Elbows at Dawn

I'm off to the Bush Theatre tonight. A place I love. Although I'm fairly confident I've thrown a lot of shit over the years, complaining that they are hard to get to just because they're lurking all the way down at the end of the Circle line.

Yeah, well. My tolerance of hard-to-get-to-ness has been raised this year. I've shivered on platforms for twenty minutes waiting for trains that would never come. I've walked miles. I've had nice ladies on trains offer me sweets to stop me from fainting in overheated carriages. The Bush Theatre is not hard to get to. It's right opposite Shepherds Bush Market, for gawd's sake. I admit it. I was precious as fuck at the start of this year. But I have had my consciousness raised. And I think we can agree that I'm the better for it.

Anyway, as I was saying, I do love the Bush Theatre. It's so nice. And homey. And warm. And welcoming. And shiny. Let's not forget that. It's looks hella swish, with its bright yellow signage and fine red brick walls.

I don't think there could even be a more welcome sight than that of the warm light pouring out of the Bush's glass frontage after you've just battled against the Hammersmith and City line to get there.

Okay. Okay. I'm going to stop talking about trains now. I am. I promise.

I scoot through the little courtyard area that the Bush has going on, and through the automatic doors.

It's packed. I'm late. And everyone is busy getting their drink orders in before going in.

I join the queue at the box office. It moves fast, and soon enough I'm at the front giving my surname.

"Pardon?" says the box officer, leaning in.

"Smiles? S. M. I-"

He's already off, looking through the ticket box, and yup. He's found them.

"Your tickets are here," he says, handing them over. "It's seventy minutes straight through. No readmission."

That has to be the most perfect sentence in the English language. Seventy minutes straight through. The absolute dream.

As I double back the way I came, I find myself practically having to step over people as they pour through the door.

I know I should have avoided all this by looping my way around the box office and past the bar in order to get to the auditorium, but there's a chalkboard here that I want to get a photo of.

Yes, there it is.

"Baby Reindeer," it reads in pretty purple letters.

"70 minutes. No interval."

Oh bliss. I read that again just to revel in the sheer joy of it.

"No readmittance."

Yup. Love it.

"Contains haze." Cool. "Strong language." Fuck yeah. "References to sexual abuse, violence, stalking & transphobia." Oh. Shit. Well, guess you can't have everything in life. Here I was thinking I was getting a nice play about Rudolph from before he got famous.

"Hello and welcome to the Bush Theatre. For tonight's performance, Baby Reindeer, please take your seats. It'll be starting in five minutes."

Right then. Looks like I've going in.

I go through the strange stairwell that the Bush has in the middle of their foyer.

Over on the other side is the entrance to the newly named Holloway Theatre.

I had forgotten about that. And the near heart attack that the announcement had given me. I don't want any theatres tweeting out about their 'new theatres' between now and New Year. I'm calling time on openings, reopenings, renamings, and anything else until the clock hits midnight on 31 December. Then they can do what they want. Open pop-ups in their gender-neutral loos if that's what they want to do.

But some of us have marathons that we're still pretending are possible to finish. And I don't want any more nonsense before it's over. My heart cannot take it.

On the bar is a huge dispenser of cucumber water. A woman stops to pull out a water bottle and fills it up with spa-goodness before rejoining the queue.

The ticket checker is selling playtexts.

Fuck yeah.

You know how much I love programmes. And playtexts? Well, they are just another level on top of that. You get to take the entire play home with you, for four quid! That's epic. As is the knowledge these fuckers are going to cost the best part of a tenner when they hit the theatre section of Foyles.

"Can I get a playtext?" I ask the ticket checker.

"Of course!" she says with suggests that people here don't know what a damn bargain they're getting. "That's four pounds."

I get out my purse, but the queue behind me isn't going away.

I step back and wave the next person forward.

"Oh sorry," they say, as if it was them getting in my way. They dither for a second, but then, with the more embarrassed expression ever, step forward.

"Do you have change for a tenner?" I ask the very patient ticket checker. The queue is growing bigger by the minute, and I'm not sure there's enough cucumber water left to keep these people going while I start searching for four pound coins.

Turns out she does, and we do that awkward hand shuffle as we trade currency and balance a playtext between the both of us.

Inside, another front of houser waits for us. I shove my purse back in my bag and show him my ticket.

"B11? Over there, second row," he says, pointing across the stage to the opposite block of seating.

I pause to look around.

You never know what you are going to find in the Bush.

Tonight we're in the round. Or rather, in the square. With seating on four sides.

An almost Gothic arched architecture has been sculpted out of the space with cloth sails stung up between pillars.

In the centre is a circle of light.

I make my way around to what the sign tells me, is block D.

I find my seat. Second row. Right on the aisle.

Nice.

A group of girls come over. One of them is pointing to the empty seats next to me.

I get up to let them pass.

"That's not us," one of them says with the type of disdain that can only be levelled against someone you are really good friends with.

"Oh, sorry," says the pointer to me, with a hand motion for me to sit back down. She squints at the seats. "No! It is! Look! Sorry, that is us."

The two girls thank me as they pass.

A third, silent one, follows on behind. She doesn't say anything, but does give me a good jab with her elbows as she takes her jacket off, which I'm sure you can agree, is almost as good.

As I nurse my bruised arm, I look around.

It's a very young crowd in here. Lots of cool-looking people. Even the usher is wearing a beanie with his t-shirt.

Strange pits have been sunk into the floor, and the people sitting in them manage to not "oof" as they climb into them. That's the level of youth we're talking here.

As the lights dim, projections whizz around us on the gothic sails, and Richard Gadd appears to tell us the tale of his stalker.

It's great.

Like, it's really great.

Like, properly fucking amazing.

I'm not the only one to think so.

Across the way from me is a young woman with red hair, watching rapt, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide with horror at Gadd's story.

She winces and gasps and clutches her wine glass to her chest.

I can't stop staring at her.

It's getting embarrassing. But I have never in all my life seen such an expressive face.

Just as I realise that I'm quick becoming the stalker in this room, the man sitting in front of my rams his elbow back, right into my knee.

I wince and shift away as his arm retreats.

But a second later, he does it again. His elbow rising up as his rummages around in his trouser pocket.

Then a third time.

Gawd knows what he's keeping in there.

I add my knee to my list of bruised limbs.

Honestly, there must be some point-based game going on at the Bush tonight. How many times can the audience elbow the person in B11?

Four times.

That's how many.

Gadd finishes his tale, leaving a cuddly toy reindeer on the stage behind him as he retreats from our applause, only returning to give the room a general thumbs-up.

We head for the exit, crowding it as four different blocks of seats aim for a single door.

"I like the space," says someone standing behind me.

"Great space," their companion agrees.

"You'd never been to the old space though," says the first, with the smugness of a true Bush-hipster.

As I wait, I turn airplane mode on my phone off.

There's a notification.

A general election has been called.

Oh, what fun.

At least I don't have to get on the tube now. I can walk to Hammersmith from here. That's something...

The next day I'm still thinking about Baby Reindeer.

Fuck, that play is intense. Seventy minutes of pure heart-pounding fear. And it was funny too.

There's a level of talent there, that I just can't process. I don't understand how people like that manage to exist. I can't even say I'm jealous, because we exist on entirely different levels of reality.

I scroll through Twitter, half to read about what people more intelligent than I am are saying about the election, and half to distract myself from thoughts of Martha the stalker.

And then I see her.

That girl.

The one with the red hair.

I stop scrolling, picking up the phone to so at it closely.

Yup, that's definitely her. She's even wearing the same jumper I saw her in last night. Black. With roses.

She's only bloody in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. That's Emma May Uden!

Fuck's sake. I told you she had an expressive face. She's a frickin' actor.

I very carefully do not follow her on Twitter before shutting down the app, putting away my phone, and deciding to take a break from social media.

Back to Hogwarts

I don't want to get your hopes up, but I think there's a strong possibility that Autumn is here. The terrible reign of that blazing ball in the sky is over. No longer will I have to suffer the indignity of the t-shirt. I can wear real clothes now. Nice clothes. I don't mind telling you that I just spent the best part of an hour trying things on. Because tonight, Matthew, I am going to see Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, and I need to be the Gothiest Goth that ever Gothed, or die in the attempt.

And I think I've found the one.

It has a high lace collar. It has long sheer sleeves. It has cinched cuffs. It's perfect.

My eyeliner is sharp.

My boots stompy.

I am peak Goth.

I mean, personal peak. I'm not ready for an undercut or a lip piercing quite yet.

I put my 49er on top of the whole thing, and, not gonna lie, I look frickin' adorable.

As I walk to the tube station, a little girl hangs out of her window. "Hello. Hello. Hello," she shouts. "Hello, fashion lady!"

Which has to be, by far, the nicest thing shouted at me from a window.

No time to dawdle though. The Palace Theatre peeps are strict as hell.

I got, not one, but two emails, that stated, in no uncertain terms, that I should pick up my ticket, at the latest, one hour before the show starts. Now, I'm sure you'll agree with me, that this is completely ridiculous. There is no theatre in the city, not even the London Palladium, that is so chaotic that it requires a 6.30pm pick up for a 7.30pm curtain.

So, I decide to ignore the advice.

And turn up at 6pm.

The box office at the Palace is round the side of the building, on Shaftesbury Avenue. It has it's own separate entrance, which leads into a good-sized room, with a row of counters on the far side, tucked behind glass. It's almost like stepping into a bank.

There is exactly no queue.

The lady at the nearest counter looks up and gives me a great big smile, so I go over to her.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I tell her.

"Lovely," she says, getting up from her seat. "I'll need a reference number and ID too."

"Okay," I say, grabbing my purse in readiness.

She's on her way back, tickets in hand. She looks at them. "Actually, it's just ID, because you won the lottery."

Yeah, I did! For the first time ever, I managed to win of those TodayTix ticket lotteries. No luck with The Lehman Trilogy. Didn't anywhere with Present Laughter. Had to get up at 3am to see Fleabag after failing again and again with that one. I was beginning to think that TodayTix didn't like me. Which, considering how much money I've been throwing at them this year, is a wee bit rude.

But they came through for this one. All hail Harry Potter and the Friday Forty.

"Oo, I like your purse," says the box office lady as I show her my ID. "Lovely," she says checking it. "Doors open at 6.30. Enjoy!"

And with that, I'm back out on Shaftesbury Avenue.

It's about ten past six.

I should probably go and do something.

I walk around, having a look at all the second-hand bookshops on Charing Cross Road. More than a few of them have a dedicated Harry Potter section crammed at the front of their window displays. This whole area seems to be running on a Harry Potter based economy. There's the newly opened House of Spells shop, with doormen in jacquard coats that scared me so much I didn't want to go in, and the House of MinaLima on Greek Street, which I'm sure was supposed to be a popup shop, but has grown some serious roots. In the Foyles playtext section, there are enough copies of Cursed Child on display to stage your own mini-production.

I circle back through Soho to the theatre.

There's a big sign out front. Someone is proposing to their girlfriend at the show. That's nice. I mean... it's utterly abhorrent. I don't understand public proposals, at all. But if they're into that, good for them. I wish them a long and happy life together.

But more importantly, there's now a queue, snaking it's way down Romilly Street and around Greek Street. I should probably join it.

The queue moves quickly.

Signs tell us to have our bags open and to definitely not, no don't even think about, bringing in food.

Next to it, a homeless man sits. He has his own sign. He's trying to sell an illustrated copy of the first Potter book. "Any real offer is cool."

The Harry Potter economy is hitting hard.

We round the corner. The front of the theatre is cordoned off with crowd control barriers. One by one we are waved in, directed to tables of bag checkers.

"Any food or drinks?" asks mine as I dump my bag on the table and open it for her.

That gives me pause. I mean... I think we all know that these checks aren't for security anymore. They're protecting their bar sales, not our bodies. But I never thought I'd get an actual admission on the line. This marathon is full of surprises.

"No," I say, knowing full well I have a slightly squished protein bar in the side pocket.

"Any sharps?" she asks, digging her hand right in.

"No." I'm not sure my cutting wit quite counts.

"And food or sharps?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Okay," she says, and waves me on.

Next up there's a line of black-suited security guards. They have body scanners.

Blimey. That's a first.

"Arms up," says one, putting out his arms in a cross to demonstrate.

I follow his lead, lifting up my arms, my bag still dangling heavily from one hand.

He runs the scanner over me. It must have beeped or flashed, because, without warning, his hand is in my jacket pocket.

"Oh," he says, after finding nothing in there except the reminiscence of an old tissue.

He let's me pass.

Feeling ever so slightly violated, I finish the security part of the entrance examination.

It's time to get me through the doors.

The first one has a Hufflepuff checking tickets. I can tell she's a Hufflepuff because she's got the house colours on her lanyard. All the front of house staff do at the Palace. Have house coloured lanyards I mean. On my first trip here, way back when the show was still in previews (and yes, I am showing off, thanks for asking) I got chatting to the ushers and was informed that they are very serious about the whole house business here. The staff all need to get sorted on the Pottermore website, and there's no switching just because yellow doesn't suit your complexion.

I head to the next door. There's not much of a queue here, but the ticket checker is a Gryffindor and I ain't dealing with that bullshit today.

At the third door there's no queue. But there is a Slytherin ticket checker.

Or perhaps that should be: at the third door, there's no queue, because there is a Slytherin ticket checker.

I immediately rush over and show her my ticket.

"On the far side, down the stairs," she instructs as she tears my ticket. "There are bars and toilets on every level."

"Thanks!" I say, way too excited. I hold back the urge to shout "Go Slytherin!" as I bounce through the door and into the foyer.

The merch desk is right oppsite the doors, selling all the house colour stuff. I already have a fair bit of Slytherin gear and those scarves are expensive, so I decide not to test my overdraft any further. Besides, they save all the best merch for Part 2.

Instead, I go straight to the programme desk.

There's a sign over the top stating that programmes are "Just £5." Which, you know, isn't bad. Cheaper than a Slytherin house scarf anywway.

One of the programme sellers spots me. "Are you waiting?" he asks.

He's wearing a Slytherin lanyard. I don't know why it is that the 'puffs have the reputation for being loyal. In my experience, it's the Slytherin's who are always looking out for one another.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask him.

"Of course!" See? He's got my back.

I hand him a ten.

"Perfect!" he says, and I keep a close eye on him as he gets my change. Let's be real... I would trust a Slytherin with my life, but not my fivers.

Still, I wonder if I can go the entire evening only interacting with Slytherins. That might be a fun challenge. I mean, yes, it does sound a bit, well, Voldemorty, but this is the third time I've seen this show. I need to inject a little bit of danger into this trip.

Down the stairs, there are more programme sellers down here. And a concessions desk. You'd think they'd be selling stuff straight off the Hogwart's Express trolley, but no, it's the same boring old trash you'd find at any theatre. I move on.

Down some more steps, and into the bar. An Aladin's cave of gold paint, pillars, and mirrors, all held together my a menagerie of naked-lady mouldings.

It's still really early, so I find an empty corner and start people watching.

There aren't too many people dressed up down here. The queue was full of young‘uns wearing house t-shirts, but they don't seem to have made it down to the stalls.

I spot two ladies wearing all access passes round their necks. Not sure what those are or what they have access to, but I sure as hell wouldn't be wasting them on the stalls bar if I had them. I'd be off backstage somewhere, stealing me a sorting hat.

The bar begins to fill, and my quiet corner is under threat of attack from all sides.

I look at my ticket. I'm to use door 2 to get into the auditorium, and look, just on the other side of my little enclave is a sign pointing the way to door 2.

I follow it.

After the gilded glory of the bar, I'm whisked into a very plain corridor. The only decoration a pair of shelves, with numbered plaques, which I can only assume will be holding interval drinks in few hours' time.

I keep on going. Up some stairs, and down to the end of the hallway.

There's a curtain, and through it, the theatre.

It's nice. It's well named. Very... palacial.

I make my way down the side of the stalls towards the front row. Oh yeah, ya gurl has got herself a seat in row AA tonight.

I'm very excited about it.

I mean, the stage is high so I'm going to miss a hell of a lot of stuff happening at the back, but it's okay. I've seen this twice before. Once from mid-stalls, and the second time from somewhere in the balcony. I know what's going on. I'm just going to appreciate being able to see all the stage-trickery up close, and yup, from my spot at the end of the row, it looks like I'll be able to get a little glimpse into the wings.

This is going to be mega.

I take off my jacket and settle in.

Train station sound effects are being piped in, and it's amazing how soothing they can be without the added ambience of thousands of commuters all collectively hating each other.

Trunks and suitcases litter the stage, so you just know there's magic happening, becuase they wouldn't last five minutes unattended in the muggle world without someone calling the bomb squad.

A voice comes over the sound system.

The performance is about to begin.

There's a whoop.

Turns out, I'm not the only one super-pumped to be here tonight.

"You're all seated in the quiet zone," continues the voice. "So turn off your phones now. I mean now."

The order not to each any crunchy crinkly snacks also gets a cheer. This audience is hardcore about their theatre-going. They don't want to miss a moment. Maybe that's why there aren't any Pumpkin Pasties on offer (although, there should totally be Pumpin Pasties on offer. Come on now, it's September. I need my recommended daily dose of pastry).

Anyway, the play starts and it's just great. I fucking love Harry Potter. Like, I taught myself HTML when I was 12 years old so that I could code my own Harry Potter fansite. That's how long I've been in the fandom. Literally most of my life.

And I don't care what the haters say about Cursed Child. So what if it is retconning the books? I don't give a shit.

I adore Scorpius and I would die for him.

He is literally the cutest thing I've ever seen in my life.

Although I'm not quite sure whether I want to kiss him, mother him, or quite possibly, be him.

Hopefully not the first one. He is a child, after all. The character I mean. Not the actor. I checked.

Still, it's all rather confusing.

Whatever it is, Jonathan Case is doing a splendid job up there. And I'm so happy I could burst...

There's a crash. For a second I think it must be my heart exploding. But no, it's way too big a sound for that.

People are turning around in their seats. Whatever it was came from behind us.

"Lights! We need lights!" comes a call from one of the circles.

A few seconds later, the house lights are going up.

The cast press on. We try to concentrate but the drama happening in the higher levels cannot compete with what's happening on stage. I mean, Jack Thorne's great and all. But this is real life.

Eventually, the house lights dim once more, and we fall back into the goings-on at Hogwarts. And soon I get lost in the waft of cloaks as the performers swish about right in front of me.

I have to say, the movement is marvellous. If this lot ever give cloak-swishing classes I'm going to be first in line because they are giving the Bolshoi-boys a run for their money.

Applause fills the auditorium.

Interval time.

Within seconds a queue forms down the central aisle for ice cream.

An usher comes out to make an announcement. "It's cash only," she says. "Ice creams are three pounds fifty each. If you need to pay by card you need to go down to the bar."

No one is paying attention. Everyone is busy talking about the show.

"I like when the witches come on and do the thing. With the cloaks," says the girl sitting behind me,

"Me too," says her friend.

Me three.

"I loved the trolley witch," says the friend. "Did you see the two people in the dark? They just went like this then whoomph."

I nod along to their conversation. I also enjoyed the whoomph.

"They got rid of my story," says the girl, presumably while scrolling through the Cursed Child Instagram. "There was a proposal. Did you see it? And my story got bumped."

She doesn't sound super impressed.

"Did they say yes?"

"I don't know..."

I have a look at the programme.

You have to admire their commitment to the whole "keep the secrets" schtick they got going on. Not only is there a spoiler warning on the cast list, but they also put one on the preceding page, just in case your eyes land on a character name by accident. And it's not like we don't know they couldn't have sold two programmes if they didn't have a mind to. So, double kudos to them. I kind of wish they had taken the Hampstead Theatre approach to suppliers though. Back when Brandon Jacob Jenkins’ Gloria was playing, you had to go find an usher in the interval to cut open the seal on the spoiler-giving programme pages, which was super cool. Not that I did it. My Gloria programme remains in mint condition. Because I am exactly that type of programme nerd.

Another announcement is piped in. This one from Professor McGonagall herself. Well, Blythe Duff but, you know.

"For the sake of the wizarding world, please turn off any muggle devices," she begs us.

We get through the rest of Part 1 unscathed.

Well, almost. The final scene sends cries of horror throughout the auditorium (and some wet feet in the front row).

As the "to be continued..." banner lights up the empty stage, the level of excited chatter is so loud I fear this lot won't make it through to tomorrow night's performance.

"Please use all the doors," calls an impatient usher as we try to shuffle our way out. "We're closing the doors in two minutes! We'll see you tomorrow."

Yes, you will. I'm not leaving my boy Scorpius stranded in that situation.

Too hyped to even contemplate being cooped up on the tube quite yet, I skip through Piccadilly Circus and make my way to Green Park.

There's a lot of great shit going on in theatre right now, but for me, Cursed Child is where it's at. The stagecraft! The story! The... Scorpius! Okay, it's all Scorpius. I really love that blond boy.

Which reminds me: that proposal... It was a publicity stunt to advertise a dating app. Little fuckers.

Love is cancelled.

And I think I might need to bleach my hair.