It's behind you!

We're in the dregs of the year now.

Christmas is over, and we've all turned into walking zombies as we wait for the year to run out.

Me too, by the way. I managed to get out of London for a few days, and coming back has felt like being plunged into cloudy ditch water.

At least I know where I'm going. A return visit to Harrow, to get into the main bit of the Harrow Arts Centre after visiting the studio space in June. This time I don't make the mistake of walking through the gardens, instead nipping past the Morrisons and aiming myself to where I remember the front door to be.

I must be going in the right direction because there's a huge banner for the show I'm seeing strung up next to the road.

Aladdin.

It looks very... ummm.

I mean, it's not just me, is it? Like, I know I'm a lefty liberal and all that. But this isn't just me being all PC is it?

And it's not like we're in, I don't know, rural Oxfordshire or something.

We're in Harrow.

Last time I was here I was literally the only white person in the audience.

And now they've gone and cast a white Aladdin.

That doesn't seem right to me.

I hurry over the crossing and make my way past the huge sundial.

With the light dimming fast, the tall stone walls of the main building look very dramatic. The sort of building where you can expect to find a first wife tearing up the attic.

I step through the arched doorway and make my way into the foyer, ignoring the sign for the box office. I know it's a tricksy sign which only points towards a locked door. I keep on going until I reach the corridor. An usher is talking to a family. He's wearing a Santa hat.

Christmas still be going strong in Harrow.

Round the corner, I find the actual box office. A room which looks for all the world like I should be making a dentist appointment at the counter.

"The surname's Smiles?" I say to the lady behind the counter, trying hard not to worry about the last time I flossed.

She dives for the ticket box and starts flicking through the letter tabs.

"Sorry," she says when her search reaches the embarrassing 2.3 second mark.

"There are a lot of Ss... Ah! There you are!" She stares at the ticket. "Do you have the reference number? It doesn't have your postcode."

That's strange. I booked online. I would have thought that the postcode was attached to my order, but never mind. I pull out my phone and find the confirmation email. It doesn't take long. I only booked this morning.

"Is it the order number?" I ask, spotting the string of numbers and letters up near the top.

She says that it is, so I read it out to her. All of it.

"Yup," she says, as I finish up. She hands me the ticket.

Back in the corridor, a father waits patiently as his little girl examines the rack of flyers for this afternoon's performance of Aladdin.

"That's not Jasmine!" she announces suddenly, flapping the flyer in front of her father's face. "Jasmine has black hair!"

Now, while I would usually roll my eyes at this Disneyfication of faerie-tales, she's Princess Badroulbadour in the 'original' story, she's right. Jasmine or Badroulbadour should probably have black hair.

The little girl dips her own black-haired head and stares at the blonde princess, the one panto heroine who should probably look, well, just like the little girl holding the flyer.

I keep on going.

There's a gallery just off the foyer that I'd like to have a look at.

It's filled with portraits.

And the vestiges of pantos past. Broken flashy toys nestle up to discarded flyers on the ledges. A memory of the earlier matinee.

I go outside.

Families make their way over in dribs and drabs. The children bouncing around in excitement.

Behind me, I hear a strange tearing sound. Like fabric ripping.

A family stops, hovering near the entrance as they wait for the way to clear.

Someone is bending over, applying tape to the ground. Twenty minutes before a performance starts. Primetime for people wanting to enter the building.

Building Services people never rest. Even when they probably should.

Floor thoroughly stuck, and way clear, I go back in. There's no use putting it off any more. I've got to see this damn panto.

I follow the signs for seats numbered 13 to 23.

Down a corridor, and towards the door.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls," comes a voice over the sound system. "Welcome to the Harrow Arts Centre. Please take your seats, because the performance will start in just under fifteen minutes. Enjoy the show!"

Yeah, yeah. I'm going. I'm going.

I'm not going. I'm standing in the corridor. Dithering.

It may be my last panto of the year, but I'm not feeling the joy. Even with Slade banging out of the speakers.

But it's no use being a grim-faced arse with kids around. You just go to grit your teeth, and pretend to enjoy the damn panto.

The ticket checker looks happy. It's her last panto too. The last performance of the run. And she's grinning.

"Row S!" she says, looking at my ticket. "You're just there, darling." She points up the side aisle and I go in.

And this is it. Elliot Hall.

Quite the place.

High windows are blocked off by thick curtains. Wood panelling surrounds us and carved arches are almost hidden behind the heavy lighting rig.

Over the other side is a dark portrait. I can't make it out. But it seems to be of a rather stern looking man.

I climb up the stairs towards my row. Near the back. Because this is panto after all.

I count down the chairs until I reach mine. Or at least, the one that should be mine. As there appears to be someone sitting in it right now.

"Hi?" I say, to the person who is in what I am fairly confident is meant to be my seat. "Are you S14?"

He pulls out a pile of tickets and paws through them. "No. I'm S11 to S13," he says, before turning around to see the number written on the back of his seat.

"I'm in the wrong seat," he announces cheerfully.

Yes he is.

He gets up and plonks himself down in the free seat next to him. "No I'm not!"

His wife looks over and laughs. "Are you in the wrong seat?” she giggles.

"Not anymore!"

Glad we got that sorted. It would have been awful if I couldn't get a seat in the final show of this run and had to go home...

A small child is coming through, clutching a booster seat against his chest which is almost as big as him.

I struggle to my feet to let him past.

"You have to say excuse me!" says his seat-stealing dad.

"Ex'coos me," whispers the small child, scooting past to return his booster to the usher by the door.

He may be small, but he's too much of a big boy for such props.

It's then I realise I'm missing my own prop.

The usher on the door may have a stack of booster seats to hand out, but she seems to be lacking on the programme-front. In fact, I don't remember seeing programmes for sale anywhere. And looking around this audience, no one else has either.

That's the second panto of the run that hasn't offered me my quota of papery goodness. And the second of the larger outer-London affairs that I've been to.

That must surely not be a coincidence.

On either side of the auditorium, the doors close. I check my phone. It's 4.27pm.

They don't believe in latecomers at the Harrow Arts Centre.

"What time does it startttt?!" cries the small boy now returned from his booster seat adventure.

Dad checks the time. "4.30," he says. "Now."

But we have a few more minutes to wait before the house lights come down and the villain comes out.

Here we go.

My last panto of the marathon. Last panto of the year. And if I have anything to say about it, the last panto of my life.

"What's up crew?" calls out Wishy Washy, who is apparently a real character in this story.

"What's up Wishy?" we call back, exactly as instructed.

But it's not enough.

It's never enough.

We have to do it again. Louder.

"WHAT'S UP CREW?"

"WHAT'S UP WISHY?"

Still not good enough. Someone is not playing along, and Wishy Washy is determined to find them out. He splits the room in half, with a hand drawing a zig-zagging line down the middle of the auditorium.

"WHAT'S UP CREW?" screams Wishy.

"WHAT'S UP WISHY?" scream the other side of the room.

Wishy bounces over to my side."WHAT'S UP CREW?" screams Wishy.

"WHAT'S UP WISHY?"

He's found he problem. It's in the first three rows.

"WHAT'S UP CREW?"

"WHAT'S UP WISHY!?"

He's found the culprit now. It's a man in the front row.

He's called Rob.

Rob has to stand up. Turn around. And when Wishy Washy does the call, Rob has to reply all by himself.

He does well. But it doesn't end there for him.,

The Dame has got her hands on that name and she's not afraid to use it. Every flirtatious joke is directed towards Rob in the front row, with the shrugged message that if you sit in the front row at a panto, you're asking for it.

In all fairness to them, this lot are taking the brunt of the jokes. Taking the piss out of their own lines with an exhausted roll of the eyes every time the audience fails to react to a terrible joke.

A Super Soaker chase and Haribo-throw later, it's the interval.

Kids skitter around, pushing themselves through the rows in a reenactment of Aladdin's run around the auditorium that took place minutes before.

The children next to me return with some new found friends, who they proudly introduce to their parents.

One pair return bearing ice cream.

A single, solitary, tub.

"We got ice cream for you and grandad," they announce to their mother. "To share. So maybe you should sit next to each other?"

Mum laughs. "Did you? Maybe grandad should eat half and then pass it over?"

But the pair aren't having it, and seats are rearranged so that mum and grandad can sit next to each other and share the ice cream.

The visiting kids return to their seats, and soon it's time for act two.

Now I've been to so many damn pantos, I'm finding myself a connoisseur of all the classic elements.

Harrow's update of the Ghost Bench scene has us shouting "Behind you," about a bandage-wrapped Egyptian mummy on the rampage. That works well.

The choice of Jingle Bells as the singalong works slightly less well.

Especially when it the repetitions start to resemble a hearing test for the cast, with the room split in half once again.

Even poor Rob is picked on to sing, but it was just a joke. "Your face!" laugh the cast as Rob, no-doubt, wills murder on them all.

Finally, finally, we get to the end. The ensemble rushes off stage to fetch bouquets for the main cast members, leading to much confusion in the ranks as they pass them around.

Something tells me those flowers aren't going to make it home.

This cast is straight off to the pub, and won't be coming out until they the memories of panto are far behind them.

A Beastly Panto

"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.

Bel Panto

We've become close, you and me, over the past year. And during that time, I suspect that you may have noticed that I'm a bit of a worrier.

I worry.

I worry a lot.

I worry about everything.

I worry about being late while walking around a block three times to ensure that I'm not too early. During shows I'm trying to hold myself in a perpetual balance of not crying or laughing or rolling my eyes too much in front of fellow audience members, while also not wanting to be a mannequin for the performers. I get embarrassed telling people about my blog while at the same time knowing it is the one thing that would explain my presence at a small amateur show where I know no one.

It's exhausting.

So you can imagine, when I discovered that to get to the Greenwood Theatre before the year was out I would need to book myself onto an amateur panto, I didn't take it well. If there was a Venn diagram of all my anxieties, this would be the perfect spirograph of overlapping circles, with me sat squarely in the middle.

Can you tell I'm not looking forward to tonight's theatre trip?

Twelve months ago I avoided all panto.

Twelve months ago amateur theatre was something that happened to other people.

Twelve months ago, I didn't even know the Greenwood Theatre existed.

Someone had to tell me about it. And I was super duper happy to add it to the list.

Things didn't get any better when I was booking and I discovered that the most hateful of all theatre questions had made it onto the booking form.

There was a drop-down list. From which I had to admit that no, I don't know anyone connected to this show.

I'm just that weirdo who turns up for rando pantos.

Anyway, here I am. Wandering around the King's College buildings, looking for this place.

Turns out, it's literally around the corner from London Bridge. Which would have been super convenient if I hadn't walked here from Waterloo.

It's much bigger than I expected.

The hoarding over the door reads GREENWOOD THEATRE in fat capital letters.

The doorway is lit up with pink lights, streaming out of a square of bulbs which makes me feel like I'm walking under one of those old Hollywood mirrors as I make my way inside.

Inside there's a tiny little vestibule, with exactly nothing in it except for a dispenser offering up plastic bags to put your umbrella inside of.

I don't want my umbrella getting all mouldy so I ignore that.

Inside, it's packed.

Like, seriously.

There are people everywhere.

Even sitting on the floor.

I find this out a touch too late, as I almost trip over a guy's legs.

But I can't blame him. There's no where else to sit. All the chairs are taken.

Even standing room is limited.

The ceiling is lit up with green lights.

There's a Christmas tree going on somewhere at the back.

What there doesn't seem to be, is a box office.

I scan the walls, looking for a counter, a window. Anything.

Nope.

There is a desk though.

With a laptop.

And a money box.

I go over.

"Hi, the surname's Smiles?" I say, still not sure I'm in the right place.

"Sorry?" says one of the ladies sitting behind the desk.

Shit. I'm not in the right place.

"Smiles?" I chance again. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

She types it into the laptop. "Lovely," she says, looking up and beaming at me. "That's great."

Oh. Okay. I think I'm signed in now.

I press into the crowd. I'm feeling a bit weirded out. Although whether that's due to a lack of physical proof of my ticket purchase in my hand, the fact that I've seen over three hundred shows within a year, or that I'm at a panto with an audience entirely composed of grown ups, I can't tell you.

I look around. There are, like, no children here.

And by no children, I mean there are two. But so small they barely count. I only spotted them because I had to dive out of the way as they pelted themselves in my direction.

Somehow, without me making any effort at all, a queue appears to have formed in the exact place where I'm standing. And I seem to be near the front of it.

This won't do at all.

I quickly hurry away.

I don't want to be first in the doors. If I'm in before everyone else, I won't be able to properly judge where the best seats are.

And by 'best seats' I, of course, mean ones that are near the back, but not so far back that the crowd begins to thin. I want to be in the last properly occupied row. Which means, I need to be going in after everyone else has chosen their seats.

"Programmes!"

My ears perk right the fuck up.

"Programmes! Over here!"

I follow the siren call.

"Programmes! Raffle tickets!"

There's a desk. It's covered in programmes and raffle prizes.

The programme seller spots her mark and beckons me over.

"Raffle ticket? Lovely prizes... Bottle of champagne?"

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

I may be going to amateur theatre now, but I'm not crossing that final line and buying their raffle tickets. That's a step too far.

"Here you go," she says holding one out. "Raffle tickets!"

I almost step back at that blasting call.

"Sorry…"

"Programmes!"

"Sorry..."

"Raffle tickets! Over here!"

"Sorry, howmucharetheprogrammes?"

She turns back to me.

"Two pounds."

"Great..."

I hand over the cash, grab my programme, and make a run for it.

Behind me, the queue is growing. It's got halfway across the foyer. Which means that some of the seats have been vacated. I find one and sit down.

The programme is pretty nice. Lots of notes from the creatives, which I always enjoy.

But something catches my eye in the one from the company's chair. "There's plenty of audience participation to get involved with so please listen out for direction from Buttons!"

Oh gawd.

A voice comes over the sound system. "Ladies and gentlemen, the house is now open for this evening's performance of Cinderella."

Right. No time to worry about that. We're going in.

I find the end of the queue right over by the entrance.

I seem to have found some more children. They've got themselves new sunglasses, and they are so enamoured with them they have lost all concept of how queues work.

"Come on boys," sighs their mother. "Look where you're going. You need to concentrate!"

Where we're going is through a very plain corridor, and through into the theatre.

Lights swirl over the red curtains.

On the other side are rows and rows of red seats, split into three banks by two aisles.

I eye them up. The front is pretty packed. People are wanting to be sitting near the stage tonight.

I start climbing until I find a row which is not entirely empty, but still has plenty of buffer seats. I don't want to be cosying up to anyone tonight. I looks like the sort of event where everyone knows everyone, and I don't want to be messing with any friendship dynamics going on.

I dump my coat and my bag.

There's plenty of space, even for my massive fur coat.

They ain't kidding around with the legroom in the Greenwood. I can cross my legs. I can stretch them out. I can sprawl.

I'm in heaven.

"Visitors to the Greenwood Theatre, please take your seats in the auditorium. Tonight's performance of Cinderella will commence... shortly."

There's a small whoop from the audience.

That announcer knew what he was doing with his dramatic pause.

Someone comes to sit at the end of my row, sealing us in.

Thank the theatre gods, I've got my wall against any roving actors now.

Also, by the looks of it, he's also by himself.

I glance around, and amongst all the chattering friend groups, I manage to spot a fair few unaccompanied adults.

That's nice. I've been the only loner at the panto for far too long.

Friendless-theatre goers unite!... Separately!

The announcer is back on the microphone. "Good evening humble audience..."

The humble audience giggles, and the announcer warns us that we are, in fact, at a panto, and a certain level of enthusiasm is expected from us.

And now, here's the thing. The reason I don't like panto and never will. I kinda feel like, if a performer has to actually tell us they need more from us, like during the endless repeating of call and response to get us to scream louder, the "I can't hear youuuu....." and all that malarkey, then maybe, just maybe, their show is shit and we should all just go home.

Is that just me?

Okay, it's just me. Whatever.

Anyway, announcer-dude is asking as to give it up for the band, and like... okay. Fine. I can get on board with a bit of clapping for the musicians.

But then the curtain’s up, and the cast is singing, and Buttons is telling us how to say hello to him.

"Alright everybody!"

"Alright Buttons!"

Ergh.

Anyway, he's a postman and he has a parcel to deliver. To Becky.

"Where's Becky?"

Becky's friends all point to her while she covers her face and sinks down into her seat.

"It's a child! It's a child!" shouts a woman sitting behind me.

Which is obviously untrue because there are only four children in here and none of them are crying about being the forgotten Becky.

Buttons lobs a bag of Cadbury's Buttons at Becky.

She seems happy with that.

"Well, that was exciting, wasn't it?" announces the announcer. "There'll now be a fifteen-minute interval. See you again soon!"

I ain't going anywhere. I'm very comfy where I am. All this legroom... After spending so many nights in cramped seats, this feels like pure luxury. And while I'm not sure the dents in my shins will ever fill out again, I'm still feeling the benefit.

"It's good, isn't it?" says someone sitting behind me.

"So many children!" says her friend.

She means on stage. There are more little ones playing the role of Cinderella's mice friends then there are watching the show in the audience.

They are super cute though. All scurrying about being as extra as possible. One of them is dancing around so hard her ear-hat keeps on falling off and she has to spend the next two minutes sitting down on stage to put it back on. Only for it to fall off again moments later as she pretends to faint.

It's darling.

"Attention audience! Please take your seats in the auditorium. Tonight's performance of Cinderella will continue shortly."

At this point, before we get started again, I should probably admit something to you: I am not hating this.

It could be that the singing is rather good, or possibly the constant stream of shoe-puns are doing it for me. Maybe I'm just enjoying the prince being an excellent trouser-role. These are all possibilities. But I suspect thevreal reason is that panto has simply just broken me.

One more and I'll be screaming "he's behind youuuuu!" with the kind of fervour you only find in American megachurches.

The whoop as the curtain rises once more is loud and long and I'm almost tempted to join in.

A young woman sitting in the row in front gets out her phone and starts filming. She knows what's she's doing. The screen is set to dim, the phone held low and aiming between the shoulders of the couple ahead of her.

Her friend spots what she's up to and tries to do the same, but he's got it all wrong. His screen is so bright he's illuminating himself as the prat he is, and he can't get the angle right.

After a few failed attempts to get a photo, he gives up.

Maybe he can get the footage off his friend's phone after.

The four kids in the audience are all screaming and laughing. They must have had a serious sugar fix during the interval, and the ghost roving around the back of the stage is sending them wild.

Unawares, the cast is having a pun-off of ghost-related song titles.

"Ghouls just want to have fun!" one says, swinging her hips and her arms in opposite directions.

"I believe I can floss!" shouts out a childish voice from the audience.

Uproar.

Complete and utter uproar.

Laughter drowns out any attempt from the cast to continue.

I spend the rest of the show giggling, and when Cinderella's wedding dress comes loose during the final number, and Buttons and the evil step-mother both grab on to her bodice to keep it closed, I realise I've actually rather enjoyed myself tonight.

Dear gawd.

What has become of me?

Priscilla, Queen of the Marsh

After two bus journeys, and a dash across a busy road, I am in Edmonton. And I appear to be heading in the right direction because the AA sign is pointing the way to the Millfield Theatre Panto.

I had no idea this was such a landmark on the cultural landscape.

But here I am, ready to enjoy it.

Or at least, attend it. You know I'm not a bag fan of panto. Or even a little fan. Or any kind of fan.

I really don't like panto

But liking a show is not a prerequisite of seeing one on this here marathon, so I grit my teeth and follow the direction of the sign.

Huge iron gates lead off the main road. A sign on the long brick wall indicates that the Millfield Theatre lurks beyond.

I find myself in a car park, wandering down a road with no pavement.

A car comes, and I am forced to choose between standing in a puddle, or getting run over.

I choose the puddle.

I hope I don't come to regret that.

Round the corner, the car park widens out.

It's full.

Grown-up sons help their elderly relatives limp across towards the main building. I duck between the cars and make my own way over, looping around the front to where I find the low green doors of the entrance.

Inside, Christmas has officially landed.

The large island in the middle of the foyer that serves as the box office has been decked out in far more tinsel than could ever be reasonable. A small Christmas tree made of what looks like tennis balls is sat on the counter, and another, larger one has been upturned and stuck up above the box office's roof.

It's a startling image.

I wonder vaguely if it's a reference to the crucifixion of Judas Iscariot, but I decide, on balance, that they probably just liked the upside-down look.

I go over and join the queue.

The man in front of me reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "Sorry," he says, abandoning his place to take a call.

"Hi!" I say, bouncing over to the counter. "The surname's Smiles?"

"Have you got the card you paid with?" asks the box office.

"Oh... yes. Probably," I say, rather taken aback. This is some high-level fraud prevention going on in Edmonton here. Clearly the Millfield Panto is more of a thing than I anticipated.

"It's your Visa, please," says the box officer, helpfully.

I get out my Visa and show him.

"Thank you," he says, giving my card a quick glance before handing over my ticket. "You'll need to go upstairs for that seat."

On the counter there's a pile of cast sheets, and I grab one before heading to the staircase that loops its way around the back of the foyer, taking me right up close to the upturned Christmas tree.

I pause on the top step to take a photo.

When I look up, I spot the ticket checker on the door watching me curiously.

"I'm just enjoying the upside-down Christmas Tree," I explain to her.

She looks back at me, unimpressed, and holds out her hand for my ticket.

"Thank you," she says, handing it back without a smile.

Okay then.

I head inside and find myself in an aisle, splitting the seating area in two.

I'm in the back half, of course.

Not that it was cheaper. All seats were the same price. I was just busy procrastinating on buying my ticket. I only committed to coming here last night.

For some reason, I had managed to convince myself that I might be able to get away with not going. But that was never going to happen. Because the only marathon-qualifying event the Millfield does, is the panto. The rest of the year is stuffed full of those strange musical tribute acts that tour around small regional theatres, with the odd kid's production of Shakespeare on a weekday morning. But other than that, it's solid The Eagles and Motown and Led Zeplin.

And panto.

Thank the theatre gods for panto, eh?

For all the AA yellow signage outside, the Millfield Theatre is actually pretty small. Not quite a studio, but still on the diddy side of things.

I find my seat.

Second row from the back and right in the middle.

I'm the only one sitting in my row. 

I picked this row especially because there was only one seat left for sale in it.

And now the fuckers haven't turned up.

I look around.

Grown-ups with huge gaggles of children around them look at me curiously. The weirdo woman by herself at a production of Mother Goose. I can't blame them.

I try and distract myself with the free cast sheet. I do appreciate a free cast sheet.

Especially one that informs me that Priscilla the Goose will be appearing as herself.

I'm not quite sure what to make of that, but I like it.

Now that I'm on my fourth panto of the year, I can start to make compassions. It looks like it's a lot more casual here in Edmonton than it is in Notting Hill. Clothing choices lean more towards the comfy Christmas jumper, with a sensible waterproof over the top. There's not a metallic jacket or drop-waisted smock dress to be seen. I'm very glad I'm in my oversized-sweatshirt Sunday special.

Not that this lot aren't here to party. I spot the ticket checker down in the stalls flick out a ream of tickets so long it pools on the floor at her feet. There must be four generations in that group, cousins included.

At three on the dot, the rest of the audience arrives.

One family takes up the rest of the row on one side of me, another family on the other side.

I'm safe.

"How many times have you been to this theatre?" asks a woman, looking around at her surroundings.

"Twice," comes the immediate reply. "Once for Romeo and Juliet and then for... ummm, oh. I don't remember the name."

Romeo and Juliet? Fucking hell. If I knew there was a Romeo and Juliet on offer, I would never have booked for Mother Goose. Romeo and Juliet isn't my favourite Shakespeare, which is saying something considering I don't even like Shakespeare, but even ridiculous teen tragedy is better than panto.

As the lights dim, I steel myself for the worst.

We're in Puddle Upon the Marsh. Mother Goose can't pay her rent, and Billy Goose is in love with the landlord's daughter. There's also a villain. Not quite sure what her role is, but she's got a slinky blank dress on and I appreciate that. And then there's the faerie. Reasons for her presence also unknown. 

Well, I do know the reason. It's panto. But narratively speaking, I don't think either of them need to be here.

Billy teaches the traditional call and response.

"Hiya folks!"

"Hiya Billy."

Obviously, we have to repeat this, because panto characters are all hard of hearing..

I do my best though.

Which is more than can be said for the teenage boy sitting in front of me. He got his phone out the moment the lights went down and has been scrolling through Snapchat ever since. He hasn't once looked up at the stage. Only putting down his phone long enough to pull his tiny brother up onto his lap when the little boy decided to go for a wander. 

The little brother isn't the only one on the move.

As I ponder how hard it is to shout a name like "Priscilla" in time with three hundred other people, I jump as a childish hand presses into my back.

I turn around and see a tiny face looming over my shoulder.

"Come back," calls the child's mother, tugging on the toddler's sleeve.

"No!" snaps the child.

"Come back! You're annoying the people!"

"Nooooo," roars the child, going into full dinosaur mode.

I stifle a giggle, trying hard to pretend not to notice as the hand returns to my back.

Her mum shouldn't worry. No one under the age of ten has any intention of staying in their seat for the show.

The aisle is a constant thoroughfare of parents and offspring going back and forth to the loos.

When the younger members of the cast appear in order to get us all clapping in time with a song, there's almost a pile up as the two factions clash near the doorway.

Dad's drag their little ones away, and there's a moment I worry they might be leading the wrong ones off. But after a small scuffle, they manage to get it sorted and the costumed ones are left to jump around and grin at an audience that is really not playing along.

I sink down in my seat and let it wash over me. I can't claim to be a great expert on panto, but I've seen a fair few of this year's offerings and this has to be the most curiously basic one yet. Apart from some fence-sitting references to Brexit, and a nod to Katie Price's bankruptcy, cultural references are thin on the ground.

As the interval hits I get out my phone to check who the local MP is.

Kate Osamor.

Labour.

And yet not a single jab at Boris.

My first panto of the year that hasn't even mentioned him.

Odd.

I wonder what pantos are like in Tory strongholds. There's one at the artsdepot. My local theatre in Finchley. For a brief moment, I'm tempted to add an extra theatre trip before January. But I quickly manage to quell the urge. Life is hard enough without adding the sight of Corbyn-the-panto-villain-cockroach to this hellfire of a year.

The ushers close the doors to the auditorium.

I look around.

One of my families hasn't returned.

I'm exposed on my right flank.

Bastards.

But I take it bravely, and we move on.

Back into the village which 2019 forgot, as a reference to Susan Boyle utterly fails to land. I'm not quite sure who that joke was for. Not dirty or political enough for the grown-ups, and far too stale for the children. Even the Snapchatting teenager is too young to remember who she is.

The children don't mind.

They're too busy racing through the aisle, their arms stretched out behind them like wings, ducking under the spotlights.

But the games come to an end as the house lights rise for birthday greetings.

And a few kids make it on stage for a singalong, courtesy of a golden ticket.

Like all children dragged up for these things, none of them want to be there.

We're ordered to our feet to help out with a round of Old Macdonald, but after the Dog goes woof here and there, we all determinedly sit down and cannot be coaxed back for the duck, cow, or goose.

And then, after an announcement that ushers are collecting for Brain Tumour Support, we are released.

I slip out as quickly as I can, racing down the stairs before the children have been wrestled back into their coats.

It's all for nothing though. There's a nine-minute wait for the bus.

"That was brilliant, wasn't it!?" exclaims a woman in a group waitibg at the bus stop with me. "Bet you're going to tell your mum! Guess what? I'm going home to be fabulous, darling!"

I wish I was going home to be fabulous, but as it happens, I've got a pile of laundry waiting for me.

Still better then panto though.

The beautiful people do Panto

I'm on my way to the Tabernacle.

It's been a long time coming. Eleven months I've been trying to find a marathon-qualifying event to book myself onto. Every few weeks I've gone on their website, only to find endless listings for Gong Baths, which I'm still not entirely convinced are a real thing. Things were looking up over the summer when some sand artist was putting on a show. But a few days after purchasing my ticket, I was sent a refund. No explanation. Just that. The refund. 

I figured they must have found me out and decided they didn't want a mediocre theatre blogger in their midst, but a couple of days after that, the Tabernacle's website was updated. The show had been cancelled.

On the plus side, they did have a load of plays programmed in.

In Russian.

I have no problems with seeing theatre in the foreign, but these ones didn't have surtitles.

And I'm already seen my fill of Russian theatre this year. Didn't even get a blog post out of it. It was a repeat visit.

I held out.

And held out.

And held out.

And eventually, the waiting paid off.

The Portobello Panto was in for Christmas. 

Now, I hadn't heard of the Portobello Panto, but after some Googling, I found out the apparently, it's quite the thing. Celebrities have been known to turn up. Sometimes even on stage. But it's not about them. It's made by the locals, for locals. And yadda yadda yadda, it's all super heartwarming.

So obviously I'm got my shoulders set, ready and waiting to cast a withering, cynical gaze over the whole enterprise.

But as I pass through the high iron gates, and find myself in a courtyard, in the shadow of a huge, red brick temple, complete with curved frontage and turrets rising up from the party-hat roof, I realise that I've actually been here before. With Allison.

It was to see a Bush theatre production. About boxing. What was it called? The Royale? Something like that.

Anyway, I'm back.

And as I step through the glass doors and into a bustling marketplace, I manage to hold back my surprise.

Yes, I remember this.

Stalls butt against the entrance as they compete for space. Beaded jewellery spreads out on tables and people hover as they take try and get their Christmas shopping done before the show.

Beyond the tables is the cafe, borded on one side by a well stocked bookcase, and on the other by a row of squashy-looking booths.

I ignore all this and head straight to the box office.

There's a bit of a queue going on. It's a sold out show this afternoon. As is the entire run. And by the looks of it, it's not just families wanting to take their little ones for a bit of festive entertainment. Oh no. This lot are young, and sporting the kind of cool haircuts and interesting earrings that are usually found in the wilds of Dalston.

Each of them Ooos and Ahhs over the programmes, and almost all of them dive into their wallets to hand over the two quid and walk away with one of the handsomely illustrated booklets.

Eventually, it's my turn.

"Yes?" asks the box officer who is clearly having a bit of a day.

"Hi. The surname's Smiles?"

"Smiles?"

"Yeah." I spell it out for him. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

He looks down at his list. Turns it over. Looks again. Then moves over to the second bit of paper.

I'm not there.

"You bought online?" he asks.

"Yes."

"And it's spelt…?"

"Exactly as you'd think it's spelt. I have the confirmation email if that helps?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Just to see how the name's written. Then I can see it."

I bring up the e-ticket, zoom in on my name, and show him.

"How many was it?" he asks.

"One."

He grabs a wristband from the pile and hands it to me.

"Yes?" he says to the next person in line.

"Umm," I say, interrupting. "Can I get a programme?"

He glances over. "Yeah, one pound or two. Whatever you want..."

I take two pound coins out of my purse and lay them down on the counter before taking one of the programmes from the display.

The box officer is already handing out more wristbands.

I find an empty corner where I can put on the wristband. It's orange. With TABERNACLE printed along it in blocky capitals. These things are tricky, but I just about manage it, and flash it to the staff on the door before heading up the stairs towards the theatre.

I have to step back as young families scuttle out of the theatre entrance for one more trip to the loos before things get started, but after a few aborted starts, I get myself in. The stage has been set up at one end, with the rest of the pit filled with a seating bank. Around the edge is an ornate slim balcony of slip seats.

I climb my way towards the back. I have no idea what to expect from a Notting Hill take on pantomime, but I am pretty sure that I don't want to be near the front.

I slip into the third row from the back.

A very well-dressed family is taking up the middle seats.

"Sorry, is there anyone here?" I ask one of the grown ups who has clearly spent a good deal at the hairdressers to get the shiny blow-out she is sporting.

She doesn't even look around.

"Sorry," I say, trying again. "Is there anyone here?"

This time she glances in my direction. "Noooo," she says in the primest West London accent I have ever heard in my life.

So I take the seat next to her.

Usually I'd leave a buffer, but as we know, this place is sold out, and I doubt there will be any other people here on their lonesome. So Ms Blowout is going to have to content herself with having to sit next to a North London scruff for the next few hours.

The band is already playing from their corner next to the stage and the air is filled with chatter as people lean over the rows to say hello to each other.

A family with young children comes in to take the seats on the other side of me.

A small boy holds down the flip seat for his mother.

Her hands full of coats and bags she makes to sit down.

The boy let goes.

The mum falls heavily to the ground.

All around hands grasp out to help her get back to her feet.

She's okay.

That excitement over, I inspect the set.

A sign marks out the presence of a Polling Station.

Something tells me this panto is going to get political.

A boy runs over to his seat. He's wearing a EU-themed Christmas jumper.

A tech person appears on stage, drink still in hand as he fiddles around with the street lamp.

"Remember to put your phones on silent," whispers a woman sitting behind me.

"It's a panto," comes the laughing reply. "No one will care."

The band finish their jam and the audience claps and whistles in appreciation.

The lights dim.

A man in a waistcoat comes out to introduce the show. A Christmas Carol. Not prime fodder for a panto, I would have thought, but here we are. He gives us a few instructions. Remember to boo the baddies and all that panto-stuff. The children give a quick demonstration of their booing skills, and we're off.

Into the world of fast fashion, where Ms Scrooge, in a floor length taffeta skirt and oversized glasses, presides over a clothing brand which relies on quick turnaround and unpaid labour.

Blowout-lady wriggles out of her coat, giving me a good bash with her elbow as she does so.

We journey to the Cratchett's home, where Tiny Tim sings us out with the plaintive 'Don't look back in hunger' after this family have insisted that 'Scroogey can wait.'

As the interval starts, my chair wobbles. Someone is climbing into my row. I stand up to let them pass.

The chair wobbles again. Someone else is clambering over. I stand to let them pass too.

Of all the things I've been getting annoyed by on this marathon, people insisting on having strangers stand up so that their friends don't have to move is the one that makes my blood boil the most.

I turn around, ready to glare at these lazy layabouts, and find myself staring at a row of tiny babies, resting peacefully in their parents’ arms.

There are three of them. All tiny.

"How old is she?" asks someone stopping next to the row of sleeping tots to admire the preciousness.

"Four months, but she was two months premature."

"So tiny!"

She is tiny. The tiniest baby I have ever seen in a theatre.

One of the mums returns, slipping into my row and leaning over to check on her child.

"Is she wet?" she asks.

"She just made," replies the dad.

I lean away, suddenly considerably less enamoured with these miniature humans.

"Are you okay?" asks the dad bending over the bundle. "Oh dear. A bit of vom."

I scoot forward in my seat. I definitely do not want to be close to that.

I get out the programme and have a look. The cast list is massive. And right at the end, there is the promise of a special guest playing the role of the fashion buyer. That's exciting.

People are starting to come back in. Every time I stand up to let people past the row of chairs leans back alarmingly as the unsecured feet rise up from the floor.

One of the blokes sitting behind puts out his arm to stop it encroaching on the babies.

“Is that mum's jacket?" asks a teenage girl, pointing down at my coat.

"No, that's mine," I tell her.

"Oh. Right," she says, but she keeps an eye on it all the same, until her sister recovers her mother's actual coat from under the seats and pulls it to safety.

"They must be mortified round here," says a woman as she takes her seat near me. "Because the Conservatives got in."

"There was a swing to Tory," agrees her friend.

"They showed a map of London and it was all red except this area."

And Finchley. Don't forget Finchley.

I would rather forget Finchley.

"They hated Corbyn though."

"To think this area is the area of Grenfell. It's just tragic."

It is. I saw Grenfell on my way here. Still there. Still looming. Still devastating.

One if the teenage girls starts inching her way down our row. I stand to let her past but she waves me back into my seat. "It's fine, I'm not going...," she says before plonking herself down in her mother's lap and winding her arms around her neck, messing up that salon-coiffure.

Her mother doesn't seem to mind.

The second act starts.

Things are really getting bad. Cratchett has lost his job. A sweatshop is being built right in Ladbroke Grove. And poor Scroogey is getting all these scary apparitions creeping into her bedroom.

And the special guest turns out to be a young man in a highlight pink suit.

The two men sitting in front of me turn to each other with a look of confusion.

"I think..." starts one...

But the special guest has already read his lines off the back of his folding fan, and has disappeared back off stage.

Soon enough, we are all clapping along to some Christmas song.

The cast are all introduced and each in turn steps forward to get their applause. Everyone has given their time for free and the ticket sales all go to charity.

Our special guest turns out to be called Tom Pomfrey (or possibly Pomfret?) which doesn't help me at all. I suspect I'm not cool enough to know who he is.

"A big cheer for this amazing little thing!" says one of the cast members, pointing down to a tiny toddler who is bouncing around in the front row, having the best time of his life.

The cast member leans down to pick the tiny toddler up, but finding himself on stage, the tiny toddler promptly bursts into tears.

But they don't last for long, and soon half the under-fives in the audience have found their way onto the stage to dance along with the cast.

And we are sent out into the real world with Scrooge's final message: "The real meaning of Christmas... is to change the awful people."

And on that note, I'm off to have dinner with my family.

I am the reverse marathoner

"Are you trying to get to the theatre?" asks a young woman squeezing her way between bags of rubbish on one side, and a family on the other, in a very dark alleyway.

Honestly, I know I've told you before about my fringe theatre theory. The one where, if you're ever lost, you should just head for the scariest, narrowest, alleyway, and pray you don't get murdered. But seriously, this is just too on the nose.

We're behind a shopping centre.

In Hounslow.

I don't know what the crime rate is in Hounslow, but I am definitely about to become a statistic.

"Yup we..." says the family's mum.

"You know how to get there?"

The mum nods. They know how to get there.

So do I. Because the Arts Centre Hounslow has a very fulsome set of instructions on their website. They have to. It's not exactly simple. You know when the first thing they do is send you to another website to check the opening hours of a shopping centre to see what directions to give you, things are about to get complicated.

Tonight, the Treaty Shopping Centre closed at 6pm. The show starts at 7pm.

Which means I'm sneaking through a set of iron gates and making my way down a very dark alleyway, complete with the aforementioned rubbish.

There's a sign pointing the way to the entrance.

At least, I think that's what it is.

To be honest, I can't read it.

When I said it was dark down here, I really wasn't kidding.

Well, whatever it says, there's a door here, with a brightly lit stairwell on the other side, which looks promising enough. The family disappears inside and I get out my phone to take a picture.

But someone else has appeared. A man. He stops right in front of the door.

I hang back, waiting for him to move, but he's on the phone. Giving someone directions. Very loudly. He sounds like air traffic control, if planes were being landed by a man standing in the middle of a busy airfield while screaming into a megaphone.

I wait.

"Where are you?" shouts the man. A small pause as the person on the other end gives their answer. "No! That's no right."

He gives the instructions again, even louder this time, but the person on the other end isn't getting it.

Even worse, he's still standing in front of the door, right in the way of my shot.

I start editing a blog post.

A whole 1,000 words proofed later, the man on the phone sighs. "Look, I'm not there. That's the point, isn't it?" and he says goodbye.

Thank fucking gawd for that.

I bring up the camera app, take my photo, and go in.

Then I start climbing up the stairs. They don't look particularly theatre-y, but Nirvana is pumping out from somewhere, and signs for Jack and the Beanstalk have been posted on every level.

At the top, the pistachio walls have been brushed with white paint, and someone has painted "Arts Centre" with an arrow on top.

Found it.

I follow the arrow.

On one side there's an open door. Inside I spy rows and rows of chairs. That must be the theatre.

It's empty.

I turn the other way.

More white paint with more arrows.

I find the one for the box office and follow it.

"I'm so lost and confused!" wails a small boy as he walks past me.

You and me both, kid.

By the looks of it, I appear to have landed in Wonderland.

The walls are covered in painted clapperboard. As it, painted to look like clapperboard. By a cartoonist.

I find the bar. There's a haind painted sign advertising a writing station for letters to the North Pole. I’ll give Hounslow this, they're keeping their artists busy. There's even one on the other side advertising "Twanky & Sons," which I can only presume is leftover from last years' panto.

What it doesn't have however, is a box office.

I turn around and keep on going. 

There's a little room here. Painted trees and painted bricks and painted roof tiles make me feel like I've stepped into a book of faerie tales.

The kids think so too, and they are dashing about pretending to be knights and princesses and whatever else they can conjure up in their cute little heads.

Over the other side, is another door. And passing through the door, is a queue.

I join the end of it, figuring there is probably a box office at the other side.

This queue isn't moving very fast.

In fact, I would go so far as to say, it isn't moving at all.

I look around, trying to work out what the hold up is, and spot a man draped in an official-looking gold chain.

Oh. A Mayor.

I've spotted quite a few of them on my travels. Mayors love amdram. And panto, it seems.

He's chatting up the people in the queue, and they are loving it.

I go back to editing my blog post.

We shuffle forward. Painfully slow.

"I am the reverse Mayor!" the Mayor declares as a small child asks what would happen if he didn't wear his chain.

He's sure making this queue go in reverse.

Many, long, minutes later I make it to the front.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?"

"Hi!" says the box officer as she sorts through a pile of papers on her counter. I look down. Every single one is a print out of an eventbrite e-ticket. "Do you have an email?" she asks.

"Probably..." I say. I don't know. I get a lot of theatre emails. I stopped reading them months ago. "Is that all I need?"

"Yup," she says. "That's your ticket."

I look pointedly at all the print outs and then leave. I could print my own if I wanted one of those.

You got to admit though, that's one strange mix of being paperless and having a fuck-tonne of paper floating around.

I find myself standing near the large windows overlooking the closed shopping centre before.

The space is filled with sofas and armchairs, placed to enjoy the view.

There are sunflowers in the window and a huge tree made of branches built overhead.

The Mayor makes his way over. The people on the sofas rotate towards him, just like those sunflowers would at dawn if they weren't fake. And looking out over a shopping centre.

A woman starts telling him about how she never talked as a child.

Another asks for a photo.

I think that's my cue to leave.

I go back to the bar.

It's busier now. The two barmen are rushing about serving people. One of them is wearing a slinky Santa hat. I mean thatit's a spring, bouncing around on top of his head. Not that it's all satin and lace and leaving nothing to the imagination. The other barman is very much not wearing a Santa hat. Something for everyone here.

As more people crowd in, I'm pushed further and further into the corner.

"When we go in, you're going to need to sit down in a chair," a mother warns her energetic son.

And then the Mayor arrives.

"You lot going to the panto?" he asks a group of children. "Obviously!" He moves over to another group. "Enjoy the show!"

You know, I'm beginning to think he's following me.

Well, I'm over it. I'm going in.

I slip out of the bar, back down the corridor, and into the theatre.

A slim stage is lined either side with rows of chairs. I'll admit, I don't know much about panto, but I had no idea you could do it in traverse. Hounslow is really pushing the form out here.

I find my seat. Second row from the back. As far away from the action as I could get.

The chairs around me begin to fill up.

There isn't much room between the rows, necessitating plenty of knee-swivelling.

The Mayor comes in. He takes his seat on the opposite side of the stage. Front row centre.

"There's the Mayor," says a lady sitting behind me. "It must be good if the Mayor's here."

"Yeah, I thought that," says her companion.

"He very friendly!"

A very tall man with massive hair comes in.

"Hello! Hello!" waves a group a few rows ahead of me.

"Do you know him?" asks the Mayor-lover. "He's very friendly."

He sure looks it.

A kid wearing hi-vis ear protectors runs in and jumps onto the stage.

The other children are outraged. "Off! Off! Off!" they shout at him.

The kid with the ear protectors doesn't hear them. Can't hear them. 

Obviously. Because of the ear protectors. He takes a circuit of the stage, and then runs off again.

The big man with the bigger hair is trying to get in my row. "Sorry," he booms.

"Sorry," I say, doing the knee-swivel. "Am I in the way?"

"No! I'm in the way."

It's true. He is in the way.

"I thought he was in the show," says the Mayor-lover.

An usher comes over. "Is that your pushchair?" he asks the women sitting in front. He points to a pushchair that has been left in front of the set. "Do you mind if I just pop it behind the curtain?"

"I can't seeee!" whines a small child. The mum goes to talk to the usher, and a seat in the front row is found for them.

"So sorry about this everyone," trills a man as he clambers into my row. "I've got a giant bag."

A family arrive. The daughter is in a wheelchair. The usher rushes over. "Can we move this?" he asks gently. "The barn is going to open you see? If she can just go behind the black line..."

The girl and her wheelchair is duly moved.

By the door, I can see the box officer. Her hands are filled with eventbrite print outs. The usher runs over to give her the thumbs up.

I think we might be ready to start.

At last. I'm exhausted.

I check the time. Ten past seven.

It's going to be a long night.

As the lights dim, I realise that not a single person has checked or even asked to see my ticket this evening.

They're trustworthy here in Hounslow.

"Can you see?" a mother asks her little one.

"I can't seeeeee."

Another mother leans over. "At the back you can kneel upwards." This interjection doesn't seem to help. "My daughter is going on kneel upwards. On the chair. So she can see." She demonstrates this upward kneeling with a meercat motion of her hands.

"Oh, I see. Thank you!"

The cast come out, all bright and shiny with massive grins. It must be the beginning of the run. They won't be looking so chiper at the end of the month.

The Mayor gets out his phone and starts filming.

On stage, the cast gets on with the business of panto. The cow moos and bats her truly astonishing false lashes. The faerie throws around handfuls of glitter. The Dame lobs sweets.

Two crash down by my feet.

I lean forward and grab one, offering it to the girl sitting nearest me. She shakes her head, so I put it on our buffer seat.

"Oh look," says the Mayor-lover, her hand sneaking forward to whip the sweet off the chair. "This landed on the chair."

The Dame looks out into the audience. "Tony!" she says, spotting she Mayor. "Tony the Tiger! Our lovely Mayor, Tony."

A pretty baby sitting in front of me begins to scream. Her mother bounces her around but it's no good. They go outside.

The screaming continues. Pouring into the room. The audience begins to look around. It sounds like the baby is dying. Or, possibly, teething.

Jack's brother Billy tries to teach us a call and response.

"You sound like you've spent a bit too much time at the bar," he groans as we fail to keep our end in time with one another. "Almost as if the show went up late."

After a small joke about Boris being a growling monster, the humour stay local. Richmond is too posh. The highstreet has two Greggs on it. And some other stuff I don't understand but I presume is hilarious if you live around here.

And then the beanstalk grows.

"Can I borrow the coat on the back of your chair?" Jack asks someone in the front row. "I'll give it back!"

After trying, and failing, to cover up the massive stalk with the small pink coat, he does indeed hand it back.

"See you on the other side!" calls Jack as he climbs. "Of the interval, I mean!"

"And now a twenty-minute interval," booms a voice over the sound system. "Go to the toilet and make sure you go to the bar and buy lots of lovely booze."

Thank gawd. I'm not sure I could have taken much more of that.

I lean down the move my coat out of the way and find that other sweet. I slip it into my bag before the Mayor-lover can get her hands on it.

When I look up, the Mayor is on his way over.

He's come to talk to the family of the girl in the wheelchair.

"Where are you from?" he asks them. 

"Hounslow."

They're local-credentials established, he asks how they got in, if there's a lift, and what education options there are.

I keep my head down. After all the Richmond jokes, I'd hate to think what they have to say about Finchley.

The air fills with smoke as haze is pumped in, and the Mayor makes his retreat.

The cast is back. Still bouncing with energy, and if anything, even shinier then they were in the first act. I hope they had a quick glug of something from the bar too.

They power on.

Footsteps boom and the children all look around, expecting to see a giant.

There is no giant.

They flop back down in their chairs.

More booming.

And a massive giant appears.

Fuck! That's good.

Terrifying.

He's not happy. He's hungry. So hungry he's been forced to eat Richmond. Too crunchy by half with all those diamonds.

Our villain, Fleshcreep, sinister in his top hat and tails (he must be from Richmond) offers him Daisy the cow. We all boo. Much to his annoyance. 

A very small toddler climbs up on stage, and his brother is dispatched to fetch him back.

The boy in the ear protectors isn't letting toddlers have all the fun.

He makes a break for it, leaping up on stage.

Fleshcreep guides him back off with a small sneer.

As the plot reaches its crescendo, so does the band, and the cast launch into their version of Bohemian Rhapsody, with Daisy tackling the Scaramouches with a chorus of moos.

Battle won, giant defeated, and Fleshcreep broken, I think we are at the end. 

But there is one more thing.

The sing along.

"I wrote it ten minutes ago," says Billy, as a huge board is brought out with the words to The Proclaimers' hit.

As one, we declare our intention to walk 500 miles, and then 500 more.

Billy isn't impressed.

"Are there four children who can help me?" he asks.

Hands dart up and Billy hauls their owners onto the stage.

Four children.

Then five.

Then six.

"But no more. Once we had seventeen!"

But they keep on coming.

Billy turns anguished eyes onto the audience. "May I remind parents that the car park charges," he says.

He gets a microphone and starts asking who he has with him. "And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

"I don't know and I don't care," is the reply from a sassy ten year old girl.

Billy goes on, finding a Spiderman wannabe, a future nurse, scientist, and doctor.

Gosh. Perhaps all those funding cuts for the arts are paying off. The kids of Houselow are STEM-crazy.

More children start creeping their way onstage.

Billy orders them to line up, and marching in time, they walk those 500 miles together.

And then... they're going to do one more song. "You didn't think it was going to last so long," says Billy laughing hollowy. "Well... neither did we!

"I'll be back for the finale that should have happened ten minutes ago!"

We have to promise something first though. There are going to be buckets on our way out. And we need to drop whatever change we have into them, so that the Arts Centre can continue to make shows... just... like... this.

And so they sing. One more song. Pulling the Mayor up on stage with them to boogie on down.

A few kids join them.

I, on the other hand, am getting myself out of here.

I don't think I've ever felt so overwhelmed by a performance, and I need some fresh air and the quietness of a dark alley right now.

I bypass the buckets.

The usher is opening the doors.

He leans forward, struggling with the second one. I push it open for him, and hold it until he's got in.

In the stairwell, an arrow points to the car park. Up.

There's no sign to say where down leads.

A family goes up.

I go up too.

And find myself in the car park.

I wander around not sure how to get off this shopping centre roof.

There's the exit for cars. A sign instructs they should drive dead show.

I should probably go back in.

I look around.

There are no cars.

Fuck it.

I head for the ramp, my feet quickening as I decend. One level, then two. I'm running now. I can hear a car somewhere behind me.

Three levels.

I turn another corner.

The ramp is merging into a road. I leap off, across a barrier, and onto the pavement just as a car appears. Thank the theatre gawds it was driving dead slow, or I would have been as dead as a Richmond resident.

Breathing heavily, I push the button for the green man and reach into my bag to find my scarf.

My fingers land on something small. A Maom.

At least panto has some tangible rewards.

The Death of Fred

"You're wearing a fun coat!" says Martha as we hug hello in the middle of KFC. 

She's just got off a delayed train from Birmingham and has rushed all the way from Euston to join me at the Hackney Empire for a touch of panto. Yes, I am quite aware I do not deserve her as a friend. It's okay. I know.

Hopefully I'm making up for it somewhat by feeding her before we go in.

Plus, of course, I am wearing a fun coat.

"I'm very cuddly," I say. That's one of the benefits of wearing a massive fur coat. It's like hugging a teddy bear.

The KFCer drops our food on the counter.

It's been one hell of a journey to get it. Three times in a single transaction she's managed to get distracted and wander off to do something else. Ending with her blinking at me.

"Yes?" she said, sounding more than a bit pissed off to see me still standing in front of her till.

"Err, can I pay?" I asked.

Turns out I could.

Honestly, Martha may have had to contend with delayed trains from Birmingham, but I had my own problems. The Piccadilly line was so damn busy tonight we almost needed those proffesional train pushers from Tokyo to get us all to fit in.

"No eye contact!" ordered the TFLer at Oxford Circus. "No smiling! Come on guys, you know the score. You will be judged!"

But at least we're both here. And have Fillet burgers to make everything just that tiniest touch better.

Plus, I already have the tickets, so all we have to do is finish our dinners and stroll in.

Oh yeah, that's another thing. The Hackney Empire might have those cute little box office windows I love so much, but they're no good if the microphone isn't working.

The box officer had to lean right in to hear me and I still had to repeat myself three times.

As for when she talked, yeah, couldn't hear I damn thing. I was working on guess work. Guesses borne of 284 theatre trips.

"Maxine?" I hazarded as she plucked out a ticket.

Oh well. It did the trick and I now have them, sitting in my pocket. Two tickets. For the stalls. Because I know how to treat a girl.

Burgers polished off, we make the short walk over to the theatre.

There are homeless people everywhere. Commuters peel off to one side in order to move around the man sitting on the pavement, begging for help. A woman is walking up and down, asking for people to buy her a cup of tea.

"The entrance is closed?" says Martha, stopping outside the theatre.

I look over. The steps leading up to the doors are now empty. Even the ticket checker seems to have moved on.

"Where's the entrance to the stalls?" I ask. I vaguely remembered the ticket checker pointing out the way to someone.

"It's there," says Martha. She knows this theatre well. She worked here back in the day. "But the door is closed."

A dreadful thought occurs to me. 

"Did I get the start time wrong?" I ask, pulling the tickets from my pocket. "Oh shit. It's 7pm. I did," I say, bursting into laughter. We're ten minutes late. Almost the exact amount of time we just spent stuffing fried chicken into our faces.

Martha doubles back and heads for the main doors, me following on meekly behind. She takes the tickets and shows them to a front of houser. I stop, presuming that she'll hold us back until some latecomers point, but she just points us towards a side door.

"Sorry," comes a voice from behind us. "Can we search your bags please?"

We stop in our tracks. I don't know about Martha, but having a bag checker order me to stop has me feeling all guilty. I know full well I don't have any contraband in my bag. But suddenly I'm panicking that there might be a rogue protein bar in there.

The bag checker peers in. I spot my newly purchased water bottle lurking in the bottom and I try to remember whether the pre-show email from the theatre said that drinks were banned as well as food.

He lets it pass.

We go through the door, down the corridor, and without a single person stopping us, go through the doors to the theatre.

I let Martha lead the way, down the side aisle and towards the front. Up on stage two glittered-up characters are having a slanging match. I hope they don't spot us.

We make it to our seats, right on the aisle, thank the theatre gods, and we stuff ourselves in, cramming our coats under our chairs and listening to the roar of laughter around us to some off-colour joke.

As we settle down, I suppose I should admit that I'm not a fan of panto.

No. Wait. 

That's not right. Not a fan suggests a passive disinterest with the genre. No. I very actively dislike panto.

I've managed to avoid going to one for a very long time.

I used to cry and beg as a child not to have to go to the panto, which as much passion and snot as I used to get out of piano lessons.

Yeah. A child begging not to have to go to see a show.

That's what we're talking here.

You've known me long enough by this point that you can probably guess the reasons: audience interaction, nonsense storylines, and shouting. So much shouting. I really hate shouting.

But I think I might be okay tonight. The Hackney panto is the granddaddy of them all. I mean, even I know that it's pretty much the gold standard. And besides, I've got Martha here to protect me.

She did manage to put herself in first so that I'm on the aisle though... Hmm...

But for now, I'm safe in this warm fug of laughter.

The crowd roars as the panto dame is rolled out on a trolley.

Martha leans over to me in confusion. "I thought Clive Rowe wasn't doing it this year?" 

I had absolutely no intel on the matter so I just shrug and shake my head.

"Put the lights up!" orders Rowe. "I'm going down."

Oh dear.

As the house lights go up, I slink down in my seat.

Rowe is padding down the steps into the stalls. And he has someone in his sights. Someone very special.

"Come on, come on," he orders, pulling said someone out of their seat.

"Who is it?" whispers Martha.

I shake my head, I don't know.

Turns out, neither does Rowe.

"What's your name then?"

The man mumbles something back.

"What's that?"

The man leans in and mumbles again.

"Bernard?" says Rowe. "Berrrrnarrrdddd."

Bernard nods.

"I thought it was a celebrity!" says Martha.

Me too.

"Who are you here with, Berrnarrrrdddddd?" asks Rowe.

Bernard is here with his family. He points them out and they wave back grinning. They are loving this.

They love it even more with Rowe starts tugging at his zip. Rowe was that jacket off to see what Bernard is offering.

Bernard willingly relinquishes his jacket. He less willingly strikes a strong-man pose. But when Rowe goes for the second layer of clothing, Bernard twists away. That's a bit much.

"That was cruel," I say to Martha as Bernard is allowed back to his seat.

She nods vigorously.

Probably because we are both now in fear of being dragged out of our seats. A fear not allayed even when Rowe starts chucking sweets about.

But both Martha and I make it to the interval still in our seats.

"I need to get a programme," I say, leaping up as soon as the house lights release me.

I look around, and spot something strange at the back of the auditorium.

"I didn't know the bar was in the theatre," I say.

"Oh, yeah," says Martha. "It's cool, right? I really love this theatre."

"It is beautiful."

I squeeze my way through the crowds to the back of the stalls. There's a merch desk back here too, and I can already see the spread of shiny programmes fanned out on the counter.

"Sorry," says a woman, stopping me. "Is it over, or are they on a break?"

It takes me a moment to figure out that we are not having a conversation about the Ross and Rachel saga.

"It's the interval," I tell her. "Don't worry, they'll be back."

She nods. Suspicions confirmed.

Leaving the group to return to their seats, I make it over to the merch desk.

"Can I get a programme please?" I ask, doing my best to ignore all the flashy lights and other items that want me to buy them.

I can, for the very reasonable price of three pounds.

I grab my purse to get the money out. Or try and get the money out, anyway. I can't. The zip running down the back of my elephant shaped purse is broken.

"Sorry," I tell the programme seller, as I jab my finger in the tiny gap and try to wrench the thing open, silently apologising to my poor Fred the elephant as I yank at him. After a long struggle, the zip pulls away, just enough for me to get a couple of fingers in. I feel around, and pull out three pounds coins from amongst the other, inferior, coinage. You see. This is why I like pound coins. They are chunky. Or thicc, as the kids might say. That's what makes them so pleasingly reliable, even when your zip is broken.

Still, my poor Fred.

I place him back in my bag, with the care of a nurse lifting a hospital blanket over a recently deceased patient.

Transaction complete, I turn around to find Martha.

"I can't find the ice cream!" she wails.

"Are they not selling it at the bar?"

"No!"

I look around, spotting a huge mass of people over in the corner, down near the front of the stage. "What about there?"

Martha goes off to investigate, returning a moment later with the news that yes, that's where the ice cream seller is hiding.

"I'm getting a Double Chocolate," she says. "What do you want?"

Well, gosh... Can't turn down a free ice cream now, can I?

I go for a Strawberry, because yes, I am that basic.

We go back to our seats, chatting about the production.

"I loved that ship," I saw, taking about the massive ship that had taken up the entire stage, and split open to show the interior. As sets go, that ranks right up there with the stage rotating upside down in Wild at the Hampstead. Or the white walls turning into Mao-posters when they were washed in Wild Swans at the Young Vic. Something about the word 'wild' brings out the best in set designers. The Hackney panto is certainly a wild ride. Dick Whittington has managed to step off the Windrush without knowing his namesake and immediately accepts his destiny to become mayor of London by leaving the city.

I am enjoying the whole-hearted anti-Brexitness of it all. Including the rat called Boris.

"I know I'm biased," says Martha as she digs into her Double Chocolate. "But I just love this theatre so much."

I look around. It is quite the spectacular venue. Not an inch has gone undecorated. It looks like a Victorian Christmas card. Leaning my head right back, I notice something. "The ceiling is glittery," I say.

Martha sighs. "I love this theatre so much."

"What do the fours mean?" I ask, pointing to the number 4s written over the doors on each side.

"I don't know," says Martha, sounding annoyed at her own ignorance. But she recovers quickly. "It's a Frank Matcham theatre."

But of course.

"Clive Rowe," she goes on. "You know, the mum, is the only person to win an Olivier for a panto. He doesn't do it every year, but when he does, it always sells out."

I laugh. "I love how much trivia you know."

"I ran the social media for nine months..." she says, darkly.

"He's great," I say. "I loved how even the stage hand was grinning away in the wings."

"I saw that!" says Martha, suddenly all excited.

A voice comes over the soundsystem. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the performance will begin in five minutes."

I get up to put my empty ice cream tube into one of the plastic bin bags tied to the railing running around the stalls.

And then we're launched back into the story, joining Dick and pals down under the sea.

There's a mermaid swimming across the stage.

The girls sitting behind us gasp.

A short trip via a desert island (compleate with King Kong) later, we're back in London Town. And the cat wants to teach us how to talk as cool as him.

A board with lyrics descends.

Oh dear.

A short demonstration of moves later, and we're ordered to our feet. As Kat B sings the Cool Cat Chat, we get out paws out, our claws out, shake our tails, clean our ears, and take a cat nap.

With relief I sit back down. That wasn't too bad. Not with Martha here to shake her tail beside me.

But we don't get away that easily. We were rubbish, and need to do it again.

"For fuck's sake," says Martha as she gets back to her feet. "I'm so tired!"

Paws, claws, tails, ears and naps are all shown off and we sink back down into our seats.

"I love panto!" says Martha as the cast crouch down to wave at us from beneath the descending curtain.

"I have seven more to see..." I say, the enthuasism very much lacking from my voice.

"Lucky!"

"Yeah, but would you want to see them alone?"

"Oh, yeah. Not alone! But I'll come to another one."

We start walking towards the exit.

"Well, I'm going to Hounslow tomorrow. And Catford. And, shit, where else... Oh yeah, I've got to go to Harrow!"

A woman walking in front of us turns around. "I don't have to go to Harrow!" she cries out in horror.

Martha and I share a confused glance as we push our way out into the Hackney night.