Le pain, c'est la vie

“Martha, have you been to the Hen and Chickens before?”

I thought if anyone would have been to the Hen and Chickens, it would be Martha. It’s a theatre pub. And Martha loves a theatre pub.

“No!” she cries, sounding distraught and a little bit ashamed about her lack of Hen and Chickens experience. “I really should. I love theatre pubs.” (Told you). “And it’s in Islington, isn’t it?” (It is).

To be fair, there are a lot of pub theatres in Islington. They’re like curry houses on Brick Lane. Bookshops on Charing Cross Road. Or estate agents in Finchley. Bloody everywhere. You have to be real dedicated to the pub theatre cause to go to all of them.

Thankfully, I am. Well, not specifically to pub theatres. But they are definitely part of my remit for the year. Along with barge theatres, museum theatres, outdoor theatres and all the rest of them. So off I go, negotiating all the roadworks that is happening around Highbury and Islington station, as I try to make my way around the roundabout to there (with a short pause to stick my hands through the barriers so that I could get a photo of the exterior without the decorative addition of plastic railings - I told you: real dedicated).

Back over the road and I’m taking some close up shots of the chalkboards outside. They’re advertising the show. “Tonight!” one proclaims. “Killing Nana 7.30pm £15,” topped by a banner stating “The pub/stage/is you” (that one took me a while to work out).

Two young women walk past, look down at their phones then back up again.

They stop. They’re looking at the two chalkboards. Then back up at the door. I know what they’re thinking. I had the same thought as I was taking my photos. There’s no handle. How on earth does it open.

“Is there another entrance?” one asks. They strike off, heading down the road. But the pub isn’t that big, and a minute later they’re back. This time they try the other direction, eventually finding a smaller, less impressive looking doorway. But while it may lack chalkboards to flank it on either side, it benefits from the presence of a handle.

They go in.

I follow them. Not in a creepy way, you understand. Just in a… I’m-done-procrastinating-with-my-photos-and-now-that-someone-else-has-confirmed-where-the-entrance-is-I-might-as-well-go-in way.

It’s packed inside. I have to squeeze myself through at least two groups just to get far enough inside to see what is going on.

To the left of the bar, and a little behind, is the box office. A little podium tucked away in the shadow of the staircase.

We go about the business of getting my name checked off the list.

“You're going to go upstairs when the bell rings,” says the box office man with a directness that I can only appreciate in a new-to-me venue.

He hands me an admission pass and a freesheet. There’s an unspoken agreement that he doesn’t need to ask if I want one, and I don’t need to trouble him with the request to take one.

I make to put the admission pass in my pocket, but something catches my eye. I turn it over. There, scrawled on the back, are the details of the performance. It’s not an admission pass. It’s a ticket. And a weighty ticket at that. it’s the size of a business card, but if you were to get these printed by Moo, you’d be paying extra for that heavy cardstock (I mentioned this to Martha this morning. “Islington,” was her one word reply. Fair enough).

When the bell rings, there’s a rush to the stairs.

The walls are a rather tasty shade of teal. I want to take a photo but there’s already of queue of people behind me. I just manage to catch a snap of the quaint order not to smoke in the theatre. A sign from a bygone era.

As we step into theatre, the teal is replaced by the more traditional theatre blacks.

It’s warm up here. Really warm. First thing I do is pull off my scarf, jacket and even my cardie. I’m still too warm. I need to sit down.

Clunk.

Oh dear.

The seat shifts under me. As someone who once broke a bed while merely sitting on it, this is rather alarming. I hold myself very still. There is no further movement from the seat. I think I’m safe.

Time to inspect the freesheet. And, oh look. It was written by someone in Hollyoaks.

Aww. That takes me back. I used to love Hollyoaks back when I was of a Hollyoaks watching age. I’d only given a brief glance of the marketing copy before going in, but it did all sound very Hollyoaks. Tortured family dynamics. Shut-ins. Overcrowding. This is going to be brilliant.

 

 

I think this must be the first time that I’ve seen vaping on stage. Cigarettes are still very much de rigour. But really, it’s as quaint as the sign on the stairs. With one action, they’ve instantly made every smoking scene in London look passé.

I wonder what the Hen & Chickens stance on vaping is. I didn’t see any signs disallowing it.

 

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At Home with the Sharky Twins

When did I last wash this skirt? I can’t remember. Was it clean this morning? Oh please god, let it have been clean on this morning.

Not the sort of thoughts to usually go through my head while watching a show, but as an actor gently gnaws on my knee, it’s the only thing I can think about. The ridges of her teeth leave only a line of pressure through the fabric of my (hopefully clean) skirt.

How on earth did I end up like this? With an actor biting down on my knee as gently as a puppy? Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?

I was back in Battersea, after my epic run on three of BAC’s spaces on Friday night. I’d spent the whole day lolling around in bed and eating multiple meals composed of eggy-bread buried in icing sugar and was finally beginning to feel myself again.

Still, I wasn’t looking forward to doing that journey again.

Back down the Northern Line, all the way to Waterloo. Up the escalators, into the main concourse. Find a train going to Clapham Junction. Short journey there. Longer walk out of that labyrinth of a station. Walk up Lavender Hill towards BAC, turn a sharp right, then straight down Latchmere Road until I reach the Latchmere Pub.

Are we there yet? Not quite. Still need to negotiate my way across the busy junction so that I’m on the opposite pavement to the pub. Got to get those exterior shots, after all. Then back again. In the pub. Veer right, weaving through all the tables of Saturday-night revellers, then straight up the stairs and… there. We made it.

“Have you been here before?” asked the lady on both office after I gave my name.

“I haven't,” I admitted. I mean… you saw that journey itinerary. I’m a North London gal. If I spend too long south of the river, my haemoglobin levels start to drop.

She looked surprised. Although whether it’s because I have the look of a keen theatre-goer about me, or if it’s the fact that I might be about to faint after breathing in too much Battersea air just getting myself up those stairs, I can’t tell.

“Okay then,” she says, gearing up for what is clearly a practiced speech. “The theatre is just up those stairs,” she says, pointing over to her right where there is a flight of stairs covered in old Theatre 503 posters. “Seating is allocated.” She double checks the screen. “You're in A3. We're completely paperless so you don't need a ticket. It should be in the email we sent you. Did you get an email? I can write it down if you like.”

I did get an email. Lots of emails. Well, two emails. But they were great emails. Theatre 503 are definitely out there, fighting the good fight in making their theatre accessible.

First the confirmation email - with instructions on how to get there (including which entrance to the pub to use - nice touch for the anxious sorts amongst us. Me likey), how to pick up your ticket, and yes - the seat number.

Then comes a welcome email, which includes even more detailed instructions on the getting there (bus routes, stations, and parking) plus the added bonus of all those little things that so often go unspoken in our little club called Theatre. Latecomer rules. Bringing proof for concession tickets. The need to actually go to the box office on arrival.

They also, and this one surprised me, ask you to call the box office if you’re running late. When I saw this I was almost tempted to be late on purpose, just to call and see what happens. But yeah, my anxiety put its foot down on that one, and I turned up in plenty of time.

There’s also a follow up email. But we don’t care about that. We’re still at the box office after all!

“The house should open about 25-past,” continues the box office lady as if I hadn’t just gone on a 200 word tangent about emails. “So, you have time to go down to the pub and get a drink if you like. You are welcome to bring it in, but please no food.”

Didn’t I say Theatre 503 was doing the mostest?

“Can I take one of these?” I ask, noticing the giant pile of freesheets stacked up on the counter. I could. I take one, trying very hard not to notice the playtexts for sale.

That done, I go to sit down. There’s a very squishy looking leather sofa and I have my eyes set on it.

From this angle, deep in the embrace of the very squishy leather sofa, 503 could pass as someone’s living room. A very cool person, with an even cooler flat. But a living room none the less. There’s the squishy sofas (plural, there are two of them), a coffee table within leaning distance, and an equally squishy armchair just off to one side. By now I’m practically playing an imaginary episode of Through the Keyhole (“Who would live in a house like this,” says David Frost in my head as I contemplate the slither of kitchen visible through an open door). The bookshelf filled with playtexts may hint at a resident slightly more obsessed with theatre than the norm if you ignore the sign stating their price (a very reasonable £3.50).

The theatre bell ends my fun. The house for tonight’s performance of Wolfie was now open! A rush of regulars run to the stairs, no doubt still on unallocated seating time. I go with them, not wanting to miss the fun. The stairs creeks pleasingly under our pounding feet.

But I’m forced to stop in the theatre door.

That is no what I expected.

This was no pub-theatre blackbox, with a floor level stage and some battered furniture serving as a set. This theatre had a stage. And not only that, it had a set. A pastel coloured cloud that the two actors were currently using to bounce and turn against, like floating babies in the womb.

As my seat number, A3, might have hinted, I’m sitting in the front row. Not my preferred location, but for five pounds a pop, I could hardly say no.

This might have been a mistake.

Erin Doherty and Sophie Melville, the Sharky twins, as we are soon introduced, have absolutely no respect for the fourth wall. They are determined to tell us their story and they have no qualms about getting us involved.

As they are born, the front row can high-fived to celebrate their arrival into.

Their pockets are full of silver sequins, which they chuck liberally over us to demonstrate their pure, shining joy are being in this surreal world of theirs. Sequins coat my skirt, my boots, the floor. They tumble out of my hair.

You should sparkle for someone, they say. And someone should sparkle for you.

They sparkle for us. Sequins pour of them, littering the stage. They stick to their fingers and eyelashes.

Bubbles fall from the ceiling as the children of the forest tumble from the sky, taken back to the human world by a cynical woodpecker. Then burst on our cheeks with a cold kiss.

Balloons are handed to the audience, and planets are passed back.

Sophie Melville asks for a pen, and an audience member provides, lobbing it over our heads to land on the stage, where it is quickly picked up by Erin Doherty and inserted into her mouth where it is rolled around lavishly (it is later returned. Washed, I hope).

One audience member, deemed to have judgey eyes, is given a pair of sunglasses to contain the judginess. This is the second production of the weekend (and of Battersea) for the performances to insults the audience. I’m still not sure about that. But I’m sure playwright Ross Willis has thought more about this than I have. The judgey-eyed lady puts the glasses on, confused, but willing after a little encouragement from the twins.

And then there was the biting.

Sophie Melville, one of those falling children of the forest, abandoned to the trees for her father, is learning how to be a wolf. She runs, she hunts, she crawls between the stage and the front row, inspecting our legs, sniffing each of us in turn to see what kind of meal we would make.

My knee is deemed interesting enough to be worthy of further inspection. A bite. Gentle. She’s only a cub after all. And her teeth aren’t built for tearing. We all wait while a decision is made. No. My knee will not be dinner that night. She moves on to my neighbour.

I don’t know whether to feel honoured or offended.

Frankly, I think I should probably be grateful just to have survived.

I stumble back out into the night and somehow make my way back up the hill, feeling a little giddy. At the traffic lights, I check my phone.

From my pocket, stuck to my hand, is a round silver sequin. The little sparkle to accompany me home.

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Branching out

So, here's the thing. My marathon has rules. Not many of them. But they rules.Theatres only count if I can get to them by Oyster card. They need to put on actual theatre, or dance, or opera. They need to have publically accessibly performances, and I need to actually watch the show. You know all this. You've read my FAQ.

But there are the rules.

And then there are the rules.

The unofficial ones. The ones I don't publish anywhere because they only live inside my head. The ones that drive my booking decisions.

Throughout the marathon, I've been picking the shows I see with two things in mind. Firstly (and most importantly) I try and go to something that I'm actually interested in. Or the thing I have the most potential to be interested in based on what is on offer. This can be tricky, especially when theatres only announce their season a few months in advance. Do I book this semi-non-awful looking scratch night? Or do I hold out and hope they have some phantasmagorical musical later in the year? The second thing I try to do, is pick a piece that is in keeping with the general artistic values of the theatres. Where possible, I avoid hires (when an outside company pays money to show their work there, rather than being invited to perform by the artistic team at the theatre, or a work that is produced by the theatre itself), and I also avoid things that stand out - not because they look brilliant - but because they are so starkly different to the rest of the programme. If a theatre specialises in say, Restoration comedies, I don’t feel comfortable booking a night of political poetry, just because I fancy a bit of spoken word that week.

This can be tricky.

There are some theatres that almost exclusively programme cabaret or comedy, neither of which count towards my marathon, but are included because every so often they put on a play. Obviously, in these situations, I need to go with the play.

Other times, the options look so completely awful that I cannot, simply Can Not, bring myself to go to them. I hold on, waiting, hoping, begging them to bring something more within the realms of what I'm into, until... thank the lord. Something appears on their website.

So it was with the Rosemary Branch.

Months and months of interactive game nights filled their space, and I just couldn't do it. Not for the marathon. Not for you. Not for nothing. I’m sure they are just brilliant, but to quote the great Elle Woods: “Suffice to say, it was just wrong, all wrong. For me, ya know?”

And then, while doing by fortnightly blitz through all the website of the remaining theatres on my list, I spotted something. A scratch night. Theatre. Plays. Written by women. And it was free! My patience had been rewarded. I booked so fast I broke a nail (true story).

That sorted, I was off to the Rosemary Branch.

Yeah, I hadn’t heard of it either. Which is shocking as it’s a pub theatre within walking distance of my work. And I love a pub theatre within walking distance of my work! When talking pub theatres, Islington is the land of Milk & Honey (name of my pub theatre when I open it in Islington). So, I was more than happy to add another one to my mental roster.

After a short stop of a Paul on Upper Street I would my way down through all the wide streets of gorgeous terraced houses towards Shepperton Road. The dogs I pass along the way all crane their heads to get a sniff of the Pavot Poulet baguette I have in my bag. They’re right to. It does smell good (and taste good. Just had it for my lunch while writing this here post. Yum).

Turns out the Rosemary Branch is right next to a park, which would explain the number of four-legged friends I had made that evening.

On their website they claim to be a former music hall. From the outside, I can see no evidence of this. It looks pure London pub to me.

Inside, it’s quiet. Well, it’s early on a Monday evening, so I’m not expecting heaving crowds at the bar.

I look around, trying to work out what sort of pub theatre it is.

Oh yes. I’ve started classifying them!

From what I can tell, there are two sorts of pub theatres. There are the ones where the theatre is fully integrated into the life of the pub. Box Office is set up one end of the bar, and you’re expected to grab a drink and a seat before a bell summons you upstairs (see: The Hope & Anchor). The other keep their activities separated. Box offices are tucked away upstairs with their theatres. Pub patrons and different from theatre patrons, and never the twain will meet (see: The White Bear). Okay, that isn’t fair, I’m sure lots of theatre-goers pop down for a pint after the show, but we’re using broad brushstrokes to paint this picture here. I mean, at the Gate Theatre, a venue which is only above a pub in the very loosest sense, advises the audience that they can bring up a drink from the Prince Albert pub, no problem.

Then there’s the Vaulty Towers, which doesn’t seem to know what the hell it is, but is doing it anyway.

After a quick glance around, I pinned the Rosemary Branch as a one that is divided by a common venue. The door to the theatre (with a helpful large sign handing over it) is closer to the entrance that the bar.

The steps that lurk behind are lit by lined by faerie-lights and old posters, with more signage at the top leading you through the next set of doors (propped open by a heavy bust). If there’s one thing that immediately stands out about the Rosemary Branch, it’s the signage. It’s everywhere. From arrows guiding you in the right direction, to politely worded messages to advising you to keep away (“Dressing Room. Artists Only”). I liked it immediately. I mean, you know how much bad signage (or even worse: no signage) irritates me, so seeing it done well is incredibly pleasing.

“Do I give my name?” I asked the young lady positioned behind the box office counter.

“How many is it?”

“Just the one.”

With a nod she handed me a small admission token.

“We’ll ring the bell when it’s time to go in,” she says, indicating that I can wait in the next room.

There’s already a small group of young people in what I presume is the pub’s function room. There’s a bar on one end, with a glass drinks dispenser waiting on it, and a stack of glasses nearby. Massive sash windows line up on two sides, and the spaces in between are filed with plants and Tiffany-style lamps. There’s sofas, and armchairs, and a fireplace. It’s a lovely room.

“They didn't even ask my name,” whispers one young person when his friend arrives. By the sounds of it, she’s connected with the show. “They just gave me a ticket.”

“Probably means it hasn't sold very well,” she says with a shrug.

“Oops,” he giggles.

But more people arrive and soon there are little gatherings dotted around the room.

Soon enough the bell sounds and it’s the tinkliest little bell I’ve ever heard. So tinkle it must have brought a few faeries back to life all by itself last night.

I show the woman on the door my admission pass, but she just waves me through, not taking it from me. I still have in it my coat pocket.

“You can sit anywhere,” she says. “But it’s best to sit at the front.”

Choices, choices!

The Rosemary Branch theatre is very small. A true black box. But the unrelenting darkness of the walls is broken up by strings of lights on the ceiling and mismatched cushions on the chairs, give the room the feel of a Bedouin tent. Or at least an overpriced yurt at Glastonbury.

You know my feelings about the front row. But I took her advice to heart and sat in the third.

There’s a fine rake to the seating here, and the third row is just fine.

My row, and the two in front, fill up and I begin to regret my seat choice. The chairs are very close together and my shoulder is getting smushed into a wooden plank nailed to the wall.

Four short plays. All written by women. All acted by women too. All excellent, but with two major standouts to my tired eyes. Tiger Mum by Eva Edo and HoneyBEE by Eleanor Dillion-Reams. Both one-woman shows. Both performed by their writers. But otherwise completely different. A mother looking to protect her son against the world, and a millennial trying to find her place in it. A plaid shirt, and a sequined jumpsuit. A bus stop, and a festival.

Keyed up by exciting lady-theatre, I get up to leave. The rest of the audience looks like they are intent on hanging around. They all know someone in the production and are determined to celebrate.

I squeezed myself between their excited hugs and out I go, walk by the canal, tube it home, and am in bed by 10pm with a cup of tea and a chocolate éclair from Paul.

Life doesn’t get much better than that, my friend, now does it?

No, wait. It does. Apparently the Shrill Voices Showcase wasn’t a one off. It’s part of a series. Which means now I have an opportunity to go back to the faeries’ yurt… next year.

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Abandon all hope, ye who enter here

“Are you here for Hopeful Monster?” she asked.

I was.

“25% of the ticket price goes to child.org,” she says, peeling off a large round sticker off an A4 sheet.

“Oh nice,” I say taking it from her.

It’s pink. “I [heart] my mum,” it reads.

I look around, not knowing where to stick it. Not sure I want to wear it on my coat. I leave it flapping around on my fingertips.

I tuck myself away next to the staircase and make friends with a horse’s head wearing a St Paddy’s Day Guinness hat. He doesn’t look overly happy about it, although whether it’s the hat or my need for company that’s distressing him I can’t quite work out.

Soon more people arrive to collect their stickers, each looking more perplexed than the last as they try to work out what to do with it. A man dances around as he bounced his stickered-up hand between coat and scarf as the final home of his sticker. He settles on the front of his hoodie and pats it down on his chest. The look on his face suggests that he has immediate regret.

One woman has it on the back of her hand.

The stickiness on my fingertips is starting to bother me. Without thinking about it, I grab my phone and smooth the sticker down on the back. Just like I would if I were at the Donmar and this was one of the stickers handed out to the fillers’ queue on press night.

I couldn’t see my face, but I imagine it looked just like the man in the hoodie.

Regret. Deep and sorrowful.

My phone is new. So new that I still haven’t managed to buy a case for it.

And now I had a cheap paper sticker stuck to it proclaiming how much I [heart] my mum.

People rush up and down the stairs and I press myself against the wall, out of the way while they lift chairs from unoccupied tables and carry them back up.

A seat cushion slips off one.

“That's not supposed to happen,” laughs the woman as she tries to fix the chair.

“Don't worry, I won’t tell anyone,” I whisper back.

Eventually, the procession of chairs came to an end and we were allowed upstairs.

“It's unreserved seating, but if you can leave the first two rows free for children that would be ideal,” said the person greeting us at the top.

The stage was small. A table, flooded with light from a totem pole of lamps set up on either side. Close proximity would be essential.

I dither next to the third row, trying to decide whether the aisle seat on the short right-hand row would be superior to the aisle seat on the slightly closer left hand row.

“It’s a full house,” calls the usher. “So if you can all move down.”

I panicked, and picked the long row on the left, going right to the end, next to the fireplace.

“A minute later they first two rows are completely filled with grownups.”

I looked around. There was not a single child to be seen. Reminds me of the Puppet Barge in Little Venice. These shows may be made with children in mind, but it takes a childless adult to want to traipse out to these things on a Sunday afternoon.

Now, you know that I don’t write a lot about the actual performance in this blog. That’s not what we’re about at the marathon. But in this case, I wouldn’t have been able to even if I wanted to. Because I didn’t see it.

No, I didn’t have to leave due to a near fainting incident. I assure you, I was in the room and in my seat the entire time.

I just couldn’t see it.

Literally, none of it.

Oh, I occasionally caught a glimpse of a hand when it was lifted far enough off the table to be visible over the heads of the people sitting in front of me. But not enough to establish any kind of storyline. For me, Hopeful Monster was nothing more than 40 minutes of listening to gentle music.

There was a giraffe at one point, I think. And some grass. And a creature which was possibly a pterodactyl. But beyond that, I couldn’t tell you what the show was about or what happened in it.

Recently I’ve been playing with the idea of awarding badges to certain theatres. Best Madeleines. Longest queue for the loos. You get the idea. There’s one badge in particular that scratches away at my conscious. Forget the “I [heart] my mum” stickers. If I were going to hand out anything after this trip it would be the “If this were my first trip to the theatre, I would never return.”

 

 

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Pie Squared

"Well, I have no idea what's going on."

I'd just been on a mission to discover where, when, how, and quite possibly, why, that afternoon's show was happening, and I had returned even more confused than when I had left.

Helen, Ellen, and I were at Vaulty Towers. The pub on Lower Marsh Street that looks like it ran away with the circus.

Giant hands, twisted into claws, are mounted over the door, momentarily turning anyone who walks beneath into a puppet. There's a treehouse. And a room that looks like it's just been vacated by a Tarot-toting, crystal ball wielding, fortune teller for being too cliche even for her. And there's a nook primped with yards of pink tulle.

That's where we were. Trust a bunch of dance nerds to find the one spot that makes you feel as if you've got stuck in the laundry pile at The Royal Ballet School.

The Vaulty have a very lax approach to decoration. Anyone can join in. The nook's walls were scrawled with messages, love hearts, and even a few phone numbers. Clearly, the clientele at this pub doesn't like to limit their creative outpourings to the toilets.

It was 4.25, and there was supposed to be a play starting in this place in five minutes. But there was no sign of it.

Nor of the promised pies or pints.

Oh yeah, we were doing the trifecta.

Play Pie Pint is pitched as a lunchtime experience at the Vaulty. For a tenner (excluding booking fee) you turn up, get given a pint, a pie, and a play.

Except there was no sign of any of these things.

I checked my emails, thinking I must have missed something important, but nope. I had nothing beyond the booking confirmation and a pdf of e-tickets. Start time. Address. That was it. We were on our own.

We grabbed our coats and bags and headed to the bar, keeping our eyes out for a sign of... a sign. Something saying "Theatre this way, you dopes," perhaps. Or a little "Box Office" note taped to the bar. Anything to suggest that this pub was not just a pub, but a pub-theatre.

"Shall I just ask at the bar?" said Helen, going off to do just that, as if that was a normal and sensible thing to do in these situations.

A few minutes later, she returned to tell us of the wisdom she had gained.

"It's happening down there," she said, pointing to a door shaped like a zebra.

But of course. We should have guessed. There was even a sign. It said: "no entry."

We stood around awkwardly, checking our phones and the zebra. It was past 4.30, and the zebra was still closed. The play should already have started.

A bell sounded.

"For those here for Play Pie Pint, the pies are at the end of the bar!"

Oh thank the theatre gods, we had not been forsaken.

"Do we just... grab one?" asked Helen.

I didn't know. That seemed to be what was happening. But everyone was holding back.

At last, some brave soul dove in, his hand hovering over the trays of pies.

"What's the name?" asked a woman behind the bar. "Have you booked?"

She ticked us off. Napkins emerged and were plonked down next to the pies. Followed by a box of cutlery. Then a stack of plates. Finally, we were getting somewhere.

"How is it?" asked Ellen as Helen dug in.

Helen shrugged. "It's alright."

"Are we supposed to eat them now, or take them in?" I thought the idea was to have the three ps all together. But the zebra was still very much closed.

"Perhaps this is it," said Helen, indicating the people standing around awkwardly holding pies.

"An immersive experience?" I really hoped not.

"If we were to leave now, I wouldn't be mad," said Ellen. I shot her a pleading look. I did not want to be left there alone.

Thankfully, at that moment, the zebra swung open. It was time to go down. There was no backing out now.

Down a flight of steep, rickety stairs, and into the basement.

Stone walls. Piled up suitcases. Forgotten furniture. And still balancing my pie on its plate.

I was getting flashbacks to that immersive Sweeney Todd in a pie shop.

I could only hope that the worst pies in London were the only thing we had to worry about. If anyone offered me a haircut I was out of there.

The spaces were getting smaller and smaller. A black curtain covered the final entrance. I pulled it open, fully expecting to be greeted by a man wearing a leather apron and covered in blood, but instead, there was a semi-circle of mismatched chairs. We had reached the theatre.

It was tiny. Even by the standards of pub theatres. And the carpet pinned to the ceiling was doing little to insulate us from the pounding music being played in the pub above our heads.

"I like the faerie lights," said Ellen. "I know they're only cheap, but they do brighten a space up."

She wasn't wrong. With the entire ceiling covered in a constellation of tiny twinkling lights, this basement was looking pretty fucking charming.

"You brought your pies with you!" called a woman from the other side of the circle. "I left mine upstairs."

"Oh..." I looked down at my pie. Perhaps we weren't meant to take them with us after all.

"It wasn't cooked," she continued. "I gave it right back. They tried to give me another one, but I wasn't having it."

"Is your's raw?" asked Ellen.

"I don't think so?"

It tasted fine. Not the best pie I've ever had. Not even the best theatre pie I've ever had. But it was alright. I mean, you can't go far wrong with a chicken pie.

Chicken? Good. Pastry? Good. No apparent signs of salmonella? Fucking A.

Finishing the pie did leave me with the small worry of what to do with the plate. I settled on tucking it under my chair and hoping I didn't accidentally end up with gravy on my coat.

"Does anyone know if someone should be here, who isn't?" asked a young lad who turned out to be one of the writers' of the play.

There were still a lot of empty chairs. And there had definitely been more pies upstairs than there were people downstairs. The chairs did eventually fill up, but it occurs to me, that without any form of ticket check other than giving a name in exchange for a pie, there is nothing to stop someone dropping in and seeing a play sans pie. It seems to me that you're paying for the pie and getting the play for free.

Seats filled, pies consumed, and play introduced, we settled down to watch.

Ellen leaned over to me. "Just so you know, this is my nightmare," she said, as the actors took their places.

Oh dear.

Forty minutes later, and my friendship with Ellen hanging in the balance, we applauded.

The company, all composed of Guildhall students were keen to get our feedback. "We'll be upstairs, getting very drunk, because you know.. students, if you want to come and chat." Bless.

"Did you enjoy that?" one of the actors asked the nearest audience member.

"Yes," she replied. "But my pie wasn't cooked at all. I gave it back and they tried to get me to take another one, but I wasn't having it!"

"Right," he said, all blinking earnestness. "Well, we didn't make the pies..."

It was time to make our escape.

Back through the black curtain. Back past the stacks of furniture. Back of the rickety stairs.

As the others made their way outside, I dithered. The tulle-primped nook was empty save for the legions of notes from past patrons. That was my moment. A chance to make a real difference. I would add to the scrawl of notes. A message for the ages. A warning.

"Pies and plays thatta way -> (Bring your own pint)."

I would be a theatre hero. Nay, a theatre god.

But Helen and Ellen were already waiting outside.

And besides, I didn't have a pen.

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The Ruffians on the Stairs

Proving once again that I really can complain about anything, I would like it on record that the Hope Theatre is too close to my work.

I stayed an extra hour in the office, walked as slowly as my legs would allow, took a half-mile detour, popped into Boots, and still managed to arrive with fifteen minutes to spare.

At least that gave me time to wrestle with my phone. In the rain. It's now got to the stage where I can't take a photo at all if it isn't plugged into some form of charger.

Let me tell you, if you haven't stood in the rain, balancing an umbrella on your shoulder, a phone in one hand and a charger in the other, than you have not truly experienced a theatre marathon.

Oh yeah, I'm sure it's possible to do this challenge with fully functional technology at your disposal, but is that really in the spirit of the enterprise? No, my friend. No, it is not.

I mean, sure... you would benefit. Better photos, perhaps even better blog posts. They'd certainly be produced by a less stressed blogger. But if my phone didn't crap out and lose my changes at least twice while writing each of my posts, what on earth would I blame my typos on? Riddle me that.

Perhaps we should consider my terrible photos as an external expression of my inner marathon trauma. An artistic series if you will. We can call it: The Downfall of a Theatre Blogger 251.

Fine, we’ll workshop the title later.

Anyway, yes - sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself there. Running down a path that no one is interested in. Certainly not you.

Let's go back to the image of me, standing in front of the Hope & Anchor Pub, taking photos, in the rain.

No, wait. Let's go even further back. All the way to my detour.

Because the truth is - I lied to you.

It wasn't a detour. Or at least not a planned one. I got lost. Well, not lost exactly. I knew where I was. But where I was wasn't at the Hope.

But Max, I hear you sigh. You literally just said this theatre was close to your work. How did you manage to get lost?

Well, I wasn't lost. As I've already told you. I was just... elsewhere.

I walk past the Hope & Anchor a lot. Exactly because of the whole working nearby thing. So when I headed out to go there, that's exactly what I did. I walked past.

I have a lot on my mind at the moment, and... can I blame the rain? Eh. I'm going to blame the rain. It was coming down pretty strong.

Anyway, I caught myself before I had gone too far. And walked myself back.

I must have been looking a bit bedraggled by that point as the man having a cheeky cigarette by the door almost stumbled in his efforts to open the door for me.

The pub was packed, and it took a fair bit of squeezing between tables to make my way to the box office, positioned at the end of the bar.

“Have you been to the Hope before?” asked the bloke manning the box office lapton after I’d been handed my ticket and bought myself a programme (£1).

Ah. He’d sussed me out. Yes, to my shame, this was the first time I had been to the Hope. Over two years of walking past, and I’d never made it through the doors before.

“Right,” he said. “Well, you'll be heading up the stairs. I'll ring the bell when it's time. Its 60 minutes, no interval. And if you leave you can't come back in.”

Nicely done.

Though I think some of the regulars could have stood to have heard that speech. As a few minutes later, I spotted a group heading upstairs. Not wanting to be left behind, I dropped into line and followed them.

The line stalled at the door.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be up here yet,” came an unseen voice from the top of the stairs.

A queue started forming behind me.

There was no going back now.

We were doing this thing.

Soon the line was winding its way right back down to the pub. I may be a newbie, but this felt very familiar. This was Royal Court Upstairs-style queuing going on right there.

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“I have cheese in my pocket,” said the man behind me.

Not to me, you understand. I was just eavesdropping.

“What a strange admission,” laughed his companion.

A very strange admission indeed, but I didn’t get to hear the explanation for the pocketed cheese as the bell started clanging below.

“The doors are now opening for the Ruffian on the Stair,” called out the box office bloke. I fancied he gave the queue a derisive look but that was probably my imagination. Still, I wouldn’t blame him. There was certainly a collective air of delinquency going on amongst us.

The door finally opened, and we made it upstairs. And after having my ticket ripped (what a joy to actually have a proper ticket getting its stub ripped off. It’s one of those theatrical rituals that is so joyful in its simplicity. A proof of use. Like a stamp getting postmarked) we headed inside.

The stage was so small, the front row looked as if they were part of the set. Like dining table chairs pushed back against the wall because the room is needed for something more important than the business of eating.

The bravery that had gradually been building up this month suddenly evaporated. I headed to the second row, in the darkest corner I could find.

And from my tucked away spot, I inspected my ticket.

I hadn’t given it proper attention before. But the combination of ripping and unreserved seating intrigued me.

It had the logo on it. And the twitter handle. The address and the url.

So far, so standard.

But then on the back:

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“DID YOU KNOW?” it shouted out in all caps (and bold too!). “By purchasing this ticket,” it continued, in a more reasonable font, “you are personally helping to ensure that all actors you see tonight are paid a legal wage. Aren’t you great?”

I preened. I am pretty great.

That was quite the distracting thought though.

Not my greatness. That’s something I have to live with every day. I mean the legal wage bit.

The Hope Theatre is tiny. TINY. And there were three people on stage.

I tried to do the maths, but failed. I… got distracted by the play.

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I’d never seen a Joe Orton work before, and I had really wanted to. I admit it, I was drawn in by story of his demise, a modern-day Christopher Marlowe. But man, that guy could write.

The lady sitting across from me certainly agreed. Her facial expressions as each shocking new line was dropped were magnificent. It was like sitting opposite a live reaction gif. Mouth dropped. Eyebrows raised. She jumped and gasped and jerked back in her seat in perfect time with the action.

I don’t think I have ever loved anyone more than I loved that women during this hour-long play.

May the theatre gods bless and protect you, lady. You are perfect.

Feeling a little woozy from the play and my short-lived love-affair, I had to hold onto the balustrade for balance as I made my way back down the stairs.

The pub was nearly empty now.

I buttoned up my coat, slung on my shawl, and stepped outside.

The rain had stopped by then, and it was snowing.

Garfield isn't the only one

Finding shows to see on Mondays is becoming increasingly difficult.

So many theatres take the day off.

I get it. Mondays are hard enough already what with the waking up and going to work. There’s no need to extend it any longer than it needs to be. I mean, really, what kind of obsessive theatre-goer wants to see a show on a Monday?

Yeah, okay - put your hand down. Didn’t anyone tell you that it was rude to point? It was a rhetorical question. I didn’t really want an answer.

Yes, this obsessive theatre-goer wants to see shows on Mondays. If I’m taking a day off the marathon, it ain’t going to be a work day. What would be the point of that?

Now, if I were a sensible person, I would have made sure to see productions that do actually have Monday shows on Mondays, and Mondays only. But that would have required a level of research that did not quite fit into the slapdash week of planning I managed to accomplish before starting this marathon.

Thank the theatre gods for the Gate Theatre, coming to my rescue when I had a Monday-slot that needed filling up.

They don’t need to give their actors the day off at the moment, because they only work the one show. Their current production, Dear Elizabeth, gets a new pair in for every performance - unrehearsed and unprepared. So Mondays are a-go.

I’d never been to the Gate before, so I made sure I read their website’s Visit section before setting out.

They encourages walking, which I am all about, but as they are a chunk over four miles from my office I don't think I could have made it on time. I felt a bit bad about that, not very in keeping with their Green Gate policy, but what can you do? Anyway, the walking guide they link to no longer exists. No one's checked that link for a while, so they can't be all that committed to the whole thing.

Also, small thing - but they don’t put the address on the same page as the travel instructions? I mean… you do you Gate Theatre, but that doesn’t feel logical to me.

Anyway, I compromised by walking into the West End and then taking the tube from there, and found the venue just fine. The huge yellow Tetris-block of a sign next to the door helped. As did the pink-painted stairs leading up above the Prince Albert pub.

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The dour black website utterly failed to prepare me for the carnival of colour that is the Gate Theatre in person.

Nor the friendliness of the staff.

“Ooo!” cooed the woman on box office when I gave her my name. “That's a nice name.”

I did my usual spiel. It's Scottish. It means small.

She seemed disappointed. I get it. The backstory doesn’t quite live up to the promise of the name.

She rallied. “But in England, it means smiles,” she said, handing me the laminated admission pace.

That's true. It does indeed mean smiles in England. I should really stop explaining my name. It’s such a downer for people in the wake of so much joy.

I changed the subject.

“Can I take one of these?” I asked, pointing to the freesheets fanned out on the counter.

“Oh yes! Help yourself!”

I did.

Situated as it is above a pub, there isn't much in the way of space at the Gate. And what there was was filling up fast.

Turns out there are a lot of people willing to watch a play on a Monday night given half a chance. 

I found a spot by the wall and read my freesheet. No bios. With a new cast every night that might be a bit too much to ask. But that back was interesting.  

"Without public support tickets would cost £51.11." 

They must be quite pleased with this statistic, because it's also printed in the admission pass. 

I felt slightly less outraged that my ticket had cost me £24 (twenty-four pounds! Okay, I'm still outraged by this. Twenty frickin' four pounds for a theatre ticket. I'm not saying that theatres don't deserve the coin, but spending that much on an evening makes me want to boak, it really does).

Thankfully I didn't have much longer to dwell on such matters as the house was opening. 

“Your actors tonight will be Temi Wilkey and Seiriol Davies,” came the announcement.

"As this is the first time they have performed it, we don't know how long it'll be. The performance will be around one hour forty-five minutes, but as they've never done it before it might be a bit longer." He paused for a moment, then said with masterful comic timing: "Not too much longer, we hope." There was a titter from the foyer and we headed towards the doors, ready to score those good seats.

Benches lined both sides of the stage. With a short second and third row on one end. 

After near fainting, immersive theatre in a shed and seeing thirty shows, in thirty venues, in less than a month, I felt unstoppable.

I sat in the front row.

Oof. 

The bench seats were covered in golden velvet.

Let me tell you something, wearing a velvet skirt and sitting on a velvet bench is an experience. And not one that I think was ever meant to be felt by mortal beings.

It was like stroking a cat's belly. Dangerous but irresistible. 

Okay, you can wipe that look off your face right now. I know what you’re thinking - how much velvet does this woman own? Every time she comments on her outfit it's velvet this, and velvet that. Well, my love, I'll tell you. The answer is: a lot. An absolute fuck-tonne, in fact. And thank you for asking. Dresses of course, and last night's skirt, natch. But also jackets and scrunchies and shoes. A shawl. Underwear even. From September until March I am enveloped in velvet. What can I say? It’s warm and fuzzy and I love it.

And there, sitting on velvet benches, and with the golden velvet curtains surrounding us on all sides, I felt quite at home.

I could have sat their all night, quietly luxuriating, but I was awfully distracted by the floor.

The floor? Yes. The floor. Let me tell you about the floor. The floor was sensational. An oil slick of pastels. As if a unicorn had barfed on it. Wait, that's a lazy metaphor. Unicorns are forever barfing and pooping whenever there's a rainbow nearby. Unicorn Land must be a complete bio-hazard by now.

How about: the sheen on a bubble, or mermaid's looking glass, or perhaps a pearl dissolved in vinegar.

You get the idea. It was pink and blue and shiny. 

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I want that floor in my house. I want it rolled out before me wherever I go.

I was not the only one to appreciate it.

We'd been instructed to tuck our bags and coats safely under our benches. But one man went a step further and stowed his boots under the bench as well. He leaned back, stretched out his legs and planted his besocked feet on the mermaid's mirror.

The Gate really does foster a community atmosphere…

In fact, everyone there seemed to be part of the local society.

“You’ll never guess who I just saw,” a young man said to his companion, pouring out the names in a flood of excitement. “I promised we’d save spaces for them.”

Across the way, a woman squealed and ran across the room to greet someone she recognised.

Mwah. Mwah. Kissssessss…

I was beginning to regret my seat choice.

Actors I can deal with. The audience is another matter altogether.

Thankfully by this point the show was beginning and everyone was forced to return to their chosen seats.

Curtains lifted.

Seiriol and Temi, our actors, stepped out.

They hugged and swapped handwritten letters. They apologised for everything they were about to get wrong. They tore into their fellow actor’s letter and read it aloud, full of proclamations on how excited they were to be doing this thing.

They opened the first script packets.

And we were off.

Balloons, toucans, toys, confetti, wine, words, and cornflakes were spilled around in a tribute to messy theatre.

It was brilliant fun.

Bows. Applause.

They had made it. And so had we.

We packed ourselves up crunched out over the cornflakes

“You taking photos of the mess?” asked a man as we were leaving. I couldn't deny it. I was doing just that. “They're going to have to clean that up. And separate it,” he added.

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Yes, I suppose they are going to have to.

The actors may only have to do the one shift, but the backstage crew has to sort this out every single night.

Even on Mondays.

Science fiction, double feature

Is there anything more hedonistic than taking a half-day off work to watch ballet?

No, my friend. There isn’t.

And I can’t even blame the marathon for such an extravagant use of my time.

I’d had this outing planned for months. There was no way I was going to miss ballet-god Rupert Pennefather’s glorious return to the London stage.

Sadly, we all know what they say about god and plans.

But I wasn’t going to let the little matter of an injury and the resulting cast changes get in the way of my self-indulgent afternoon. So, after a quick lunch at my desk, I sauntered down to the London Coliseum. Or rather, the Coli. Everyone calls it the Coli. Or at least, I think everyone does. I certainly do. Perhaps just the pretentious twats who frequent it on the regular use that name. Of which, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, I am very much one.

Which leads me to this question… how do I write about a venue that I am this bloody familiar with? One that I even have a charming nickname for? I can’t describe walking around in wide-eyed wonder as I’m sure I would have done if I’d been a newbie. The Coli really is the most extraordinary venue. Over-the-top in almost every aspect. It’s not just the gilt, and the velvet, and the massive stage. These are merely the base layer onto which Frank Matcham built his monument to excess. There are domes. Multiple ones. With stained glass. And stone gargoyles guarding the staircase. Marble balustrades. Mosaic covered ceilings (with umbrella’s to match). Carved wooden doors. Roman iconography. Golden horses. And then topping it all, a spinning globe lit up with the name of the theatre.

It has so much bling, even Elizabeth Taylor would think it a bit gaudy.

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