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London Theatrec

The Source

It may have been one of the oddest theatre ticket systems I’d ever encountered. I was in London for a week by myself. A travel company had the questionable taste to say I’d written the best travel piece and the reward was six days in England’s jewel of a capital city. My routine was this: I’d spend the morning’s in my hotel room writing on a Vaudeville Show to be produced in Jacksonville, then around 11 I’d stroll out for lunch, tour the city, and hit the theatre district in time for an evening’s performance. Years ago my group was blessed with a British tour guide named Richard Taylor and we’d become good friends over the years. He had lined up an entire week of theatre performances… yummy. Each night we’d meet at a different theatre and Richard had done his best to stuff my schedule full of an eclectic mix of musicals, dramas, and even an evening of “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare in Ninety Minutes.” It was a hoot. On the final evening of my stay Richard said, “Okay, we’ve covered the gamut, chum, but tonight I want to take you to something purely British. You may not enjoy it since you’re a Yank, but you’ll have to indulge me.” How could I resist? It was the British Music Hall. And on that night I discovered the eccentric method of ticketing. You can’t buy a ticket. You must purchase a membership in “the club.” This ticket lasts a year and includes as many performances as you wish to attend. The really cool part: I paid no more than I’d shelled out for Les Miserables on the evening before. Why not? “So..” I asked. “How do I join?” The bespectacled little man in the ticket booth said, “You have to be accepted into membership.” This was my last night in London. I had to no time to be feted by membership committee. “And how do I do that?” I asked. “Easy-peasy,” he responded, then yelled into a back room. “Luv? A Mr. Kenneth Bradbury would like to join the club. Whatta you think?” And elderly female voice responded, “Does he seem an upright chap?” The old man looked at me then said, “At the moment. But I must warn you. He’s got a Yankee accent.” “Oh dear,” came the lady’s voice, “He’s not a cowboy is he?” The man looked ar me. I shook my head. No, no cowboy. “Seems not!” he said. “Then tell him the show’s at 8. Come early if he wants to eat.” The members of the “club” often took their meals at the theatre. In fact, they’d often carry them into the theatre that had small drop-down tables in front of each seat. Drinking was encouraged. I met my friend Richard (already a club member) in front of the theatre that evening and he warned me, “Ken, you keep talking to me about this God stuff. How he shows up all the time when you ask him to. And I’ll admit that we keep running into references to God in every show we’ve seen this week, but this is different…may be a bit bawdy. Perhaps God will take the night off.” The British Musical Hall is hosted by a Master of Ceremonies who sits onstage through the entire show, brandy in hand, and introduces each act. For the first twenty minutes he warms up the audience by insulting everyone in the house. The Japanese tourists were warned not to stand up and bow during the performance, the Germans told to sit by someone with a sense of humor since they had none, the Australians were asked if they’d come to London to “…have your hanky-panky right-side-up for a change,” then he looked at me and asked where I was from. I told him, “The States.” “Which one?” he asked. “Illinois.” The guy was flummoxed. Apparently Illinois is such a dull place that he had no stock joke (this was pre-Blagojevich) so he stumbled a bit and then said, “Well, British Music Hall is a lot like your American Vaudeville. Maybe you can go back to your hotel and become a playwright.” I looked at Richard. Richard looked at me. God had taken the seat next to us. A post-script: Coming out of the theatre we were approached by two gorgeous English girls. They were flirting. I was enjoying it, but Richard kept pulling on my sleeve, wanting to move on. This was odd. Richard was a flirt himself. I said, “Okay Richard, you’re married, but I’m not. What was the rush to get away from those beautiful girls?” He whispered, “Ken, they weren’t girls.” I guess I’m better at recognizing God than determining gender.