Stage Door (Victoria)

Bodie (The Professionals)

Yep, so here I am, propping up the bar in the Door, 7.35 on the clock and I’d guess by now they’re half-way through the opening number next door.

I admit, this is a bit stupid. If it was anything else, I wouldn’t really mind, I’d see it as the ends justifying the means, but this…. this is Billy Elliot I’m missing! When I think about the lengths I had to go to getting hold of that ticket (the same ticket I’m now scrunching up in the pocket of my Farrahs)… and look at me now, nursing a flat Stella and wondering if Pie of the Day will help pass the time. I dunno why I do it to myself, I really don’t.

This place looks bloody different at times like these: I’m the only prat in here. Wind that clock forward an hour and it’ll be absolute bedlam in here, total carnage. In a way, I’m looking forward to it… more cut and thrust, more my scene, exactly what I was trained for. That I’m standing here on my Jack Jones an hour early is a bit of a joke… and it’s all down to one man… the curly-haired little twot.

“Another Stella when you’re ready Saskia luv… what’s Pie of the Day by the way?”

“Chicken and Ham, handsome, same as always”

“Pass”

Anyway….. where was I? D’you know what, I’m sorry, I’ve been rambling. Let me fill you in a little bit. Me and my partner, right, about six months ago, got hauled in front of the boss and were read the riot act. It were after that fiasco down the Isle of Dogs… you know the one: Five million in cash and three of the Yard’s top 10 most wanted in the palms of our hands and the two of us meanwhile end up in a fist fight over a disagreement on whether Hoddle should be back in the England team.

Then he slams the RS2000 straight into an iron girder, and blames it all on me for moving the seat back a couple of notches. Meanwhile the villains are away on their toes. So Cowley’s giving us the third degree and letting us know what he thinks of our teamwork skills,....when East London’s answer to Kevin Keegan suggests we start doing more stuff together in our free time… like going to the theatre together!!! If my old SAS buddies could see me now….

“D’you know what luv, I will have that pie… I’ll be over there by the dumb waiter”

Let’s get settled…. nothing’s gonna happen here for half-hour at least.

So anyway, Cowley jumps on this idea and before you know it, me and David Essex are doing a play a week. And to be fair, at first it ain’t so bad. Granted, he wanted to see some funny stuff to begin with: all this Pinter and Shaw nonsense down Sloane Square way, but give him his dues, he had no problem with me choosing every other week. So far we’ve been to Wicked, the Sound of Music, Les Mis (twice), the Lion King (overrated actually), all of them really except Billy, and I gotta say, I really started to enjoy myself. So, where did it all go wrong?

Where it all went wrong, if I remember rightly, was the night we were at Bollywood Dreams, just across the main road in the Victoria Apollo. I’m there in a world of my own munching on my Bombay Mix when I get a nudge from the right and he’s muttering something about “beating the half-time rush”, and he’ll “see me in the Stage Door in 10”. Before I know it, he’s scarpered out the theatre altogether and left me there on my own like a lame duck!

“Pie of the day, gorgeous. You want some sauces with that?”

“Saucy as you like luv…. and stick another half in there will ya?”

*I reckon I’m in there; one for after maybe. Take her back to the pad, show her the new leather sofas and my programme collection. It won’t make up for missing Billy, but I shouldn’t squander my talents.*

So come the interval, I peg it over to this place and find him happy as a sandboy, two pints to the good, chatting to a couple of American high-school students about some Arthur Miller dross we’d seen the week before, generally in full “I love myself” mode… you know how he can get. He was just about to do the usual and steer the conversation onto his cooking, when I pulled him aside:

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

“Leave it Bodie… just lay off, alright?”

“Lay off? What are you playing at? Why d’you leave before the interval? You missed the last number. An elephant came out on stage…”

“Shut up Bodie, and drink your pint… I got you one see? You see it? Notice how it’s here, already for you to drink, no hassle involved? Is the penny starting to drop?”

“What’s this all about Doyle?”

“I’ll tell you Bodie. It’s simple. There’s two ways of doing half-time drinks; I’ve seen your way, and I don’t like it. You wait until the interval, you even wait until they’ve cleared the stage, and then you stroll up to the bar - you might even take a leak first! – and then it’s 15 minutes of jostling, five minutes to get it down you and then – whoopey-do – we’re back in time for five minutes of musack before the 2nd half”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s amateur Bodie… AMATEUR. And we’re the Professionals. And from now on we’re gonna act as such. From now on we don’t use the theatre bar: if you look at your ticket it says “allows re-admission throughout”. So we use the nearest juicer. O’Neills for the Shaftesbury Apollo, Duke of Cambridge for Les Mis, Stage Door for the Victoria shows. You with me so far?”

“Don’t patronize me Doyle”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. We allow 10 minutes MINIMUM either side of the interval for re-location and service, more if we’re gonna be really professional. Take a look around you, you big brute, we’re not the only ones paying this game”

At that I had a look around and realised how many faces from the Bollywood Dreams crowd I recognised. I’m sure I even saw one of the Maharashi’s servant boys sipping on a rum and coke! As I knocked back my pint and got a couple more in, I had to admit: he had a point.

And so here I am now, two months down the line, missing the entire first half of Billy Elliot. It got out of hand you see.

We started taking the concept of 'being Professional' more and more seriously. I guess it was our competitive nature taking over again. First he’d leave 15 minutes before half-time, next week I’d up the ante and make it 20. One week he’d leave 10 minutes after the start of the play, the next I simply didn’t come back after the interval. We went through a phase of boozing in the theatre, but the smoking ban did for us and we’d end up back in the battle cruiser halfway through Act Two.

And so here I am tonight… the night of Billy Elliot of all things, which I sweated blood to get tickets for, on my jacks, in front of a tepid microwaved pie, watching the clock. God I miss the SAS.

Looks like these Amateurs could do with some training from Bodie,.......

Bodie's rating for The Stage Door - 6 / 10

Steveo500

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