Throwing a Curve Ball in the Little Shop of Horrors

Leicester, as discussed in previous posts which I cannot be arsed to link to, has a new theatre.

It is a super, shiny, gloriously modern new theatre called ‘The Curve’.

It will not surprise you to learn that it is curvy.

It is also modular, rather like a piece of futuristic Scandinavian furniture which appears to be a set of shelves but is actually a spoon rack with added splash back and a device for peeling kumquats.  This theatre is on the move.  You can make its two theatre spaces smaller or larger on a whim.  You can twiddle the stages about.  You can suspend lemons in buckets from tripods and have the audience glued to the walls with velcro should your heart desire such a thing.

It is a badass, STATEMENT piece of architecture.

People write magazine articles about it and take photographs of it with men with bald heads and tweed lab coats standing outside stroking their chins and pointing at it in wide eyed amazement.

It is supposed to announce to the world that Leicester is a forward, go getting type of city.   It isn’t afraid of culture. it doesn’t piss about going; ‘Can’t we just watch rerun of the Morecambe and Wise Christmas special with a bottle of Babycham and then go for a lie down?’  Oh no! It says; ‘Give me that experimental theatrical happening in Swahili with midget children in the orchestra pit doing sign language that is about four men who live in a sieve and who only have one vest between them.’  Yes. That is what we want.  We want more Brecht in the original.  Where is our sturm und drang?  We wee in the face of Beckett he is so ORDINARY.

It was supposed to have cost us, the taxpayer £7 million of your English pounds.  According to my father, it announced in the paper last week that it actually cost £37 million pounds.  Only thirty million out then.  A mistake anyone could make.

Now. For my thirty seven million pounds I want the goods.  I want the dogs theatrical bollocks served up in a giant martini glass, like canine olives, whilst Dita Von Teese writhes around with her pert nipples in the drink, and Daniel Craig serves the whole lot to me on a doily.  A gold one.

Do I get that?

Do I ‘eck as like.

A bloody shambles.  A farce of a sham of a shambles is what I get.  Repeatedly.

The first time I tried to book anything the website crashed.

I tried again.  The lady on reception didn’t know how to put me through to the ticket office.  I had to call back.

I called back.  The lady at the ticket office had major difficulties processing my requests because there is no clear policy on seating people with disabilities and it instead seems to revolve around a lot of people with post it notes and someone talking very loudly and slowly and using lots of David Brent style hand gestures.

It took twenty five minutes to book two shows.  Then the payment system fell over.  Then it fell over again.

She eventually rang me back.  The payment system fell over.

Three hours later she called me to tell me that the system had accepted the payment.

Since then we have had the issue of them discounting tickets because they can’t sell, but failing to reward loyal customers who book first.  Their failure to give refunds unless your head blows off or they are caught red handed doing something cocktastic and their general failure to employ anyone who seems to know anything at all about theatre other than whether Frank Bruno is in panto this year.

Add to that the fact that last time I took the kids to something there was that bloody idiot woman texting through the performance which took me three quarters of the performance to sort out, and you will sense my reluctance to venture back.  They were eventually very helpful about the texting lady but only after things had gotten way out of hand.

This week they are showing the Menier Chocolate Factory’s tour of ‘Little Shop of Horrors,’ which has had great reviews.  Menier put on some top stuff and I’ve never been disappointed by them. 

Andrea rang me and said did I think it was worth getting tickets?  I had £25 worth of vouchers which I was given for the texting lady disaster, so I said yes, and that we would take the girls with us.

I booked on Monday for tonight.  I needed seats in either of the first two rows, in the middle, as you know.  Andrea not being able to see and all.  I secured such seats and paid handsomely for them.  And I mean handsomely.  I paid less for front row tickets to see Helen Mirren in Phedre at the National Theatre to put this into perspective.

The kids were delighted.

This morning at eleven I got a phone call from The Curve.  The chap I spoke to said (and I paraphrase here, but not much):

‘Er! Hello.  You know you booked front row seats to see Little Shop of Horrors tonight?  Well, there’s been a bit of a mistake.  You see we didn’t realise that there would have to be an orchestra pit.  We’ve had to take out the first three rows of seats.  You can have seats further back to the side if you like?’

I was amazed.  The show actually started its run yesterday.  They have been advertising it for months.  Literally months.  How can you not know that you’ve got a major touring production coming.  A MUSICAL touring production, and not remember or even think about the fact that you will need an orchestra pit?  I asked him this.  He said that they only knew five minutes before the show went on yesterday.  I think this was a lie as there are things such as rehearsals and sets to be built etc, but I was too utterly amazed to bother to argue the toss.

I pointed out that I needed front row seats because my friend was visually impaired and that if they couldn’t offer me what I needed I would have to have a refund.

He said he would call me back.

He called me back and offered me seats further back than he had offered me in the first phonecall, or even better, in the balcony.  Yes, because if she can’t see past the second row, the balcony will be perfect!

I pointed out that I hadn’t paid for her to go to a radio show.

He was not impressed.  He was not going to offer me a refund.

I asked for one.  I also asked for my £25 worth of vouchers to be reinstated from the last time they cocked things up for me.  He agreed but said that it would take several days for the refund to be worked out and sent through.

What could I say? I agreed.

Then I got a phone call offering me seats on the first two rows but split between the rows.  After several more phone calls and some negotiations it ended up with Andrea and the girls on the front row and me in the second. 

And me frothing with frustration.

A good job it was me in the second row.  There was a man with a particularly large head in front of me, and the rake on the seats is virtually non existent, so I ended up watching half the stage.

In the second half Tallulah needed the toilet.  We got out with the minimum of fuss and I decided to bring her back to my seat where she could sit on my knee.  I was on the end of the row so nobody would have to move.

The usher let us out, and then when we came in again tried to make us sit at the back of the auditorium.  This was the final straw.  I just refused and walked her to my seat and sat her down.

Thirty seven million quid and tickets more expensive than for Helen Mirren.

I’d rather watch the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special and go to bed with a Babycham.

You don’t get this at the National.