I Am A Revolutionary

December 5, 2019

"Come on, mate," growls the man standing behind me.

Thankfully, this man's ire is not directed at me, but at the box officer at Stratford Circus, who seems to be having a lot of trouble looking up someone's order.

The woman at the front of the queue gets out her phone to find the confirmation email.

The computer is consulted. Lists are checked. The order is not found.

The queue sighs, stepping from foot to foot as we wait. The tinsel garland stuck across the front of the counter isn't doing much to get us in the Christmas spirit.

At last, some sort of arrangement is made, and the woman walks away with her ticket.

Except, no. She's stopped. She's walking back.

"Do you do food here?" she asks.

"The bar has crisps," offers up the box officer. "Yeah, just snacks."

"What about next door? Never mind," she says, stopping herself with a wave of her hand. "I don't have time. I'll have to settle for crisps. I've only eaten once today, you see."

And with that, she's off.

The queue shuffles forward.

But we're moving quickly now, and soon enough it's my turn.

"Hi! The name's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S."

The box officer looks down a printed list and taps her finger on my name.

"Maxine?"

The one and only.

"That's two tickets," she says, pulling a pair of laminated admission passes out of a business envelope.

Yup. That's right. Ya gurl actually has someone with her tonight. No single shaming for me.

I reach out to claim the passes, but the box officer isn't letting go.

Another box officer has come over, and the pair of them are deep in discussion about the list.

"When was it printed?"

"Last night."

"Ah! That explains it."

Yes, yes, yes. I nod along, keeping my gaze fixed on the passes still clutched in her hand.

Eventually, the two box officers conclude that the reason the woman's order couldn't be found was because she had booked on the day.

They do not approve.

At last, the tickets are relinquished into my care, and I can finally have a look around this place.

I've been here before. I already have Circus 1 checked off my list. And now I'm back for Circus 2, which gives me the perfect opportunity to inspect their Christmas decorations.

First ones of the year. Everyone else seems to be holding off until December.

But even with their early start, Stratford isn't doing things by halves. There's not one Christmas tree, but two. Each surrounded by piles of presents. Tinsel loops its way over the bar. There's even a stocking.

I retreat to the windows, where there are tables and chairs and a convenient pillar to lean against.

I'm not sure, but I think those doors right next to me are the entrance to Circus 2. This is based on nothing but the fact that they have an usher posted outside of them.

There's no signage. Not that I can see.

Circus 1 is over the other end of the foyer. And Circus 3 and 4 are upstairs. I can see their numbers all printed on the walls. But there's not a 2 to be found anywhere.

A group of young women wander over.

The front of houser steps in front of them. "Should be open in a few minutes," she tells them.

They retreat a few steps, not wanting to go too far and lose their precious place in the queue. It's unallocated seating tonight. And they have no intention of being stuck in the back.

The woman who hasn't eaten strolls over. She looks a lot more calm now that she has a packet of crisps in hand. She finds a table to munch them.

The foyer begins to fill up.

I keep close to my pillar and check the time.

It's seven to seven.

The doors open.

People start to form a line.

I get out the way and check my phone.

There's a message from Sarah. "2 mins!!" it says. Two exclamation marks. She must be stressed.

I'm not overly worried. We won't get the best seats, but we probably shouldn't be taking them. We're here to see Messiah. Based on the true story of that Blank Panther who was killed by the Chicago police, Frederick Hampton. And as we are a pair of white girls, we should probably be finding ourselves at the back.

The audience is going in.

I take up a spot near the doors, looking up from my phone every time someone comes in.

Not her.

Still not her.

Neither of them are her.

Okay, now I'm starting to get slightly anxious.

I get my phone out again, but she hasn't even read my last message. The ticks remain resolutely grey.

Shit.

She's probably dead.

"Maxxxxx," calls out someone wearing a leather jacket and a bike helmet.

Arms wrap around themselves around me.

I think this must be Sarah.

"Shall we go in?" I say, edging her over to the doors as she tells me about her bike journey. Sounds like a bloody nightmare. This is why I don't cycle. I mean, one of the reasons I don't cycle. Other than the main one which is that I would definitely die if I tried.

I hand the admission passes over to the front of houser and we go in.

There's lots of people in here. Messiah is clearly the show to see tonight.

"Can you fill in from this side for me?" asks a front of houser as I stop to figure out where we should go.

We do as we're told, heading towards the nearest block of seating. Except, we don't get very far. There's one of those rope barriers blocking off the back couple of rows.

I stare at it. "Ummm," I say.

Everyone else around us stops too. "Ummm."

One of the standers decides to take the initiative and calls over to the usher. "Can we...?"

But the usher is otherwise occupied and doesn't hear her.

Being the hero that we all need, the woman grabs hold of one of the metal polls and shoves it out the way, freeing up one of the rows. I follow her lead, grabbing the other poll and giving it a quick kick for good measure.

Exhausted by my efforts, I slide my way down the row, collapsing at the far end.

Sarah follows me, looking around. In a low voice she makes a comment suggesting that the people in the audience for tonight's performance of Messiah are of a considerably higher calibre, looks-wise, than you might usually find in a theatre.

She's not wrong.

We're an attractive bunch in here tonight.

A young man comes barreling down our row, shoving Sarah out the way before climbing into the seat in front.

Sarah winces. "Thanks mate," she mutters.

We both glare at him.

My appreciation of the audience has gone down a couple of notches.

"I literally just pulled something," says Sarah as she sits down.

Pretty people are such twats.

I look around, scoping out all these attractive arseholes.

But I can't help but notice that there are some amongst our midst who are taking things to another level. They are radiating a kind of energy that you don't tend to find hanging out in an arts centre on a Wednesday night.

I watch them carefully as they move about, very much not sitting down.

And wouldn't you know, they're actors, because of course they are.

I can't tell you much besides that. You know the rules: no freesheet, no crediting. I'm not Googling no one.

But one of them, who I’m guessing is our Fred Hampton, is ordering us all to our feet, arms in the air, in the Black Power salute.

We all look at each other, but Fred isn't having it.

We need to get the hell up.

We do, raising our arms in the demonstrated pose cautiously.

Sarah and I share a glance. I giggle nervously. I'm so glad I'm not here alone and have a fellow white person to share this with, because I'm feeling hella awkward right now.

Fred is now ordering us to repeat him. "I. Am. A Revolutionary," he says.

"I. Am. A Revolutionary," we chorus back to him.

A few people try to drop their arms, but Fred is having none of it.

"Don't put down your arm!" he orders. "I! Am! A Revolutionary!"

"I! Am! A Revolutionary!"

Across the way I spot a girl have trouble with the salute. Her arm is falling forward and talking on a more Nazi-esque angle than I'm sure she intended. Although... I suppose you can never tell with white people.

"I! AM! A REVOLUTIONARY!"

I am not a revolutionary. I mean, I pretend I am. But you and I both know it's all lies. I prefer lie-ins over sit-ins, and while I've gone to a few protests and marches and whatnot in my time, when the going gets tough, the Maxine gets going. As in, away. Far away.

"I want that to be the last thing you say before you go to sleep," he tells us. "I. Am. A Revolutionary."

Someone comes in. A white someone.

You just know he's going to be a police officer.

Fred orders us to sit down.

"Thank gawd," whispers Sarah. "My arm was getting tired."

The door opens and the usher waves in a latecomer, pointing out the reserved seats in the front row.

The police officer looks at him. "Take a seat. Sit down," he orders.

And on the backs of our laughter, we are launched into the story. Or at least, the framing device around the story. We're recreating the events of that night. When the police stormed Hampton's flat and opened fire, killing him in front of his heavily pregnant girlfriend.

The floor has been marked up with white tape, showing off the layout of the apartment. But those white lines, combined with the long stage and high walls, is giving this room serious school-gym vibes that even the blackout curtains cannot compensate for.

But I soon forget about that, as we are flung back in time, to the evening before those awful events happened. With Frederick and Deborah enjoying dinner, dancing together, calling his mum together, and laughing with each other, laughing with the Panther's head of security, William O’Neal. Oh my, they laugh together so much. My heart is melting at the sight of them.

As the lights dim to a final blackout I breath out a long sigh.

"She was so good," I say. "The girlfriend."

"She was realy good," agrees Sarah. "I really enjoyed that, actually."

I'm not sure enjoyed is quite the right word, but I know what she means and I nod to show my agreement.

"Food?" I ask.

"Gawd yes."

"I am starving."

"Me too."

It's a quarter past eight, there is plenty of time to be getting ourselves dinner.

Besides, I need to get all the gossip about my old work from this former colleague of me.

We head outside, and as I wait for Sarah to unlock her bike I get out my phone. There's one thing I need to do before we find somewhere to eat.

I look up the cast. I know, I know. I'm breaking my own rules here. But I need to know the name of the actor who played Deborah.

I find the information on the Stratford Circus webpage for Messiah.

Angelina Chudi.

Fucking brilliant.

One Ring Circus

April 27, 2019

I’m outside Stratford Circus trying to take a photo of an angel in an upstairs window. I saw angel, but what I mean is a display of angelic looking white wings. And I saw trying, because there is a street cleaner with a trolley coming my way.

I pause, lowering my phone, waiting until he passes.

Except, he's not passing. He's aiming right for me.

I jump backwards, having visions of being run over but a cleaning trolley and having to spend the rest of time haunting the nearest bin. Max the Ground of Theatre Square. Doomed to spend eternity watching people rush excitedly into the neighbouring theatres of Stratford East and Stratford Circus, and never get to see a show. Feeding off the crumbs of gossip and old tickets that they leave behind.

But I didn't get hit. Instead, the trolley stopped. Directly in front of me. Blocking my shot.

Stratford clearly ain’t got time for any of this hipster Instagram nonsense.

Nor had I.

My show this evening has a 7pm start time, and I haven't even picked up my ticket yet.

I extricate myself from behind the trolley and dash across the road towards Stratford Circus. I'm so dazzled by the fluorescent orange banners flapping in the breeze I entirely miss the entrance and have to double back.

It's orange. The same hue as the banners. But with two strip lights set behind a wall of translucent orange plastic, angled to form an arrow that points directly towards the door. Blimey, I must be tired, walking right past this. There's even an A-frame set outside. "Stratford Circus Arts Centre," it reads, for those who need the extra help.

This does not bode well.

Oh well. There's nothing for it. I go inside, go to the box office (orangey-red), and pick up my ticket (not orange), and buy a programme (also not orange. Kinda blue-ish purple actually. And pink).

It's been a while since I last visited Stratford Circus. Years and years now that I come to think about it. So long, that I can't actually remember where the main theatre space is.

I look around.

The main foyer is packed. Mostly full of people queuing up at the bar. There's a staircase right next to the box office, leading up to what seems like an Escher-like series of galleries and mezzanines stretching up to the heavens.

I look up, shading my eyes against the thousands of tiny faerielights set into the ceiling of each level.

There's a big number 3 on the glass high above, with a smaller "Circus" above it. Circus 3. There's a Circus 3? Circus 2 I knew about. That's the studio space. And Circus 1 was where I was heading for. But what's Circus 3? And more importantly, how many circuses are there in this place?

I get out my phone. I have to know.

Theatre websites are surprisingly coy about their spaces. Rarely can you search a list of events by venue, and very often they won't even tell you the space it's in before you get to the booking page. Often I left clicking around, putting random tickets in my basket just to find out which shows are where, and giving box officers across London major headaches as tickets appear and disappear from their system as I do so.

You'd be surprised to know how many secondary studios I've only found out about because I saw a sign for them when I was in the building. Just like I was now.

But there's one place where you kind find this info. And that's the hires page.

I find it.

"Stratford Circus Arts Centre has a range of spaces that are perfect for meetings, live performances, celebration and training events," says the website. Great.

"C1 - Auditorium," reads the first one. That must be Circus 1. I've already got that covered. I move on. "C2 - Studio Theatre," is next. I don't got that covered, but it's on my list, so I'll get to it eventually. Onwards. "C3 - Dance Studio." There it is. Circus 3. It looks nice. "A large and airy rehearsal space with sprung dance floor, mirrors and adjustable blinds; adaptable for a variety of events including classes, rehearsals, workshops and performance." Performance, It's suitable for performance. Shit. Does it need to go on the list? It probably needs to go on the list. Do they programme things there? How do I even check? I mean, apart from the adding random tickets from every single show into my basket...

I quickly close the tab. I'm not going to add it to the list. What I'm going to do it pretend that this never happened, and you are too. And if you even mention the fact that there is a C4 (Multi-purpose space) on the website, I'm going to have to take a course of action that you won't like, and I won't be held responsible for.

Enough of that. I put my phone away and turn around. There appears to be a queue. A very long queue. But this one doesn't lead to the bar. People are looking at their tickets and stuffing the remains of half-eaten sandwiches into their mouths. It looks like we're going in. I find the end of the line and add myself to it. At least the question of where is Circus 1 is not something I have to worry about anymore.

Circus 1, it turns out, is on the ground floor. As is the stage, which is on floor level, leaving a large back of bench seats to rise up from it. There's also a couple of narrow circles above us, but those seem to be closed off.

"This is so cool," someone whispers loudly as we all try to figure out where we want to sit.

They're not wrong. It is pretty cool.

There's a boxing ring set up on the stage, and its surrounded but young people dancing like butterflies and stinging like bees. I find a seat in the middle of the fourth row and try to look like the sort of person who understands boxing.

It doesn't work.

So instead I pull my fan out of my bag and try to cool off. If I'm not going to be someone who looks like they understand or partakes in sport, I might as well embrace it and run full tilt in the other direction. Well, I say run, but perhaps stumble slowly is more my style. Or "adagio walking," as a dance critic once described my prefered level of exertions.

I do kind of like the idea of seeing two people deck each other though. I mean... that's kinda why I wanted to see this. Libby Liburd's Fighter is billed as a play about female boxers fighting for the right to... well, fight. Which I am well into. Just because of my own physical cowardice, doesn't mean that I don't have a hefty appreciation of those that are willing to take a punch in the name of feminism in other people.

And oof, Libby Liburd's Lee is willing to take a punch, both literal and metaphorical. There's no keeping her down.

The clock roles back twenty-one years, and she bounces into Tommy's Gym, shiny new gym back and smart mouth at the ready. Neither of which get her very far in the world of ninety's boxing gyms. Woman have only been allowed to fight (allowed!) for two years and the message hasn't quite filtered down to the local gym level quite yet.

But she's got the babysitter in and she's not to be turned away. Or at least, not for long. As she's back the next day, and the next, and the next. It's 1998 and the Spice Girls have been preaching the gospel of Girl Power for four years now. There's nothing Lee can't do, and she's got the brand new Lonsdale top to prove it.

Nothing can stop her.

Almost nothing.

Except for the Achilles' heel of the single-mother.

That's where Lee's real fight begins.

And I'm feeling it. The empowerment. The Girl Power. Lee can do anything, and by extension, I can do everything.

I feel myself puffing up with second-hand pride.

The big fight scene's coming. Eye of the Tiger is pounding through the sound system. Lee is coming down the steps of the stalls, the spotlight bouncing off her pink satin robe and...

Lights dim. The scene changes. We're flung forward in time. Back to 2019.

The boxing ring is full of cute kids practising their swings.

Oh. No fight? I deflate back to normal size. I mean... fine. I get it. But I was all psyched up to see two ladies punching each other and now... okay.

Just have to settle for feeling all empowered and shit. Which is alright. I suppose.