This is how it's done, people

Yes. Absolutely. A thousand times, yes.

The Playhouse is here serving up perfection. The poster child on how it should be done. I hope the rest of the West End is paying attention.

I hadn’t been to the Playhouse Theatre for a while. Not since Lindsay Lohan sped the plow back in 2014 (don’t laugh, I thought she was pretty good). Has it been refurbished since then? Because I don’t remember it looking quite so handsome.

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The box office is to be found outside, just by the main doors, in its own little room, brightly light and shining white. I thought this nifty innovation, this “office in a box” if you will, was a great idea. It saves us all having to deal with the double queue-confusion that I’ve been encountering a lot recently.

Bag check done and ticket presented, I headed into the main doors. More shining whiteness. White walls. Towering ceilings. A long bar. A black and white tiled floor. All offset by gold. It practically shimmered.

Unlike the garishness of the golden Garrick, the Playhouse gave off an air of a Regency ballroom. Which is quite a considerable feat of magic, as there’s no way Mr Darcy would have enough room to glower properly in this foyer-bar, let alone led a gavotte. Plus, it wasn’t built for a good sixty years after Beau Brummell tied his cravat for the final time.

But the feeling only intensified when I headed into the auditorium and I got the overwhelming feeling that I’d somehow wandered into the Vauxhall Gardens circa 1800.

A painted garland looped its way over the stage. Rococo flourishes decorated the walls. And the balustrades of the upper circle disappeared into a pair of paintings that were giving off serious Fragonard vibes.

There were even lampposts. Actual lampposts. In the theatre.

Having bought my ticket for a mere snip of £10 (it’s all about GILT right now), I was intrigued to find out what a tenner can buy you in these pleasure gardens. Would I be tucked away behind a pillar, or relegated to a slip seat where leaning forward would grant me a glimpse of less than half the stage and a life-long enemy in the form of my neighbour?

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Neither of these things, as it turns out. Instead I found myself in the dress circle, back row, in the centre, with a near perfect view of the stage.

There must have been some mistake. Surely.

Had I been upgraded on the sly? No. The house was full. No closed off balcony here.

Perhaps I was hallucinating? I have been very tired since starting this marathon. I might of nodded off and imagined the entire night.

But while I would like to believe that I could dream up the entirety of musical - one that was convincingly written by a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright - I somehow don’t think that’s the case.

I had to face it. I was really there. In a great seat. For a great price. In a very handsome theatre. Watching an epic musical.

Man, sometimes good things really do happen to mediocre people.

I mean… probably. Sometimes. To someone.

I wasn’t convinced.

There had to be something wrong with this place.

In the interval, I went in search of it. The Playhouse must have some dreadful failing, and I was determined to hunt it out.

I went to the bar: tasteful wood flooring. Natty velvet chairs.

And this:

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Eff you painting. Hope is dead.

Okay, except this offensively upbeat painting, the dress circle bar was nice. But what about the upper circle? I was willing to put money on the fact that they were being served out of broken jam jars in some prison-style bar. Right?

I wound my way through the convoluted corridors up to the upper circle and pushed open the door to the bar up there.

Same velvet seats. Tasteful. Comfortable. Stylish. And fucking irritating.

What was wrong with this place?

It had to be the loos.

There’s been a lot of stuff in the theatre press recently about loos. The Stage seems to be running a massive campaign on the issue. This is like the theatrical version of the Daily Mail in 1992. Suggested headline: The Stage doth Drained it! No? Fine.

But when I passed by on my way back to my seat, the ladies was near empty. No queues stretching out down the stairs. No fight for the hand-dryers. Nothing.

The Playhouse Theatre is annoyingly perfect.

Lovely building. Queues are all neat and orderly. No one tried to talk to me or make me dance, threw bread at me, or manipulated me into a standing ovation (that I gave willingly and with enthusiasm). Programmes are fairly priced (£5) and interesting. Even the signage was excellent. Which is a good thing as the corridors there are very confusing, splitting off in all sorts of directions as they feed you to the various different levels.

I wonder if the separate box office room was an artefact of an old, separate, balcony entrance that has been integrated into the main body of the theatre. It would explain all those stairs and strange internal layout.

Oh wait. Hang on. Did I just find something?

Thank god.

The Playhouse Theatre isn’t perfect.

It has confusing corridors.

Phew.

I thought I was going to have to start bringing people along, just to double check that I wasn’t imaging the entire thing.

I’m not sure I could have faced seeing Caroline, or Change that many times. My heart would smash within the week.

Don’t feel bad about missing out, they were apparently filming it last night. So you can get your heart smashed on your own time.

So. That’s it.

All this perfection may make for a boring blog-post (where’s the drama! The intrigue! The panic attacks!) but quite frankly, I needed this. I mean, I really needed this. I was feeling down down last yesterday following my trip to the Lyric. This has helped immensely.

I practically bounced all the way home. I may have even hummed. Quietly. To myself. When no one else was around.

… perhaps I should go back and buy that painting.

As horror looks you right between your eyes

When I announced that I was doing this marathon to my friends ahead of the website launch, Thriller Live came up a few times in the discussions that followed.

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"Are you actually going to see it?"

“Yup.”

"No, but really. You're not are you?"

“I am.”

"You. As in actual you, Max. Are going to see Thriller Live?"

“Yes. Me. As in actual me. Am going to see Thriller Live.” 

The ‘at some point’ remained unspoken. Over the summer perhaps. Or maybe towards the end of the year. Once I’d built up some momentum. Worked myself up to it. Perhaps taken up a drinking habit. Or been so broken by this challenge I didn’t care where I was or what I was seeing anymore.

But then there was an offer on GILT. A good offer. And where ticket offers lead, I am bound to follow.

So off I went. Actual me. To see Thriller Live.

I mean… someone has to.

"Ah," said the man on the door, examining my ticket. "The balcony is closed tonight. So, if you go through over there," he said, indicating the merch desk just beyond "You'll be moved."

"Great!" I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. Thriller Live from a slightly better seat. Yay?

I shouldn’t be so cynical... it was a significantly better seat. Fourth row centre. In the stalls.

That's a mighty upgrade.

Benefits of going alone to a show that’s been running nearly ten years. On a Tuesday.

Why can't these type of things happen at Hamilton?

One week in and I’ve got myself into a bit of routine. I arrive at the theatre early, pick up my ticket, wander around a little to get a feel for the space before heading into the auditorium, while it’s still fairly quiet, to take some photos, read the programme, and wonder how on earth I got myself into this mess.

Last night’s wander taught me two things. Firstly, that the Lyric is in a sorry state. The carpets are held together my duct tape, giving the poor theatre the look of a third-rate county-house hotel. And secondly, I am completely justified in my views about shows moving between theatres on a regular basis. Thriller Live needs to get out of here, if only to give this poor building a chance to be refurbished. Or at least re-carpeted.

Feeling a bit sad about my walk-around, I headed to my seat and began the next faze of my process.

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My contemplation of both the programme and the state of my life was cut short however by the sound of a man in my row, clapping in time with the piped-in music. Loudly.

I usually wouldn’t mention something like this. Let the man clap if he wants to. But I am obligated by the rules of storytelling to include it. This is what writers like to call: foreshadowing.

I went back to my programme.

£5, by the way. Which might have almost been reasonable if they could decide on a spelling of hip hop and stick to it. Look, I’m not here to criticise the programme… what am I saying? I’m totally here to criticise the programme. I mean blimey, in 3 biographies they managed to get through 3 different ways of writing hip hop (or Hip Hop, or possibly Hip-Hop). That’s too many ways.

Okay, I get it, no one but me cares about the consistency of the spelling of hip hop, but I’m just trying to delay writing about the actual show. I’m still a little traumatised.

I went in not knowing anything about it.

For some reason I thought there was some sort of storyline, but 2 minutes in I realised this was not the case at all. Thriller Live is a musical revue, the songs punctuated by some inane commentary about Michael Jackson. It was almost like watching one of those “100 top music videos of the 80s” type of shows that used to be on TV all the time a few years back. And therein lies its success. It’s perfect tourist fodder, requiring little to no knowledge of English in order to enjoy it.

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Actual me, about to watch actual Thriller Live

And I did almost enjoy it.

Almost.

Except they couldn’t just let me be.

There I was, perfectly content in my fourth row seat, watching the dancers tear up the stage, when it started. The dreaded audience participation.

Why? What did I do in my life that was so bad to deserve this?

And this was not just hollering when we heard Antwerp being mentioned. Oh no. This was full scale, standing up, putting arms in the air, wriggling hips and basically reliving every terrible moment from my childhood dance lessons.

Let’s not forget: I was in the fourth row. There was nowhere to hide.

I longed for death to claim me, but even he wasn’t having with any of that nonsense, and I was left there, to suffer, alone and in agony, the song stretching out into eternity.

And then there was the clapping.

Here is the point where I have to admit my secret shame: I can’t clap in time with music.

I know.

It’s a tragedy.

I lack all forms of rhythm.

You probably think that this is the source of all my problems when it comes to audience participation - and you’re right. How very perceptive of you, Mr Freud. Struggling with clapping to a beat sure makes enjoying this kind of thing a challenge. Combine that with a hefty dose of social anxiety and, well… physical laziness… and you’ve made yourself the exact type of person who will hate Thriller Live.

But you know what? I’m glad I saw it.

Because now I never have to see it again. And that’s something we can all be grateful for.

WKD Green

Seventh day in a row I’ve been to the theatre and I feel like I’ve had a house dropped on me.

Does taking B12 help? I’m sure I’ve heard that taking B12 helps. I’m not convinced. I was so tired last night that I was sure if I didn’t do something I wasn’t going to make it through Monday, let alone the rest of the week. I needed to take more drastic action. So… I went off to see the Wizard… and by that I mean: I was about to get my Wicked on! It’s been running in the West End for over 12 years. I thought it was about time I saw it.

The only problem was getting there.

Somehow I managed to convince myself that walking the 3-or-so miles from the office would be a good idea. Let the cold smack my face until I woke up.

I hadn’t been to the Apollo Victoria before, but I figured I kinda knew where it was. Head straight into the West End, turn west at Trafalgar Square, then march down to The Mall and you’re there. Right? Right. Except as soon as I reached all those fancy red-bricks that crowd SW1 I got completely disorientated. Over 10 years I’ve been living in London, and I’m getting lost on my way to the theatre. I have literally never been so ashamed. What am I even doing with my life?

Don’t answer that.

And you can keep that opinion of yours to yourself too. I already know what you’re thinking. It’s 2019. Why didn’t I just get directions from my phone once I started getting turned around? To which I can only say: I did. But the more I walked, the more I seemed to get confused. Every corner I turned only took me further away. It was like being in a Bowie movie. Except with less puppets and flatter hair.

By 7 o’clock I was still wandering around in circles, lost in a towering maze of town houses, and I was starting to panic. Google Maps was being worryingly slow, the circle that was supposed to represent me was darting from one side of the junction to the other as if it too couldn’t quite work out if Greencoat Place and Greencoat Row were secretly the same road.

In the end, I picked one at random and hoped for the best.

The great theatre gods must have taken pity on me, because a few minutes later I spotted something in the distance. Something green. Very green.

I’d made it.

With just enough time spare to snap a photo.

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The wrong entrance

You may have noticed by now that technology is not my friend. And my phone, traumatised by recent events, decided it could no longer cope with the trials of this marathon, and decided to switch itself off.

As I swore, and growled, and bullied my phone back into the world of the living, I noticed something was going on in the queue.

People were being turned away.

“I’m here, but I need to pick up the tickets,” one woman shouted into her phone. “No, I’m at the theatre. But on the wrong side.”

The wrong side?

Where were we then? Had I accidentally stumbled upon the stage door? Were these people not punters, but autograph hunters?

That was a lot of branding and a hefty queue for the wrong side.

There was a massive poster. And the name of the theatre. And doors. Lots of them.

It looked like it should be the right entrance.

And then I saw it, a small sign posted at the bottom of the stairs.

“For Box Office pleased use the Wilton Road Entrance”

For fuck’s sake.

Wilton Road is around the back. I was on the wrong fucking side.

I sprinted round, joining the closest queue.

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The right entrance

“I need to see your bag and your ticket,” said the man at the front.

“I still need to pick up my ticket,” I said, looking around wildly for the box office.

“My colleague can help you with that.,” was his reply, as he peered into my rucksack.

His colleague stepped forward. “Does your email confirmation have the seat number on it?” he asked.

“Ummm???” My phone had managed to switch back on by this point, but it was still dragging its feet. Eventually I managed to find the email. “Yes!”

“Great. Head straight through and show the email on the door. No need to pick up your ticket.”

I made a strange sound. I don’t need a ticket? Then what was I even doing on the Wilton Road side of the theatre then?

“Unless you want the hard copy,” he added, clearly knowing my type too well.

“Right…” I said, still baffled, and made my way inside, leaving the queue for the box office snaking down the road well alone. I could live without a hard copy.

Now, sitting on my bed and writing this in the cold half-light of morning, I am filled with regret. I did really want a hard copy.

Dammit.

If anyone in the Wicked press team is reading this - hook a girl up! I just want a ticket. Not to see the show again (although…), just a actual, physical, hard copy. They looked so pretty with the logo and everything.

Next stop, the merch desk. Or, one of the merch desks. As there seemed to be multiple ones. A myriad even. Everywhere I looked there were stalls. Some selling sweets and popcorn. Others focusing on t-shirts and tat. All of it blazing green. I had walked into the marketplace of the Emerald City. And they were not going to let me out of there alive.

“That’s £8,” I was told as an oversized (‘souvenir’) programme was handed to me.

I tried my best not to look horrified as I stuck my card in the machine.

“I should tell you the role of Glinda will be performed by Maria Coyne tonight,” continued the programme seller as I officially entered bankruptcy.

“Oh?” I said, pretending this meant something to me.

Hard copies of tickets and cast change announcements at the programme desk? I was beginning to get the impression that Wicked-fans are just a teensy bit intense.

He opened a draw under the desk. “I usually have these cards to hand out when there’s a cast change,” he said, showing me a rather fancy looking A4 sheet printed with a colour photo, biog and headshot. He’d got my attention. They were nice! Really nice. Good heavy card stock. 250gsm at least, perhaps even 300gsm, and silk-coated. I pratically salivated. “But I don’t have the right ones. You can ask at one of the other desks and they’ll give you one.”

You bet I would. There was no way I was missing out on one of those beauties.

But that would need to wait until the interval.

Checking that I still had the confirmation email up on my phone to show to any ushers that would ask for it (spoiler alert: they didn’t), I made my way downstairs.

Or tried to.

Half way down the stairs I stopped. And blinked.

Everything was… green.

Green walls. Green lights. Even the carpet was green.

I staggered about, feeling a little seasick.

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Green carpet

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Green binoculars

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Green chairs

As I turned into the auditorium, I had to blink again.

The seats were green.

Row upon row. Of green seats. With green binoculars secured to the backs.

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Me, unable to deal with all the green

So. Much. Green.

I know I’ve ranted about shows sticking around too long in individual theatres, but I am in total favour of Wicked living out the rest of its existence in the Apollo Victoria. The show has really made the theatre its home. This is not ‘hoarding the pretty',’ this is making the theatre an extension of the show.

I’ve never been so happy in my all life.

And then the show started.

And I got even happier.

As soon as the last closing notes of Defying Gravity hit the roof I floated back up to the marketplace and headed to the nearest desk.

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“Can I have one of those cast change things?” I asked.

“The understudy sheets?” she said. “They come with the programmes. £8.”

I explained I already had one.

“Do you have the receipt?” sounding a trifle suspicious, if you ask me.

“I do!” I replied, remembering how the original programme seller had slipped one inside the pages. I got out my programme and flipped through. It wasn’t there. “Hang on,” I said, reaching into my bag. It must have fallen out.

“Can’t find out?” she asked. The you lying bitch remained unspoken.

She was not letting this go. Good for her.

I had so much damn respect for that.

Or I would have done, if I hadn’t been panicking. I needed one of those luscious cast sheets.

I tipped up the programme and flapped it upside down. No receipt.

Someone else came to the desk. I indicated she should go first. But she was just there to look.

I was getting flustered.

Calmcalmcalmcalm.

But it WASN’T THERE.

Oh god, what was I going to do? I needed one of those cards. I already didn’t have a ticket. I wasn’t missing out on this.

Could I justify spending another £8 to get a second programme? No. I could not. Except…

I went through each page in turn, and somewhere towards the end, I found it. The receipt.

“Ah ha!” I cried out, as if I had just solved some complicated mathematical equation. “I have it!” I waved it about, just to prove it.

She took it from me, and checked it. Yup. The programme was bought that very evening.

She handed it back to me. With a cast change sheet.

Success! But at what cost? I think I knocked a full five years off my life last night.

It’s not easy being green.

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On the Origin of Theatre

Nearly a week into the marathon, and I feel like I’ve covered a lot of ground. I’ve visited a smattering of West End venues, watched a play in a fringe venue under a railway arch, and done… whatever the Bridge Theatre is (off-West End commercial? Retirement home for ex-NT artistic directors? Two-fingers up at anyone who ever doubted they could do it?). I felt it was time for something completely different. And as different options go, watching a play in the gargantuan monument to all things animal, vegetable, or mineral that is the Natural History Museum, is an appealing one.

I love the Natural History Museum. Mostly because, well… dinosaurs. But also the building itself is just such a joy to look at. There isn’t a square inch that doesn’t hold some architectural surprise for anyone willing to drag their eyes away from the exhibits for a moment.

I mean, look at this nonsense.

And as I was there for a morning show, I had the opportunity to wander around before all the hoards of tourists had made there way out of their Airbnbs and into my way.

The theatre itself is located right inside the museum. When I asked for directions I was instructed to head to “the third arch, and it’s on the right.” I found it just after the Dino Store and before the Darwin Centre.

Once you’re in the correct arch, it’s hard to miss, as the doors have been laminated with enough blue and orange branding to scorch your eyeballs, after all the soft greys and softer browns of the stonework and skeletons located in the main hall.

At the box office they expressed surprise that I was only picking up just the one, solitary ticket. As if a woman old enough to have a theatre-going sproglet of her own, going to see a kids’ show at 11am on a Sunday morning, was at all an odd thing to do. I’m beginning to think that I should get some business cards printed up so that I can hand them over in by way of explanation of my strangeness in these situations. I mean… business cards that say londontheatremarathon.com on them. Not one declaring "following affidavits from the midwife and a doctor, I confirm that the bearer is, in all probability, human."

I put on my best intelligent face, hoping they’d think I was a post-grad student researching Darwin or something. I could be. I totally read his lesser known work, The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals, while at uni. The fact that I seem to be reading mainly YA fantasy at the moment is besides the point.

Anyway, that expression of surprise wasn’t the last one I was going to get. It followed me to the programme seller. “You want a programme?!” he asked, as well he might as they were 7 quid and I didn’t see anyone else with one once I got inside the theatre.

But before I could make it in, it was my turn to get a shock.

The person on the door, after checking my ticket, asked me to present my hand and then with a gentle, and yet reassuringly firm, touch, pressed something onto my skin.

I’d been branded. With a stamp!

Now, there’s nothing wrong with the stamp. Stamps are cool. And it’s a… turtle? I think? And, you know, I like turtles. Turtles are great.

But are they necessary?

Stamps I mean. Not turtles. I’m sure turtles are very necessary. As a metaphor for perverse in the face of overwhelming odds if nothing else. Oh wait, it was a tortoise in that race. Nevermind. Turtles are useless.

Unlike the neat little plastic disk system at The Union Theatre, these stamps don’t seem to serve much of a purpose, because the Jerwood Gallery at the National Bloody History Museum has tickets.

How the turtle stamp manages to prove the existence of a ticket better than the ticket itself, I’m not sure. Is a stamp better? I mean, other than being dinky. And cute. With it’s chubby swimming legs, and lovely rotund shell and…

Okay, I get it. Love the stamp. I am in total favour of the stamp.

And while we’re here, can we all take a moment to appreciate that I'm in the Natural History Museum wearing a sweatshirt covered in dinosaurs? This is some quality content that I'm offering you here. I just don't want it going unnoticed.

Wait, is this what I'm doing now? Dressing to theme? Am I going to wear a Viking helmet to the Royal Opera House? Winged sandals to the Apollo? Dress as a Christmas tree topper to Little Angel Theatre? As an old witch to the Aldwych? (Sorry). A ruff to Shakespeare's Globe? (I could actually do this... I totally own a ruff. Because of course I do). Okay, I'll stop now. I'm not going to do that. Still, it would have made going to the Red Hedgehog Theatre extra fun...

Where was I… right, in the Jerwood Gallery. Or the Jerwood Gallery Theatre. Not quite sure what this place is: a pop-up venue in a museum, or a more permanent fixture with more shows to follow. It looks like a pop-up venue. It feels like a pop-up venue. The seating is more suited to a secondary school assembly than a theatre. The stage is a literal black box that looks like it has been pushed into the vaulted gallery, like a kid pushing a chunky wooden cube into a play-set to help them learn shapes, or spatial awareness, or… I don’t actually know what they’re for. None of it gives the impression that it was built for the space in any meaningful way. Which makes me think that it will all be packed up, and the gallery restored to its former use, at some point in the very near future.

I don’t suppose there are that enough natural history-related plays floating about to fill a theatre into perpetuity. But then, perhaps it is a case of “build it and they will come.” I’d love to see a play about Mary Anning here (the dinosaur lady of Dorset). That would be frickin’ amazing.

Darwin’s great and all, but I doubt he could pull off a bonnet like Ms Anning.

In fact, The Wider Earth had a distinct lack of bonnets. Despite being set in the 1820s. It did have a hell of a lot of puppets though. Which seems to be the theme of my first week of this challenge. 3 of the 7 shows that I’ve been to this week have featured puppets. And not just puppets. Animal puppets. We had ensanguined sheep at Don Q, a spider on strings at A very very very dark matter, and an adorable iguana here at The Wider Earth. If only War Horse were still running, I could have gone for a fourfer.

I am not a number. I am a three man

I’ve been giving a lot of big talk about small theatres in the past few blogs, but this next one looks upon them and sneers at their hulking coarseness. Where the Ambassadors and the Garrick are lumbering about, weighed down by fancy architectural flourishes and Grade II listings, the Union Theatre zips nimbly around them, laughing at their twirly bits.

Twirly bits aren’t the only things they’ve done away with.

When I arrived at the box office (perched on the end of an already small bar) I was handed a large purple disk emblazoned with the number 3 that looked like the sort of plastic tag a bored-looking shop assistant will hook onto your hangers in a shop’s changing rooms.

“Have you been here before?” asked the youngest box officer I had ever seen (I swear it’s not just me getting old).

I had to admit that I had not.

She explained the system. Once the doors open at 7.15, we’d be called into the auditorium in groups. First the 10 people with a number 1 on their disks, then the number 2s, then the 3s etc. Thus ensuring that those who had arrived earliest got first pick on the unreserved seating.

Neat system. I like it. Removes the stress and queuing that so often goes with unreserved seating.

Pressure off, I had the chance to explore.

The Union Theatre doesn’t have a foyer. As you as you walk through the door, you fall straight into a cafe that looks like it was modelled your cool friend’s kitchen. You know the one, the friend who has mismatched cutlery picked up from French flea markets, and collections of found objects arranged in a fresh and original manner, that you feel confident you could emulate in your own home, but you know deep down would only look like a towering pile of rubbish if you ever actually attempted it. The friend who reads Dostoevsky. In the original. But will only roll their eyes if you express amazement at this and ask you what you think about the new Doctor Who. The friend who only looks put together, and yet effortless. At the same time. The friend who would hate if you didn’t love them so much. Yeah, that fucking bitch.

That combined with the massive tables built for sharing and the chill vibes radiating off the staff makes for a really relaxed atmosphere. Tables are filled with strangers as they perch next to each other to read or have a drink. The director was even having his dinner at one.

All this general bonhomie floating in the air must have softened my newly-sharpened corners because I soon found myself in conversation with a fellow theatre-goer on all things Ibsen. Or rather, I was talked to about all things Ibsen. I don’t have a great deal of Ibsen anecdotes at my disposal, so my new friend had to do most of the heavy lifting on that one. Thankfully, before the load of carrying the entirety of the conversation grew too much for them, their number was called and they were off, guided behind the heavy red curtains, through the great double doors, and into the theatre.

A few minutes later, it was my turn.

I tried to get a photo of the inside of the auditorium, but the combo of me being a terrible photographer and the lighting being very… atmospheric (lit: dark. Or rather, unlit: dark) I couldn’t get anything remotely worth looking at. Unless you enjoy peering at murky-dark images, with only the shadows for highlights.

So, let me paint you a picture with words.

It’s a brick-walled room. Seven rows of seats. Green upholstery. Comfy. Excellent rake. Sound desk to the right. Staircase upstage. Lighting rig overhead. There’s a freestanding set that can be spun around to form a building caught mid-build, to a town-hall platform, to the interior of a house. Nifty.

The space is so small, and yes: intimate, that even from my position in the very-much-not-the-front-row I felt utterly immersed in the action.

The good kind of immersed. Not the actors-threatening-to-interact-with-me kind of immersed.

The construction noises were very effective. Really effective. A low rumbling on the edge of hearing gradually grew into a thundering roar until my chair was vibrating as the noise intensified still further and then slowly died down, finalising off with rhythmic metallic clangs. They were very familiar sounding clangs. Very familiar. I could have sworn I had heard that sound earlier that day. And not on a building site.

And that’s when I suddenly remembered that I was sitting inside a theatre built underneath a railway arch.

And the rumble was a train passing over our heads.

It was a bit like stepping out of a dream when I staggered back into the bar during the interval.

I was fully not prepared to chat to anyone, no matter how chill the vibes or communal the large tables.

At these times I would usually bury my head in the programme, but being the spry and nimble theatre this is, there weren’t any.

And then I realised, with no ticket, and no programme, I would have no physical evidence of ever being here. No memento for me to take away.

Oh dear.

This was bad.

What was I going to do?

My boxes and boxes of random crap picked up from theatres was going to be missing a representative from the Union Theatre. My collection would forever be incomplete. What on earth was I going to leave to my grandchildren?

“Do you have, like, a cast sheet or something?” I asked, driven more by hope than expectation.

They did. Tucked away, behind the bar.

Phew.

Panic over.

Now that I know that they have small bits of paper for me to hoard like a Golem of theatre ephemera, I can confidently make the decision to really like this theatre. I’m going to come back a lot, I think… starting next year.

Bread and Circuses

You may be wondering why I'm spending so much time in the West End. "There's so much more to London theatre," you growl at your screen. I hear you. Believe me. No, seriously. Keep it down. I'm trying to write over here.

And yes, I abso-fucking-lutely agree with you. There is so much more out there. But this is January. And no one, apart from you and me that is, wants to go to the theatre in January. We are an elite group, willing to fight against the Christmas hangover and weight of too many mince pies pressing against out waistbands, to head out into the freezing cold and go watch a show. And two people can't fill a theatre. No matter how much they manspread.

So January is prime time for the ticket discounters as they fight it out for what's left in our wallets.

Already not overly stuffed before this challenge started, the current contents of my purse is now primarily made up of cough sweets and scrunched up receipts.

After already seeing 5 shows this week, reason dictates that I should stay at home and wash my hair. Perhaps do some laundry. Eat dinner even.

Reason be damned. I have a marathon to complete here.head

It was time to throw what was left of my monies into the ring and let the ticket discounters wrestle over it.

The champion of them all, heavy-weight prize fighter Get Into London Theatre, had some great offers going on in the new year's sale, and I've stocked up on enough tickets to make me feel quite GILTy (sorry), but there was nothing for Friday night. Or at least, nothing quite cheap enough for me.

So, I went rogue, venturing out to the less distinguished stalls in the ticket-marketplace.

Tickets from £29.95.

Tickets from £35.

Tickets from £63.49.

No. No. And NO.

Eventually I made my way to lastminute.com were I found a very tempting 15 quider going for the RSC Don Quixote at the Garrick Theatre.

But being the naturally suspicious person that I am, I headed over to the the Garrick's own website (or at least, their lord and master's - the mighty Nimax) to see what ticket prices were like over there, and found a bunch of 10-pounders just sitting there, without fanfare, waiting to be bought. So I did.

Which leads me to this piece of advice: don't ever trust the discount ticket websites to offer up the very cheapest tickets. Always double check against the venue's website. They tend to hold those real bargains back. Thus ends my public service announcement.

Anyway, I know two things about the Garrick Theatre.

One is that it has a tiny little door loading door, less than 3 foot across, through which all the scenery and other stage mechanics need to get in and out of every time there's a show changeover.

The second is that it's really hard to get a photo of the exterior that doesn't feature at least one bus.

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One bus

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Two bus

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Half bus

I am already sensing that my failings as a photographer is going to be the running theme of this blog.

But ignoring my dodgy photography skills, do you see what I see?

No! Not the buses. Forget the buses. The buses are not important to this story.

Look at this windows. Do you see what’s in front of them? Perhaps click on the last photo to enlarge it.

Yup. There are people there! The Garrick Theatre has a terrace.

I frickin’ love a terrace.

I enjoy the feeling of power that comes from being able to see the top of people’s heads.

What can I say? I’m short. It’s not an experience that I get to enjoy all that often.

I had to go there.

Don’t worry, this isn’t another aborted ghost-story.

There were no closed door standing between me and my bird’s eye view of all the egg-heads on the street below.

The door was actually wide open. Inviting.

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So, there I was, enjoying the view. Admiring the top’s of people’s heads and…

Whoa. What is that!?

I didn’t think it was possible, but there was something lurking inside that was far more interesting than mere head-gazing.

The gold and silver Foyer Bar at the Garrick Theatre

I don’t think I’ve ever see a shinier room in my life.

The walls are silver.

The detailing is gold.

Everything glimmers under the light of the chandelier.

Even the fire exit sign looked like a more verdant shade of green.

It was like stepping into a jewellery box.

I fully expected the proletariat to storm in and drag us all off to the guillotine at any moment.

It was perfect.

It was almost a disappointment having to head into the theatre to watch the play.

There were some compensations though. Firstly, I learnt that one of my Garrick-facts is now dreadfully out of date. The titchy-door no longer exists. Theatre’s drive towards the mundane world of practicality over charm won out, and the tiny door was removed in favour of a more sensibly-sized opening during the Garrick’s recent refurbishment. The second is that the balcony of the theatre has been closed off, making an already petite playhouse even smaller.

Unlike the balcony at the Apollo, which was closed off after the ceiling collapsed mid-performance, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with the one at the Garrick. The stairs leading up to it were merely roped off, rather than boarded up. You can even see up there from the grand circle.

What you can’t see however, is a considerable chunk of the stage.

Like with the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, some theatre architects seem to forget that people will be using their buildings to watch things that are happening on stages. And that not being able to see the entire stage might be a bit of a problem. I feel that this is something quite important about theatre design that needs to be got across to them. Can someone pass on a message for me?

To make matters worse, the RSC have compounded the problem by, what theatre-people like to refer to as, “making full use of the space” - i.e. having the actors bounce around the auditorium, mingling with the folk in the stalls, hanging out in the boxes, and doing their best to make us lot in the audience feel included.

So there I am, unable to see important parts of the action in a theatre so small it’s possible to have a highly effective food fight in it. Which is 1) a descriptor so specific it must have actually happened, and 2) probably the reason the tickets were only £10.

And fair-do’s to the cast. They did their very best to lob bread rolls our way. One even made it into the lap of the person sitting directly in front of me.

Which was as impressive as it was horrifying.

I tend to take the Groucho Marx attitude towards audience interaction. I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member. I have no longing to get in on the action. I don’t want to put my hands in the air and wriggle my fingers. I don’t want to do panto call-backs. And I definitely don’t want to holler when an actor mentions Antwerp in act 2.

Okay, I may be more of a grouch than a Groucho, but these ice-breaker exercises don’t make me loosen up. The opposite if anything. As soon as there’s a hint of audience interaction, I spend the rest of the night in a state of high-alert, heart pounding, breath short, and eyeing up all the exits.

Highly strung? Me? I mean… fine. Okay. You got me. I has the anxiety. Leave me alone.

No, really. If you see me: leave me alone.

Bye then.

Sweet Madeleine, duh duh duh

Departing from the bright lights and over-amped atmosphere of the West End, I travelled over the river to check off my next theatre, by way of seeing the shiny new Martin McDonagh. Or rather, the slightly faded Martin McDonagh, as it closes at the end of the week.

I know, I know. You're not the first one to say that. I've heard it before. Loudly. It tones of consternation. Let me take the time to assure you that I went in fully aware that this was not McDonagh's finest work. And I was okay with that. Because I love McDonagh.

Yes, liking McDonagh is a very very dark matter indeed. And yes, he gives off the air of being... shall we say... a bit of a shit. I get that. He’s a superhuman wordsmith, who uses his powers purely for evil. I've never come across a writer who appears to hate his audience quite so blatantly, and seeks to cause them quite so much pain. With a cruel glint in the eye, he gives the audience a cute puppy to look after, before handing us a knife and telling us to murder it. And we do it. And giggle along the way. Horrified by our own laughter but unable to stop.

I hate him. And I adore him. But most of all I respect him.

If I had his skill, I would probably do the same thing. Or rather, I would watch his plays longingly, wishing I had the guts to do the same thing... so no difference to what's happening now really.

Now, I’ve been to the Bridge before. But ended up leaving during the interval because they had run out of madeleines.

No, I'm not kidding. Yes, I mean the little French cakey things that caused so much consternation in the last series of the Great British Bake Off. No, it wasn’t an overreaction. And frankly, how dare you even suggest that it was.

They'd built those damn cakes up so much, featured them so heavily in their marketing, made it as if pure joy could only be found within their soft golden ingots, that when we saw the last plate being whisked away from us at the bar during the interval, the disappointment was so crushing it was a physical impossibility for us to make it back to our seats to watch the second act. Instead we went to eat dessert at a nearby bar. It's the first and only time I've walked out of a play, and I still don't regret it.

Cake is very important to me.

So you can see, the stakes were high. I had to get those madeleines.

And I have to say, it's surprising how fast you can walk with the drumbeat of "madeleines, madeleines, madeleines," beating in your heart.

I powered down Blackfriars Bridge and across Bankside, driven by the kind of fervour that Trumpites must get when someone wishes them Happy Holidays.

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The loud tapping of my foot and the pain on my face as I waited to collect my ticket was so acute, the bloke on box office actually ended up apologising to me. (No, I'm sorry, lovely box office person. All my fault. I was having cake-based-anxiety. I'm quite sure you understand).

Then on to the bar.

It was 6:50. For a 7.45 start. I was early. Really early. And yet there was already a queue.

I could see the chefs further along removing a tray of delicious domed dainties from the oven. The warm scent drifted over to me, taunting me. What if that was the last batch? Was I too late? This play had no interval. There would be no second chances.

The man in front of me was being served. What was he getting? Wine. Fuck's sake. Couldn't that wait? Some of us had important things to order.

The oven opened again and another waft of Yankee-candle-scented air blasted out.

The man's wine was delivered. He turned around.

Comeoncomeoncomeon.

The barman raises his eyebrows, indicating he's ready for me.

I try and step forward, but the wine man is still there, at the bar. Dithering.

He steps to the left, directly into my path, blocking me even further.

It took ever inch of self control I had not to scream at him.

Eventually, he and his wretched wine moved on.

"CanIavesommadeleinesples?" I said, clutching onto the edge of the bar for support, my purse already half open in my hand.

"Of course!" said the barman, as if salvation had not just been delivered to me in cake form.

For the princely sum of a fiver, I was handed one of those little buzzy things and advised it would take about 10 minutes.

I spent those 10 minutes taking photos of the foyer, and checking my little buzzy thing every 30 seconds, just in case my rapidly falling sugar-levels meant that I could no longer sense the buzziness, but I needn't have feared. Exactly 10 minutes later, it vibrated, and lit up with glaring red lights.

My madeleines were ready!

There they were. As beautiful as a newborn baby. As beautiful as six newborn babies. Sextuplets, no less. All arranged around a plate like the petals of the tastiest flower ever cultivated.

I nearly cried.

Grabbing my prize, I found a seat, paused just long enough to take some photos (you're welcome) and dove in.

Oh rapture. Oh heavenly transcendence.

Still warm from the oven, each bite melted into memory without the indignity of needing to be chewed, leaving nothing but the taste of angel's tears and sweet butter behind on the tongue.

I had planned to take a few home with me to have as a midnight snack. I had even washed out my Tupperware extra carefully post-lunchtime sandwich (toasted bagel with chicken liver pate, sweet gem lettuce and lashings of sriracha) in order to house them safely for the journey.

That idea didn't last long. The only way they were going home with me was in my belly.

As the final bite dissolved into the distant past, there was nothing for it but to head into the auditorium.

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How did I manage to sneak a photo of a empty theatre? Had I jimmied the lock and broken in overnight? Was I given a special tour by the press team ahead of my state visit?

I was surprised too. 7.34 and the auditorium was empty save for a few ushers and two other audience members who had not had not tasted the madelelines (I could tell. Their faces lacked the simple contentment of the saved).

A minute late a dark little ditty, poised somewhere between a child's nursery rhyme and a nightmare, started over the speakers, and people began to pour in, still clutching their wine glasses, seemingly determined to get as much alcohol down their throats as possible before the play begun.

The Bridge audiences sure know how to party. Or perhaps they'd just read the reviews. I almost started to feel kindly towards them. It was as if we'd all, collectively, decided we were going to get through this. Together. I don't think it's an overstatement to say there was a touch of the blitz spirit in the air.

The box hanging above the stage started swinging.

Wine was sipped.

Madeleines digested quietly.

Everyone in the audience set their shoulders to the task of getting through the evening.

The lights dimmed.

It began.

Anyway, I liked the play. I don't know what you all were going on about.