Bad theatre etiquette has become the norm. It’s time to break the chain
A friend, a New York theatre producer, was staying with us last Saturday and kindly got us tickets to see the play Stereophonic, which tells the story of a band on the cusp of greatness – and meltdown. It’s heavily inspired by Fleetwood Mac and their recording of Rumours in the 1970s. We found our seats early and I watched the audience as it assembled. There were a lot of old Mac heads: people who would have remembered the period clearly if they hadn’t smoked quite so much pot. A man in the row behind me was talking about when he used to work in a recording studio just like the one set up on stage, listing the legends he had produced. There were also a lot of women who looked like they had spent their youth in tie-dye, their wild hair now a little greyer but their dresses still floaty and free.
One of these crumpled charmers was right behind me. As the play started, she decided that she needed refreshments. A metal water bottle was extracted from her bag, clanking as it banged on every surface in her vicinity (to be fair, perhaps she had once played the triangle in a folk group and was getting into the mood of the play). Then out came the sandwich, wrapped in crackling film. For some reason she decided to lean forwards to devour her crusty delight just a few centimetres from my ear, her hot cheese-and-pickle breath on my neck. Enough. Words were said. But we weren’t done. Whenever there was a reference in the play that she actually got, she would utter banalities such as “Oh ye”. It’s a bloody long play and after an hour she had clearly lost all interest. So now the phone came out. She was texting. Luckily someone else intervened and told her to behave.
We read a lot about declining attention spans, about how young people’s inability to focus is down to hours spent watching TikTok. But I think old folk are the worst in a theatre. They sneak whole picnics of food around in their bags, nod off and then have to request loud updates from their partners and forget to turn off their phones. And the theatres don’t help. Gone is the treat of interval drinks; now, in London, you can often take in a whole bottle of wine with you. Corks are popped, glasses dropped. Barrel of beer delivered to your seat and a spit-roast pig? No problem sir.
I left at the interval. Thirty minutes later I was home with the dog.
Sunday was a chance to regroup. We owed lunch to our friends James and Kate and their 15-year-old son, Horace (clever, cool, holds your eye, looks at his phone far less than I do). But as our producer friend had only just left, we suggested that we take them to a nice pub for a Sunday lunch. One of those things that can be magical on a sunny autumn day in London.
As we sat down, the waitress said that she needed to let us know that they had run out of some starters. From an extensive list of appetisers it transpired that only two were available, a Greek salad or skewered prawns (only Sunday classics if you live in Athens). We went straight for mains. A few minutes later she returned to break the news – they had now run out of fish. Suddenly, those dismissed prawns became my main. Puddings, same story. The staff were nice, knocked some money off the final bill and explained to us that Saturday had been busier than expected. But if you know a day before that you are in trouble, why not do something – forewarn guests that it’s a limited menu or just go to the supermarket? I might return but if I do, I will ensure that I am carrying a theatre-style emergency picnic in my bag. Just in case.
