It was always going to be one of those evenings.
Last week, .I discovered that ENO has adapted its online booking system to accept Maestro cards. I checked the dates of Rigoletto performances against my diary and decided to opt for the performance this Wednesday. Just as I pressed 'Confirm', I realised that I had actually selected the wrong date - I had booked a ticket for that evening. Only, I wasn't sure whether I had, because the page had frozen (this was the fault of the connection at work). The screen said if nothing happens, contact the Box Office. I prefaced my remarks with a warning that there was stupidity ahead. My transaction for that day had gone through, but it was absolutely no problem to change it to the day I actually wanted. The chap in the Box Office kept apologising, but I insisted that the fault lay entirely with me. It was nice that I could change the ticket at no extra charge, compared to earlier in the day when the Theatre Royal Haymarket had charged me an extra £3 per ticket on top of their advertised price, just for booking, without me making any mistakes.
I arrived horrendously early, a result of coming to a natural break in my work and finding a bus outside the office to speed me down Whitehall. I did think of going into the National Gallery, but decided that the hassle with bags and cloakrooms would take more time than I had for looking at pictures. I killed some time, and resisted spending money, in MDT.
I was stood outside the Coliseum having my last cigarette and I noticed a car pull up outside. If it had not stopped on the double yellows, I would not have even noticed. Indeed, if the passenger had just got out and the car had driven off, I still wouldn't have noticed. But it seemed to linger for a while, entering my consciousness. A man got out and I realised that I knew him. I expect my face registered that and he clocked that I recognised him. Just as I realised that it was off the telly. But at least I can say that I have stood just inches from Les Dennis! Could the evening get any better!
I went to take my seat before curtain up. To my left was a group of students, possibly Sixth Formers. I am always slightly wary of groups; I think in groups we all display less awareness of and consideration for those around us than we do in a twosome or foursome.
A party of faffers arrived to my right. There were three of them, but they were becoming anxious about the arrival of the fourth. They asserted confidently that he would be allowed in late because he was on the end of the row. They might be right, but I doubt it. ENO does not admit latecomers until a suitable break. I would be surprised if they made an exception for those on the end of the row.
I soon realised that I was surrounded by the Anti-Social morons from hell. Not the Students/Sixth Formers, to whom I was entirely oblivious throughout as they displayed the impeccable behaviour that ought to be taken as read for anyone in a theatre.
Before the opera began, there was the usual announcement about switching off mobile phones. ENO do it by playing two loud grating ringtones, which always gets a reaction from people with at least two braincells who have forgotten to switch theirs off. But the woman next to me exclaimed "I thought one couldn't bring mobiles in. I thought they were banned. It's outrageous if people are letting their phones ring." I was tempted to point out the message on the surtitle screen, but couldn't be bothered. I had already decided that she was one of those people who, realising that a good education would be wasted on her limited intelligence, had opted for Elocution lessons, the 'How to Sound Strangulated' class.
In front were four men, three middle-aged-ish and one who was a stereotype of how TV decides that a certain-type of 20-something gay man should be, his shallowness visible from ten yards in the dark. He turned to the chap next to him and simpered "But I love shows. I saw Martine McCutcheon in My Fair Lady, one of the few nights she was in it. And I've seen Mamma Mia three times." He proceeded to whisper loudly at various stages throughout. I hate being the sort of person who says "Ssssshhhhh" but it can be very distracting to have some twat constantly twittering away. During Care nome, one of the most sublimely gorgeous pieces of music in the entire operatic canon, he tweeted again, so I finally did my Sssshhhh, resentful that he felt he had the right to distract everyone around him. I want to explain, in a production such as this, not short of riveting stage action, when the Director (no less a person than Jonathan Miller) has opted to stop the action and allow the soprano more or less to stand-and-deliver, there is a reason for this. The reason is apparent if you listen to the music.
And the Mrs Stupid from Surrey exclaimed, in the loudest Stage Whisper, "Do you want to borrow my glasses?" to her husband - because he had discovered he could not read the surtitles. I did the sssshhing again, interrupting husband before he had barely begun his loud response.
At the first interval Mr And Mrs Surrey Stupid stood debating with their companions about whether they were going to swap around seating for the next Act. and stood and stood and stood, oblivious. Eventually Friend of the Surrey-Stupids said "I think this lady wants to get out". Mrs Stupid-Surrey turned to me and looked at me in the most condescending way "Oh, you want to get out?" in tones of utmost surprise, and as if she was set to challenge my right. Irritably I exclaimed "First you chatter away disturbing everybody else, then you stop people from getting out." I hate it when people's self-centredness turns me into a nasty person.
In the bar, a familiar voice caught my attention and I realised that I was stood right next to Shirley Williams. I remember her from when I was a child, someone I have always admired, and someone I regard as one of the most intelligent and principled politicians around, with whom I agree on a great number of issues. I also remember she had a reputation for being a bit unkempt, one newspaper cruelly called her a bag-lady. What I saw was a woman of seventy five looking fabulous. Smart, and surprisingly attractive. Ageing gracefully, not looking old but not pretending to be twenty years younger, and with a mellifluous voice. I felt that Mrs Stupid-Surrey, twenty years younger, could learn a lot.
The remainder of the opera went ahead without incident, although I had to laugh at Mrs Stupid-Surrey grandly announcing "This is the second interval" at the start of the second interval, just in case any of us were in any doubt. I don't know whether it was the effect of my ssshhhing but the Surrey-Stupids and Mr Shallow managed to keep their lips buttoned throughout. Of course, the Sixth Formers behaved impeccably throughout, and displayed charm and good manners in the trivial exchanges at the end of the intervals.
At the end I went to the Ladies. As I was coming out, I saw Shirley Williams and smiled at her, in my well-honed 'I recognise you as Someone Off the Telly and I am smiling to acknowledge that I have admiration for you but don't worry I'm not going to engage you in conversation' smile. She gave me a look of "I know you recognise me but that does not mean I have to acknowledge you." Whereas a couple of weeks ago, I walked past Clare Short and I gave her that same smile and she gave me a warm smile which said "I understand why you are smiling at me; I acknowledge and return it. I know you're not going to hassle me."
I caught the Tube home, by chance getting into a carriage with three very loud people. One was very drunk, as the other two reminded her frequently. She declared she wanted to be on a beach in Dubai, or to go to Petra, but it's really dangerous there because it's near Lebanon, and she has a friend whose girlfriend, who is really beautiful, is from Izmenistan, which is near Lebanon and dangerous and she is half Russian, half Arabic and half something else. "One of the Stans" suggested the Canadian bloke.
She engaged another threesome in conversation; one of the women asked Miss Drunk whether she spoke Spanish. "No, not really. Where are you from?"
"France," replied the woman.
"Really, France is really beautiful!"
"No, I'm from Spain, really." But her boyfriend was from France.
Spain is really beautiful. I'd love to be in Spain now because it's hot. And it's really beautiful.
"The weather's very cold in Spain at the moment," said the Spanish woman.
"Oh, maybe I could be in France. It's hot in France. And it's really beautiful in France. I love France. Don't you?"
"Not really!" exclaimed the French bloke.
"But it's really beautiful."
"It's full of French people!" explained the French bloke, causing most of the rest of the carriage to collapse in barely disguised laughter.
"Oh everyone's laughing at us. Maybe they're from Izmenistan, it's really beautiful there."
Time for the French bloke to change the conversation "So, what do you do?"
"Oh we're training to be opera singers, which is really beautiful because we go to operas every week. But I'm going home to see my Mum this weekend." And then it was my station.
