I'm at the Riverside Studios and I'm not happy about it.
Not a great start to an evening, but I have my reasons, and you get to hear all about it.
Well, some of it. Because, here's the thing: it involves something that hasn’t been announced yet. A super cool theatre thing. Which kicks off tonight.
Problem is, by the time I found out about my inclusion in this super cool thing, I'd already bought my ticket to see Persona at the newly reopened Riverside Studios.
So obviously, first thing I did was to go to the Riverside website to see what their returns policy is.
Scroll-scroll-scroll to the bottom of the page. Click on the Ticketing Policy link. And... nothing. Just a note that content will be coming soon.
Fine. Okay then.
I just needed to send a nice email to the box office and they'd sort me out. It's a new venue. They'll all be on high alert for customer service.
I found my confirmation email, and yup - there was a handy dandy link to a customer service email address. Perfect.
I sent my email, asking for an exchange.
Less than a minute later, I got a reply.
Score!
Except no. It was not a reply. It was a bounceback.
The email address did not exist.
Okay, well. Fine. No matter. Because I was pretty sure I also spotted a link to a box office email.
I clicked on that, copied and pasted the resulting email address. Dug out my request, and forwarded it to the new address.
A few seconds later, up poppped another bounceback.
Well... shit.
Trying not to panic, I went back to the Riverside's website, and clicked through to their contact us page. There were a few options, but the most relevant looked like the generic 'contact' email. So I pinged my email over to that one and held my breath.
And held.
And held.
No bounceback.
Hu-bloody-rah.
The next day, that is, this morning, I realised I hadn't had a reply. Not even an automatic one saying that my email had been received.
I double-checked my inbox just to be sure.
Nope. Nothing.
So obviously I did the sensible thing and took my pleas over to Twitter.
When the reply came, it hit straight into my DMs.
When I saw the notification pop up on my phone, I wasn't unduly surprised. I've had a fair number of theatres on this marathon sorting my problems via the old DM. Doing me favours that they wouldn't want getting about. Even an artistic director giving the go-ahead to book me in under a young person offer despite me, well, not being a young person.
But there was nothing like that waiting for me.
"Hi there," it read. "Box office hours are Monday - Friday 12:00 - 20:00."
Followed up by a phone number.
I stared at the messages, unsure what to do.
Eventually I decided to respond. "Okay, but can I contact you *not* on the phone?"
I mean, surely there must be a way? This is 2020. Just having a phone number is like... I don't know... only offering fax as a method of communication. Who even phones people anymore? I certainly don't. And not just because of my crippling social anxiety. It's just so inconvenient. I can't call people from work. What am I going to do? Sit around at my desk waiting and waiting for someone to pick up my call, and then spelling out my surname ten times to the person on the end, and then waiting and waiting for them to sort out my problem.
Excuse my language when I say: fuck that Boomer nonsense.
In all my travels, I have not come across a single theatre that can't handle this sort of thing via email. Even the smallest fringe venues manage to figure out my issues via written missive, accompanied by an instruction to sort any extra finances when I go in to pick up my tickets.
To say I'm shook is an understatement.
A few minutes later, I got my reply.
Again, I was asked to call. But, as a concession, another email address was offered.
With a groan of annoyance, I sent my fourth email to the Riverside Studios.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
By mid-afternoon I was beginning to panic.
I could not afford to not use a £12.50 ticket.
Because, no, I didn't put in a press request. I should have done. Maybe then they would have replied to my emails.
The minutes ticked on. I refreshed my emails, just in case I'd missed it.
The clock wound its way towards the time I would need to leave in order to get to my thing on time.
Nothing.
So that was it. I had to go to the Riverside Studios.
And here I bloody am.
Feeling fucking annoyed about the whole thing, if I'm perfectly honest.
And I don't want to be all "don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre," but like: don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre? I link to my damn blog from my Twitter handle.
I told them in my email I was… involved in some theatre… stuff.
I mean, there is something to be said for a venue that treats everyone the same, regardless of whether that person is going to write it up afterwards or no. But like... that only works when everyone is getting the same nice treatment. Not being ignored.
Egalitarianism sucks when everyone is in the same shitty boat.
But anyway, the studios are lined with huge glass windows. presumably looking over the river, but it's 7pm in January, so it's too dark to actually see anything.
Inside the door there's a chalkboard sign saying that dogs are welcome.
"Yeah, but bloggers aren't," I huff to myself as I take a photo.
I go in.
It's massive in here.
The space spreads out into a vast cavern of emptiness. White walls. Concrete floor. Industrial pipes running across the ceiling. Not an aesthetic I'm super into, if I'm honest. I find it hard to get into factory-chic. I spent a good chunk of my childhood in one.
Not in a bad way, you understand. I wasn't forced to sew trainers in some grim sweatshop. I just mean, my parents were very busy, you know. And most nights I was doing my homework in the office, waiting for one of them to finish up and take me home. Sometimes this involved sleeping on the sofa until the early hours of the morning. Most of the time it meant having free rein to practice my rollerblading on the fantastically flat floors after the machines were shut down for the night.
Anyway, what I'm saying is: it's a bit bleak. Even if the walls down the other end have pictures on them.
I make my way across the empty floor towards the box office, a great curving desk.
The staff are all huddled around a single computer, brows furrowed as they try to make sense of a customer's order.
"It says the ticket has been printed, but it hasn't..." one says.
Down the other end, a free box officer smiles at me and I go over to her.
"Hi, the surname's Smiles?"
Now it's the turn of this box officer's brow to furrow.
"I have the order number?" I say, turning around my phone screen to show her. I have it all prepared.
"You don't need a ticket..." says the box officer.
"Oh," I say, deflating.
More fool me. I should know better then to trust confirmation emails by now.
Double fool even, as I even read the instructions twice over to make sure I got them right. "Please print out this email and bring it with you," it said. "The QR codes below will be scanned at the venue door and you will be given access."
I'll admit, this did give me pause as the QR code is actually at the top of the email. And I also had no intention of printing it out. But thankfully, there was more: "If you are unable to print this email, please proceed to the Box Office on your arrival, give our staff member your booking reference number and your tickets will be printed for you."
Now, you know how much I love a properly printed ticket.
I'm not taking the lack of one very well.
I'm just a marathoner. Standing in front of a box office. Asking it to print a ticket for her.
"It said to come to box office?" I try, putting on my best pleading eyes.
A sweet young-faced front of houser steps forward. "No, if you have this, they'll just scan you on the door."
"Oh," I say again. "Okay. Thanks."
I have been defeated.
I take myself and my confirmation email away, crossing the great straights towards the bar. There's lots of seating down this end. Long banquettes and trendy-looking orange chairs.
I find myself an empty table and sit down.
A minute later, I'm blocked in.
A cage full of rubbish has been wheeled out and left in front of me as its carer goes off to open the door.
Twenty minutes before a show opens, with bar-service in full swing, seems like an odd time to be taking out the bins, but clearly people at the Riverside are working on a completely different plain of reality to the rest of us.
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," comes a voice over the tannoy. "Studio Three is now open for this evening's performance of Persona, if you'd like to like your seats."
I'm quite comfy where I am now that the rubbish has been removed, so I give it another five minutes.
As the empty cages are wheeled back inside I realise something. I have no idea where Studio Three is.
I look around.
No signs of any... well... signs.
There is a line of people heading towards the door next to the box office though.
I should probably join it.
I wander over and get in line. All around me people flap around handfuls of slim tickets. Real ones. From the box office. I stare at them.
How on earth did they get those?
The front of houser on the door doesn't even look at them. "As I said, it's ninety minutes," she hollers as we file past. "No reentry. And no coming out. If you need to go to the loo, go now. You won't be able to come back in. There's no reentry. Ninety minutes."
Probably now is not a good time to ask about the existence of programmes...
Her rapped-out words follow me down the corridor and through the door into the auditorium.
Inside, the sweet face of youth is checking tickets.
Without a scanner. Or programmes.
I get out my phone again.
"K4? Back row." They pause, as a thought occurs. "K4... That's on the left. Be careful with your head, some parts are lower."
With my eyes keeping a careful watch on the ceiling, I climb the stairs and head to the back of the auditorium.
It's a simple black box space. The stage a mere slither across the front.
But above our heads, wires have been cast out like fishing lines, radiating out from a heavy object in the corner.
I squint at it.
It's no good. I need to get out my glasses.
Earth Harp. That's what it says across the front.
I look between this golden trunk and the strings above our heads.
They've turned this theatre into a musical instrument. That's pretty cool.
More people come in.
Not quite enough to fill the theatre.
As the lights dim, the row in front of me is still completely empty.
Sadly this isn't enough to compensate for the terrible rake.
The cast takes their place on set. One actor lays down on a bed and immediately disappears below the horizon of heads.
Oh well.
I let my attention drift over to the earth harp.
The musician stands before it, the wires cast out either side of him, his gloved hands resting on them as he waits for his cue.
As the deep vibrating noise drawn straight from a horror film fills the auditorium, I look up and watch the wires shiver over our heads.
The sound fades and is taken over by text.
I try to concentrate on the story, but I'm having trouble keeping up.
My eye is drawn back again to the earth harp.
The words become nothing more than a gentle background hum. Like a radio left playing in the next room.
I'm mesmerised.
Is it ninety minutes yet? We must be near the end. Surely.
Someone sitting near the front gets up. I stare at him. There's no way out. The door is on the side of the stage. We're all trapped in here together.
But he has no intention of leaving.
With a pint glass in each hand, he turns around and walks back, up the stairs, towards the empty row.
He crosses in front of me, and takes a seat right in the corner.
Okay then.
Again I try to focus on the play, but again, the man gets up, crossing over to the other side of the row, where he once again plonks himself down in the last seat.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. If it weren't for those two drinks I might think he works on the production. Checking out the sightlines from the back and all that. A worthy purpose.
If only he had a hand free to take notes.
At last, we reach the end.
Bows.
Applause.
The cast disappear and it's time for us to go.
The central aisle clogs as audience members tip back their heads to examine the harp strings.
Someone reaches up to touch them.
No sound is made.
Disappointed, they move on.
And so do I.
Back down the corridor and out into the foyer.
I look over at the box office, hoping for a sniff of a chance if getting a programme. There's no one there, but perhaps they left some freesheets lying around.
I go over.
On the counter there are stacks of illustrated squares, all pile-up.
I pick one up off the nearest stack.
It's a beer mat. With a drawing of a face.
I turn it over.
According to the info on the back, it's Vanessa Redgrave. And part of a series of twelve.
I look at the others. Meera Syal, David Bowie, Yoko Ono, and Benjamin Zephaniah.
These are rather nifty. I like them.
Are they free?
I look around. There's no front of houser to ask.
Oh well.
I take one of each and slip them into my pocket as I make a break for the exit.
Safely outside, I pause to check my emails.
Still nothing.
I wonder if I'll ever get a response...
Not that it matters anymore. I doubt I'll be back. There are over three hundred theatres in this city. I don't need this one in my life.
Next!