Читать книгу Grumpy Old Men: A Manual for the British Malcontent - David Quantick - Страница 13

‘The only thing I get from the theatre,’ Paul McCartney said to Joe Orton, ‘is a sore arse.’ While this was a remark that Orton relished on several levels, it does have the force of truth behind it. Theatres are rubbish. In other cultures, theatre is acknowledged to be historically and ethnically an important part of a nation’s cultural past. In ours, we still let actors, directors and critics pretend that it’s important. It’s not; it’s a leftover art form from the olden days that’s about as relevant to the times as operetta, the York Mystery Plays and Morris Dancing. And a lot less enjoyable.

Where do we begin to tell the story of how crap a night at the theatre can be? For a start, most old theatres are the size of a kennel. Theatre designers spent so much time on the rococo balustrades and filigree whatnottery that they obviously forgot to put the seats in. The foyer is designed to prevent any swinging of cats. And the Royal Box is, literally, a box.

And then they want you to buy a programme. This is a piece of cheaply printed tat which looks a bit like a football programme but is spectacularly more dull.

And then they want you to buy a programme. This is a piece of cheaply printed tat which looks a bit like a football programme but is spectacularly more dull. A theatre programme contains the following rotten items:

1) A history of the play, which, had you read it before you booked the tickets, would have caused you to never set foot in a theatre again.

2) A biography of the director, who comes over as a cross between Rommel and a halfwit.

3) The actual ‘programme’, which claims that Act 1 takes place in some git’s front room, and Act 2 in the same git’s front room, ‘several years later’. This tells you nothing, except that you have spent £50 to spend five hours looking at the same eight pieces of flyblown scenery.

4) A biography of the leading lady, who seems to have alternated her career between playing Shakespearian heroines and appearing in Crossroads.

5) A biography of the leading man, who, reading between the lines, appears to have been too pissed to work for most of his career.

6) An advert on the back for Cats.

This piece of old toot will set you back ten quid. It will take you 20 minutes to read, not because it’s interesting, because it isn’t interesting, but because the print is so small. This will however kill time during the interval. Do not under any circumstances go to the bar during the interval, even if you have ‘pre-ordered’ your drinks. There is one barman, five hundred booze-craving punters and the bar is the size of a pencil case.