through another door, and we're in the studio.

It's small.

Well, it is a studio.

But even so. It's a small, dark, room. With rows of chairs, and black-out curtains covering the walls. Nothing more.

Everyone ignores the front of houser's instructions to fill in from the front, and start dotting the rows with their presence.

I slip into the third row, remembering too late that, with my cough, I should be sitting on the aisle. Way too late. More people arrive.

"Are you saving these?" a girl asks.

"No, go for it," I find myself saying before I can stop myself, and a second later, I'm blocked in by a group of young people.

I rummage around in my bag and find a cough sweet. Hopefully, that will tide me over.

It's really warm in here. I'm wearing a sweatshirt. It's a nice sweatshirt. With dinosaurs on it. But it's a sweatshirt none-the-less. And I am rapidly overheating.

Still, it's a one-hander, in a basement studio, in a pre-lunch slot on a Saturday. We're not going to be in here long. I can do this.

Our performer is already on stage. Well, on the bit of the room that isn't taken up by chairs. Well, the bit of room that isn't taken up by his chair. He's sat slumped down. Asleep. Shifting around every few minutes to find a more comfortable spot. Can't say I blame him. These chairs aren't great. I wouldn't want to nap in them either.

People twist round in their seats, watching who comes in.

As they arrive, hands dart up, waving and beckoning the newcomers into the fold.

Eventually, the trickling stops, and the door is shut.

We begin.

Our man in the chair wakes up. I usually wouldn’t name him without a freesheet, but fuck it. I remember it from the website. Our man in the chair, Alistair Hall, wakes up.

He has a story to tell us. It seems to be distressing him. He just got bitten. On the bum. And if a bite on the bum wasn't enough, the biter then drank from him.

As updates to the vampire myth go, this one is truly concerning.

I pull my sleeves down over my wrists. It may be sweltering down here in this basement, but I don't think I've ever felt so aware of the veins under my own skin and I don't want to be giving the potential biters in the audience any ideas.

There is more to the tale then bum biting though. Our new friend has to tell us about a boy. Declan. A friend, yes. But also more than that.

Someone sitting a few rows behind whispers something to their friend.

"EXCUSE ME," cuts back the saviour of the audience.

The whispers stop.

The air is so dry in here. So dry, I can feel my throat rebelling.

I cough, hoping to clear it.

It doesn't work.

I cough again. And again. And again. I can't stop. Every attempt to do so has my entire body shaking with the effort. Now my sleeves are all the way down over my hand as I do my best to stifle the noise in this tiny, overheated room. I coil in on myself in embarrassment, praying to all the theatre gods that this cough will just stop.

I need a saviour. Someone to give me a withering "EXCUSE ME."

Or even a vampire. Fuck it, I'll even take a biter right now if he promises to rip my throat right out.

The girl sitting next to me leans forward and picks something off the floor. "Would you like some water?" she asks, offering me a cup.

"Thank you so much," I whisper back, trying not to choke on my own words.

The water helps. The cough subsides.

Not long after, our tale ends. I was right. It was a short one.

"Thank you so much for the water," I say to me hero as we put on our coats and prepare to leave.

She touches my arm. "No problem," she says with a smile, as if to say: us audience members need to look out for each other. There's probably some truth in that. I've given out my fair share of cough sweets to fellow theatre-goers in need over the years.

I pick up the cup and drain the rest of the water, leaving the empty plastic on the table out in the foyer.

I've got another show to go before my theatre-going is done for the day. Let's just hope my throat can handle it.

When the moon hits your eye

It's Friday night and I'm off to church, which is not something I ever thought I would say. But hey, that's my life now. The Bloomsbury Festival is in full force and if they say they are having a theatrical event in a church, then dammit, ya gurl is off to church.

I'm actually a little bit excited about this one. Firstly, because it sounds fucking cool. Or at least, there is an element of it that sounds fucking cool. We'll get to that later. But mostly, I'm excited because it's taking place in a church I actually know. And by 'know,' I mean that I've walked past it a lot and vaguely wondered what it looks like on the inside.

So, even though I'm still feeling grotty as fuck, and it's raining down hella hard outside, I have a bit of a bounce in my step as I make my way down Cromer Street towards Holy Cross Church.

There's a security guard on the door, which is not usual practise round here as far as I know. I thought those guys are all busy looking after the synagogues. Guess that's the world we live in now. Everywhere is in need of a bit of muscle.

As I go up, there's someone talking to the security guy.

"But there should be a service now," says the someone.

"It's closed," says the security guard, pointing at a sign. "It's open again tomorrow morning."

"But what about now?" insists this guy, who has clearly got a real need to pray going on.

"There's an event now."

"But I should be able to go to church!"

The security guard shrugs. It's not like he programmed the festival.

With a wave of disgust, the guy goes, and the security officer turns to me.

"Hi. Box office?" I ask.

"You have a ticket?"

I show him the confirmation email on my phone and he nods with relief.

"Just there, they'll take your name."

And that's how you buy your way into church, I guess.

As promised, inside there is a table set up with people ready to take names.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I say to someone wearing the Bloomsbury Festival STAFF badge that I recognise from my Goodenough outing.

"Maxine?" he says.

"Yup." That's me.

"Great. Take a programme," he says, patting a pile of freesheets on the desk in front of him.

I pick one up, keeping my eyes fixed on it while I move away from the table.

It's a dangerous move. Especially for someone who isn't all that steady on her feet even at the best of times.

But I know what I'm going to see when I look up, and I want to make sure I'm in the best possible spot before I do.

There's a good line of people here, all with their phones out, taking pictures. I think this is it.

I look up. And there's the mother fucking moon.

Inside the church.

Probably shouldn't swear.

But can you see that?

The twatting moon! Inside the church!

It hangs there, slotted in between the stone pillars as if it had always been there, as if it were the church that came later. Built around this floating moon to house and keep it. A temple for those ancient moon-worshipping followers.

Down below, the pews have been set up in an elongated horseshoe, so that we may be the ones to orbit the moon.

I find a spare spot and sit myself doen, gazing up in wonder at this magical orb.

As I watch, staring, I start to see it moving. Gently swaying. Almost as if it were pulsating. Or breathing.

According to the freesheet, the moon is seven whole metres across. It's made by an artist called Luke Jerram and goes by the name Museum of the Moon.

It then bangs on about all the performers who'll be in here tonight, but I'm going to be real with you right now: I don't care about any of them. I'm here for the moon.

We all sit back in our pews, staring at this mystical object.

I kinda want to touch it. To place my hand against it. To feel if it really is breathing in there. But I'm scared. Partly of the security guard who I know is outside. But also, I'm nervous about finding out what this moon is made of. Of discovering that all those crevices and valleys and pox marks across the surface, are, in fact, only printed on. I can't decide what would be more horrific, a rough and scratchy canvas, or a smooth rubber. The thought of either sends me into a shudder.

A photographer walks around, moving chairs and pews as he goes, clearing himself a gangway so that he can walk around the space uninterrupted.

Our host for the evening comes out. Sam Enthoven.

He asks if any of us don't know what a theremin is. An old lady in the row in front of me pips-out a shrill "No!"

A surprising about of people join in.

I appear to have found myself in a church full of people who don't watch American Horror Story.

But off we go. Enthoven on the theremin as Minnie Wilkinson tells us a story... and, I'm going to admit something now. I don't dig storytelling. Like, I actively dislike storytelling. It's just not one of the performing arts that I'm into. I'd probably rank it just below circus if I were to ever spend a very dull Sunday afternoon rating all of them,

I don't know what it is. I think it has something to do with the telliness of way storytellers construct their tales. Because I have no issue with, like, audiobooks, so it's not the listening to a single voice that puts me off.

Instead, I focus on the moon, matching my breathing to it, and falling into a strange fantasy where the valuted roof opens up and the pair of us, me and the moon, sail off into the dark night.

A group of latecomers arrive. A front of houser walks them around the back, pointing out empty seats.

I twist my knees around so that one of them can get past and sit next to me.

She looks over at her friend in the next pew and they both giggle and raise their eyebrows.

The first tale comes to an end. We all applaud. Even the latecomers - though they do it with another shared glance and a giggle.

Jordan Campbell is up next, accompanied by the stunning Lou Barnell wearing a Grecian white dress. Now this story I can get into. Mainly because it has a werewolf in it.

But just as I find myself having to realign all my thoughts about storytelling, the photographer comes round and places himself right in my sightline, blocking my view of Campbell.

In an instant, the magic is broken.

Unable to see our performer, I look around at the audience instead.

It's a very white audience. A very very white audience.

A very very white audience, in the church on Cromer Street. Which if you've ever walked down it, you'll know it's not a white street.

That man who was turned away by the security guard? Yeah, he wasn't white.

I don't want to make this a 'thing' but it does make you think, doesn't it, when a venue whose very existence is dependent on locals, gives over its space for an event that is then attended by non-locals.

Now, I mean, it's for art. And art is great. And I'm sure the congregation was encouraged to attend. But still.

At least one man out there isn't happy about missing out on this evening's service.

And instead, all these white people are sitting around, gazing at the moon, and listening to bedtime stories.

Enthoven reappears. There's going to be a ten-minute interval. "The nearest loos are in the pub across the road," he tells us.

The girl sitting next to me looks over at her friends. "I really need to go, actually," she says.

"Yeah, me too. Actually."

And off they go.

I make a bet with myself that they won't be back.

Underneath the moon, the people gather. To take selfies.

"Shall I face you, or face away?" a young woman says as she races out.

The man she's with tells her it doesn't matter and she raises her arms above her head.

"Nowhere near," he laughs.

"Did I do it?"

"Nah, you're way too short."

After a few experiments in perspective, they get it right, and have a photo of her balancing the moon on her fingertips.

We're recalled to our seats. It's time for the second act.

The seat next to me stays empty. As does the one in the next door pew. I was right. Those latecomers had no intention of coming back.

Enthoven comes back out to introduce to next set of performers. Apparently there had been some complaints about sound levels. But it seems to have been fixed now.

Or perhaps not, because I can't make out a word Laura Sampson is saying. It's lost over the screeching, saw-like noises made by Greta Pistaceci.

High above us, a wooden Jesus gazes down on the luminous moon, flanked by two figures, Mary and... yeah, I'm not Christian, I don't know who the other one is.

I wonder what they make of the whole thing. Their church given over to this event. Their congregation turned away. These new people brought in, but unlikely ever to return for a service.

At the end of their tale, a dozen or so people make a break for the exit.

One left.

Alys Torrance steps out under the moon to gaze at it in wonder. "What's in there?" she muses, before chatting with her musician. "Can you play the moon?" she asks Sylvia Hallett.

Hallett tells her to wait and see.

"It's like that, is it?" laughs Torrance. And then we begin.

Torrance really is an engaging storyteller. Stepping away from the microphone to use the entire space, use her body, and the audience, the air and the moon. I don't think I'll ever truly get into this art form, but for the first time, I think I understood the appeal.

The house lights rise and Enthoven sees us off, with a thanks for "supporting unusual evenings like this one."

Like a slow voice on a wave of phase haze

Goodenough College is a weird arse name.

What are parents supposed to do when they're bragging to their friends about the universities their kids have been accepted into? "No, Oxford didn't work out but she got into Goodenough College? No... no. Stop. Not a Goodenough College. Goodenough College. It's a post-graduate accommodation... yeah, I hadn't heard of it either."

Apparently they've got a dance show on this afternoon though. So here I am. Staring doubtfully at the iron gates sealing off a pretty looking courtyard from the nastiness of the world outside. The world outside being Bloomsbury in this case.

A group of young women are making their way down the pavement. I step back to let them past.

"It's probably easy to be a choreographer there," one says while the others nod enthusiastically. "If you just want to test some ideas, and then show it..."

They disappear through the brick arch, towards the iron gates.

Looks like I am in the right place after all.

"It's Sunday!" says a young woman coming the other way. "When you only have class once a week, it's easy to lose track..."

Yeah. Can't relate to that. I may not be able to remember where I was last night, but I damn sure know what day of the week it is. I have spreadsheets to tell me that.

I go through the arch. The gates are locked. But there is a door. And a doorbell.

The young women sitting at the reception desk inside buzzes me in.

"I'm looking for the large common room," I tell her.

The confirmation email hadn't been very forthcoming on the location of this performance. "Large Common Room, London House, Goodenough College." With no directions on how to get there, or where I might find it.

"Though the door behind you," says the receptionist. "Across the courtyard and on the far left. You'll find it," she says, demonstrating a belief in me that I'm not entirely sure is warranted.

I step out the door she indicated, make my way down the long ramp, and out into the courtyard.

It’s nice here. The type of manicured niceness that requires Keep Off The Grass signs and that same sculpture you see in every single courtyard ever. You know the one. With lots of concentric circles making up a sphere. Yeah. That one. The artist responsible must be making a mint off that design.

I pick my way around the edge, careful not to accidentally flop onto the grass.

Across the courtyard, and on the far left, some steps lead up to a covered walkway. And there I find a desk. With someone wearing a big Bloomsbury Festival STAFF badge pinned to her clothes.

That nice young lady at reception was right. I did find it!

There’s a bit of a queue, so I stand around on the steps, waiting my turn and doing my best to keep my skirts clamped down, despite the best efforts of the wind. Eventually, it’s my turn.

“Smiles?” I say. She makes a surprised face and I realise that I I should have probably explained my purpose before dropping in that surname of mine without explanation. Can’t go wandering around telling poor women to smile. That’s highly inappropriate. “I should have already booked?”

Her face clears. She finds my name on the list. “Yes!” she says, her voice laden with relief that I wasn’t one of those people. “Lovely. We’ll give you a shout in a minute to let you in.” She points over to the walkway, where my fellow audience members are standing around, keeping out of the wind, and taking photos of that immaculate courtyard.

The chat is all dance and dance-adjacent, making me think I have found myself in the midst of dance people.

I try to convince myself that I am also a dance person. I work in dance. That makes me one of them.

Somehow I’m not entirely satisfied with this argument.

I don’t even look like these people.

For one, this body was never meant to dance. But also, and perhaps more importantly, I’m missing the key accessory: red Dr Martens.

I really want a pair.

They look so cool.

Not sure they would look quite that cool on my stubby legs. But still. I want a pair.

A ridiculously pretty young woman in an orange dress that also needs to be filed immediately in the I-could-never-pull-that-off-but-I-wouldn’t-mind-giving-it-a-go pile comes out and greets a few people as she walks around.

With a wave of her arms, she motions towards the door.

“Oh, is the house open?” I ask, quelling the desire to comment on her dress in the most effusive tones possible.

“Yeah! The house is open,” she says.

So off I go, skittering towards the now open door, before my gawping at the dress gets too blatant for everyone’s comfort. Including mine.

There’s a woman on the door. “Hi!” I say.

“Hello! Fill up from the front row, and any bags you’ve got, put under your seat,” she says, before letting me through.

Inside the Large Common Room I find… a large common room.

Thick curtains are doing their best to keep out the Sunday afternoon light.

A parquet floor squeaks under foot as I cross the stage area in search of an empty seat.

I decide to plonk myself in the corner, right next to the camera set up. I want to avoid getting myself on film.

Not sure that's quite working though. A photographer is doing the rounds, and is already pointing his camera at the audience.

Freesheets lie waiting on the seats.

Being the professional blogger I am, I hold mine up to take a photo of it.

“I hope you’re switched off,” says an old man to woman he’s with, with only the slightest of side eyes in my direction.

I ignore him, pointedly taking pictures of the room before turning my attention back to the bit of paper we’ve been given.

The music, if I can call it that, perhaps soundscape would be a better term… comes from the NASA recordings of stars. Light waves converted into sound waves. Or something like that. I presume that’s what they mean by ‘sonified’ anyway.

I have to say, I’m not a big fan of sciencey-dance. I’ve seen a lot of it. Too much of it. It’s quite the thing amongst a certain brand of male choreographer. Wayne McGregor. Russell Maliphant. Alex Whitley…

And it's always accompanied by pounding music and brash projections.

It’s not that I don’t like science. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it (I definitely have) but, you know, I have an MSc. Science and me were well into each other before I jumped ship for his sultry cousin, the arts.

I just… I’m not sure science-inspired works do the business for me.

I’m simply not a Joey Tribbiani. When someone mixes together mincemeat and custard in a bowl and calls it trifle, I won’t be the one asking for seconds.

That and I'm not a fan of projection.

I tend to just end up watching them as dance, and trying very hard to forget the dense explanatory articles lurking deep within the programmes. Which is probably not the right way to approach it.

But this piece, Bodies in Space, was created by a woman. And I don’t want to be all sexist, but I am super interested to see if that makes a difference.

Plus: no projections.

It does rather feel like being back in school here though. With that parquet flooring and the clock on the wall and the large photograph of the Queen gazing down on us. I find myself waiting for the headmaster to come in so assembly can start.

Instead, we get the woman in the orange dress.

Turns out she's Helen Cox. The choreographer. She welcomes us all, and gives us the traditional housekeeping pre-show message. Then a reminder: "We're in the round, so please tuck your bags under your chairs. Like in an aircraft!"

I've already tucked my bag and I'm feeling pretty damn smug about that.

And then it's time for the performance.

To sound which claims to be the music of the stars, but reminds me more like a vacuum cleaner in need of a cleaned filter, three dancers slowly twist around one another, their movements perfectly attuned as they poise slim wooden sticks between their fingertips, holding themselves to each other by the most fragile of connections. Sticks drop, clattering to the ground, but with the gentlest twisting, a negotiation is undertaken as the dancers sink down to retrieve it. Fingertips stretch out. The balance is recalibrated. They continue.

Behind them, across the square, the sound designer, Dougie Brown, flows between the sound desk and his laptop, doing whatever it is that sound designers do during live performances, twiddling knobs and pressing buttons.

The soundscape shifts. The sticks are taken away, and we move forward.

There's something special about watching performers this close. Close enough that your own presence distorts to way you view it. Seeing them even in their off-stage moments, as they wait to rejoin the fray. Natasha Arcoleo, Jordan Ajadi, and Andrew Oliver each take up separate corners, leaving us in darkness as the sound swirls around us, combining with their breathing as they prepare to make their returns.

We get to the end and it's time for the questions. Cox and Dougie talk a little about their work, while physics professor Fabio Iocco tackles the science. The audience ask a few questions (what did the sticks mean? And was that bit improvised? Cox answers the first: it means whatever you feel it does. The dancers, from their spot sitting cross-legged on the ground, take the second: yes it was, it's all about responding to each other in the moment), and then it's time to go.

Or at least, it's time for me to go.

As so often happens at these things, most of the audience stick around to chat.

I've got other things to be getting on with. Namely buying an apple pie and eating the entire thing in one sitting while pondering the great questions of the universe.