Day 13: The fastest what?

Monday 12 October

Nine times out of ten, if I go to the theatre, I go to the theatre with Dave. Dave will say: “Do you want to see this?” and I say: “Yes!” without really thinking about it because, sometimes, it is nice to relinquish responsibility for one’s actions. 

The usual routine is that we meet for a pint of beer, grab a bottle of beer to take in with us, watch the first half then, using his impressive internal GPS Dave catapults us to the bar in record time for yet another beer. Although it never seems like much, I take in the second half in a befuzzled haze and then we go for dinner and more drinks afterwards. Dave is a hardened pro, having many white-knuckle drinking escapades to his name. I don’t do badly myself, but even I have to question whether this impairs my enjoyment of a play. 

The beer certainly came in handy during a horrendous rendition of Oedipus last year at the National, when Ralph Fiennes bellowed “Death is your dowry!” with all the drama of a teenager telling you that they didn’t ask to be born, and the entire audience dissolved into a tittering fit. But equally, there was the incident when we went to see Noël Coward’s Present Laughter and I feel asleep halfway through. What woke me up, to a veritable forest of angry laser-beam eyes piercing the gloom, was Dave’s snoring. We sheepishly shuffled out for wine and food and wrote that one off as a bad play. Was it really though?

Tonight, we went to see The Fastest Clock in the Universe by Philip Ridley at the Hampstead Theatre. Lily came too. Interesting fact. If you tell someone you are going to see The Fastest Clock in the Universe, they will blink, look positively alarmed, and say: “The what?” Try it.  

I’ve never been to the Hampstead Theatre before. It is pleasingly close to the tube station (if, that is, it doesn’t take you 45 minutes to locate Exit 2. No good will ever come of me). The theatre bar is situated in a long corridor that leads to the auditoriums so, even if you do have a beer, I imagine you would forever be having the neck of your bottle knocked into your teeth as people squeeze past. Dave had a beer; Lily and I did not.

The first act was gruesome and menacing and extremely funny, and was largely acted by a shapely chap who was naked but for a pair of very tight underpants. I love the word underpants. It sems so very English. Said pants left you not really knowing where to look. Although really I think everyone was looking in the same direction: you couldn’t not. Such are the joys of dimmed lighting. Do go and see it.

So on to interval drinks. Poor Lily was suffering. She had a cold and a cup of tea. Dave ordered a bottle of beer and I had a sparkling water. I like sparkling water: it gives me the illusion of being upper middle class. What’s more, it isn’t Diet Coke. Dave kindly let me sniff his beer and even offered to let me sneak his empty bottle back into the auditorium in my handbag so I could enjoy little whiffs throughout the second half. This was kind, but while I generally find dignity to be over-rated, even I have my limits.

The second half passed swiftly, I laughed, I was horrified, I felt capable of clear and lucid responses. I did not sleep. Oh no. Was it an exceptionally good play, or could it be that plays are best enjoyed sober? Truly, I think it is the latter.

Units dodged: Deep breath – seven. Poor show and yes, I am ashamed. That would be a pint before, a bottle to take in, an interval bottle and a large glass of wine with diner afterwards. Unnecessary, but good to finally re-relinquish responsibility for one’s actions.

The Unit Dodger