Scunthorpe Plowright Theatre Sunday April 15th

It’s almost as though the Gods Of Rock have decided that, having given us a glimpse of what we COULD be doing in the future when we played the Bedford show, they’re going to give us a swift kick in the biffins to remind us of what lakes of stinking ordure we still have to swim through in the here and now. Having survived the Gig In The Greenhouse in Morecambe last night, today we find ourselves in Scunthorpe, at the Plowright Theatre, which has been one of our favourite shows of the past two tours. We’ve pretty much sold it out both times before, and we love the crew here, for whom nothing is too much trouble. This time, however, the chill wind of the recession, fanned by the rancid, flatulent emissions of the American-based corporate numpties who now own the place, have combined to blow over half of our audience away. About ninety per cent of the people who come to theatre shows do so because they read about forthcoming attractions in the theatre’s brochure. When the tossers who put these things together, and please bear in mind this now includes a four-person marketing department whose sole job it is to do just this kind of thing, totally forget to put your show in the brochure, you’re going to struggle. Guess whose show wasn’t in the brochure ? Got it in one. As it happens we aren’t alone…our agent also manages The Searchers, and they’re not in the bloody thing either. As such no-one knows we’re on, and despite an admittedly game attempt by the marketing characters to try and salvage something from the wreckage, it’s too little and way, way too late. Whereas this used to be a “ banker” date for us, this time we’re looking to change the first letter of that word. And I don’t mean to a ‘t’. None of this is any reflection on the people here at the theatre, who are genuinely pleased to see us back and make sure we have access to all their facilities even before the load – in time. The problem is when globe-buggering corporates start to stick their greedy little fingers into things they don’t fully understand, and then sob into their balance sheets when things don’t work out just as the avaricious drones back at head office had planned. For some reason known only to the misguided berk who conceived this sad excuse for a plan, this big American leisure corporation, SMG Leisure, which owns venues of all types across Europe, has decided that the place to start it’s quest for UK domination is in Scunthorpe, presumably due to it’s well documented history as the town at the very centre of every significant musical trend of the past fifty years. Oh no, hang on…wasn’t that Liverpool ? Or was it London ? Or Manchester ? Shit…we’ve bought the goddam place now….it’s too late….!! Apart from the Plowright Theatre, Scunthorpe actually boasts a very nice 2000 capacity hall called The Baths. Because it used to be the swimming baths ( see what they did there..? ). Both previously council-run, whilst the Plowright is a reasonably recent development, The Baths has trundled along in happy semi-obscurity for about 100 years…. closing , re-opening, hosting gigs, bingo, discos, closing again, re-opening again….without ever once seriously troubling the touring circuit in the UK. SMG Leisure, ( surely stands for Sadly Misguided Gits ) in their infinite wisdom, decided that this was the very place for them, so they’ve taken it over, spent a boatload of money on refurbing it…and now it’s haemorrhaging cash, so they’re dumping staff and cutting back, and the planned refurb of the backstage at the Plowright never happened. Because, of course, they own the Plowright too. No doubt someone in East Lindsey council, the previous owners, is now driving around in a VERY nice new car, or is enjoying an exotic holiday somewhere….Anyway, enough ranting at this latest form of corporate rape. It’s happening all over the world and we’re stuck with it until we stand up and tell SMG or Live Nation or whichever morally bankrupt bunch of bastards it is to stick their chequebooks up their jacksies. As you may have guessed, this is something I feel a WEE bit strongly about….anyway, on to the show. All is going splendidly during the day until with a loud click and crack during soundcheck, all the power goes off. We put it back on. It goes back off. We put it back on, It goes back off . We out it back on. It goes back off.
( are you seeing where I’m going with this ? ).Finally, it goes off once too often and when we go to put it back on THIS time, our mains distribution unit, through which all power to the PA , moving lights, projectors and instruments runs, has finally turned up it’s toes, and steadfastly refuses to switch back on again ( or, indeed, do much of anything at all ). This, even the less technically minded among you may have gathered, is a Very Bad Thing. To use a dash of Cockney rhyming slang, we’re Donald Ducked, unless a solution can be found with the speed of many antelope. We are fortunate on two fronts. One is that Matt and Steve, the two theatre techs, are both really good blokes and know what they’re talking about, and the other is that we have with us Professor His Royal Highness The Right Honourable Martin “Rodders” Rodwell, a wise and learned sage, well versed in the ways of all things electrical. Not for him the girly tantrums and chewed knuckles favoured by yours truly at times of stress. Oh no. Armed only with about four miles of cable and a little thing that goes “ beep” when he plugs it in, he, Matt and Steve set about doing….well, something electricky. Whatever it is, it works, and I go to change my trousers. It’s always unsettling when something this potentially disastrous happens, but there’s a general air of negativity about today anyway….things just feel wrong somehow. This should be a sold-out show tonight…I shouldn’t be anxiously looking into the foyer to see how many people are coming in. We always have such a blast here that I feel cheated. I mean, it’s not that the show’s bad, nor is it that the audiences don’t like it…quite the contrary…it’s just that I feel there are forces at work here that are out of our control, and they’re messing with our futures. The band, as ever, don’t let us down, but by their standards, tonight’s a little lacklustre somehow. They play brilliantly, and to anyone in the crowd there’d be nothing amiss, but there’s a missing spark somewhere, and having seen them level Bedford just two nights ago, it’s even more apparent. At the end of the show I ask a little gaggle of people at the front of the stage if they’ve enjoyed it, and they say they have in a slightly puzzled way. A little puzzled myself at their response, I continue coiling cable until my ageing eyes finally swim into focus and I realise that two of the strangers are actually Marilyn and Debbie. No wonder they sounded puzzled, with me asking them politely about the gig and displaying no sign at all of recognition. Ladies, I apologise….just put it down to my incipient senility. We crack on with the load-out and get done in almost record time. We’re staying here tonight, so there’ll be a little bit of playtime before Mummy sends us up the apples and pears to Bedfordshire. I’m feeling totally drained and can hear my bunk calling, but suddenly Big John appears and the jokes start flying thick and fast. Out comes the iPad and we start watching classic comedy sketches, until at one o’clock I realise that if I don’t get myself in my bunk soon I’m going to be totally wiped out tomorrow, and I REALLY need to do some admin, plus Rodders and I have to try and find a part to replace the bit that had the eppy before the show. I pick my way across the various bodies sprawled, guffawing, in the downstairs lounge and haul myself into bed. It takes about 3.2 seconds before the darkness falls and The Roaring Walrus reawakens……