The boy I love is up in the gallery…. (and so am I)

No, I’m not coming over all nostalgic for Marie Lloyd. In fact, I’m on the other side of the world in Australia right now, where it’s now Saturday 8am; but I’ve just spoken to my partner back home who had just come home from taking his sister, visiting from South Africa, to what was supposed to be a theatre treat for her: seeing Judi Dench in Hay Fever at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. But unlike when he attended the press night with me, sitting in centre stalls, he went as a regular theatregoer — and rang up the theatre to book tickets himself. Only balcony were available, so he bought two — at £22 each including booking fee. They had a perfectly miserable experience: the view was appalling, the seats uncomfortable. Of course, you could say that you get what you pay for; but £22 is not exactly cheap. He says they would have been better off going to a movie. And in future, he would do exactly that. Another paying customer has been lost to the theatre. How often does this happen? Someone goes to the theatre, has a bad experience, and is put off for life. The Haymarket, with under 900 seats in all to sell, probably has to capitalise on every seat it has; but in this day and age, remote galleries should be a thing of the past, and consigned to theatrical oblivion or at any rate the bargain basement: tickets up there shouldn’t cost more than a fiver.

Strangely enough, I too was in the upper circle — but in the main theatre of the massive, relatively modern Adelaide Festival Centre in Australia, attending the opening night performance of the Adelaide Cabaret Festival that I have attended for the last three years. I was seeing Engelbert Humperdinck — he of the preposterous stage name, and even more preposterous stage presence. And distance was definitely an advantage in this case. You wouldn’t want to be too close to this spectacle. Though performers like Tom Jones have lately been acquiring a retro chic, Humperdinck remains as silly as his name. There’s something repellent about watching an ageing lothario — now nearly 70 — with his black-dyed hair and paunchy belly — still trying to put the sexual moves over an entire audience. Tragically, however, he can no longer rely on the audience to throw their knickers at him, but has to have a stage roadie bring a pair on for him that have been allegedly left at the stage door with a note. It was not an auspicious start to the festival here, but things can only get better….