Wakefield Theatre Royal Tuesday April 17th

Another red letter day today…it’s Tomps’ birthday, and he’s finally old enough to buy cider without an adult in attendance. I’m sure he had something more exciting in mind than sitting in the back seat of the bus with me and Nick ( a.k.a The Flatulence Kid ) on a rainy Humberside morning, but them’s the breaks, as they say. After a day off in sunny Scunny, we set off for tonight’s show in Wakefield. As with South Shields and a couple of the other gigs, the recession has bitten deep, and the theatre is struggling a bit. When we played here on the first tour three years ago we were pleasantly surprised at the size of the audience given the fact that we’d never been here before, but we have to be realistic and appreciate that’s not going to happen this time around. We love the theatre, as it’s one of the classic little old former music halls, but one major drawback is that as it sits on a major road junction, we can’t park the bus here. That means we all have to bail out, and Big John has to take the Bogey to a nearby truck park. He’s more miffed than normal because he took her through a truck wash this morning, and he’s justifiably proud of her shining…err…greenness. Now, instead of impressing the good folk of Wakefield, she’s tucked ignominiously away next to a load of manky old pantechnicons. It’s just for today though….her luxurious verdant coachwork will be back on display tomorrow in Newark. As it’s a short drive from Scunny, we arrive a bit early, and the local techs rather grumpily tell us we can’t come in as they’re re-rigging the lights from last night’s Cirque du Ceil show, so we scuttle off through the wind and rain to the theatre’s bistro for a very rock’n’roll cup of hot chocolate ( although one member of the party, who shall remain nameless but is sometimes called Pug ) decides a beer is more in order. Bad lad. By the time the actual get-in time comes around the attitude of the house crew has softened considerably ( they even make us tea ) and everything drops back into the groove. John has driven off to a truck park a short walk away but it still means we’re stuck in the theatre for the day, and once we’ve finished our work and we’re waiting for soundcheck, time DOES seem to hang heavily, even for the birthday boy, who finds a little nook behind some flight cases and catches forty winks. I try to catch up on my accounts, but I’m feeling really tired too for some reason, and decide it’s a bad idea….last think I need is to have to re-do the bloody things at a later date. Normally by showtime there’s a degree of adrenaline kicking in, but I have to say it’s just not working today…maybe the schedule is finally catching up with us, but the crew are all weary, and even during the first half I find myself dozing at my station, which just won’t do. The interval comes, and with it the ice cream tubs. Feeling as tired as I am there’s only one way to wake up, so I stick my face totally in the ice cream tub, much to the bemusement of Tomps. Works, though, and I’m fine in the second half once I’ve licked the mess of my mug. No weariness for the band tonight, though…..they’re banging through the set at full throttle, and this small but very enthusiastic crowd is lapping it up. The only odd thing about the Theatre Royal is that the merchandise position is in the bar, which is upstairs. To get there involves several doors, keys, more stairs, electronic fobs, even more stairs, retina scanning systems, some stairs that alarmingly seem to lead to the ladies’ toilets, and finally you have to give the sacred password to the Ancient Gatekeeper who guards the Chasm of Doom ( well, it feels like that anyway ). About three days after I set off, and totally knackered, I arrive, panting, in the bar to find….no-one. Yes folks, here’s a useful sales tip if you’re trying to catch those post-gig buyers…..try and have the merch table somewhere on the ground floor where people will actually pass you, as opposed to them just streaming out of the main doors several storeys below, blissfully unaware of your presence. As it transpires we DO have a few hardy souls who find our secret hideout, so I tip my hat to you good folk. This hardy band includes a friend of Phil’s, a delightful lady from Sweden called Barbro, and a young couple who I am convinced have wandered in by mistake. Turns out they’d just fancied coming to something different and had loved the show. Rodders had spotted them in the first half and thought much the same thing as myself, and when he couldn’t see them after the interval thought “ Ah…they’ve sloped off under cover of darkness”. Far from it, though….they’d switched seats so they were right in front of the stage, and were bopping away with the best of ‘em. We need more people like this, please !!!! Big John being Big John, he’s brought the bus up to the venue anyway, and trust me, there’s not a traffic warden in the land who would dare approach him when he’s on a mission. This means the band can get straight aboard after the show and begin work on seeing off the contents of the bottle of Jack Daniels which had appeared that day. Mild intoxication may have ensued….We’re in Newark tomorrow, and as that’s just about eighty miles we’ve decided to do the post-show shuffle again. Big John can’t leave until quarter past midnight due to his driving hours, so the vans set off a little early, seeking the Holy Grail of the 24 hour Burger King. So far we’ve found only one, but hey…hope springs eternal. As it turns out, our hopes are dashed again. We pull into Blyth services near Doncaster to find nothing but locked shutters and switched-off lights where there should be Whoppers, Bacon Double Cheeseburgers, and Chilli Cheese Bites. DENIED !! There IS, though, a Costa-style place open, populated by a sullen teen who tells us listlessly she’ll be with us in a minute, then returns to sorting carrots into different shades of orange or something equally useful. It soon becomes clear she’ll not be with us in a few minutes, or, indeed, in this lifetime. A somewhat overweight truck driver comes up behind us, and to our alarm starts to pick up trays of crockery and move them about. It takes a while to realise that far from being some scruffy trucker, this chap actually works here….maybe the apron and paper cap just didn’t fit…but he cheerfully takes our order and even has the good grace not to get upset when I pass out at his feet after being given the news that two pieces of bread and a scraping of cheese and ham will cost me £ 3.69. We figure that by now the bus will have left, and as we are driving out of the services Big John is actually turning in, so the vans pull up to wait for him. It’s at this point that Nick realises one of his back tyres is flat. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever changed a big tyre on a van or truck, but it’s not a pleasant business. Add to that the fact that it’s bloody freezing and blowing a gale, and the whole process just gets even worse. “ God, that looks horrible “ I reflect from the warmth of my van cab as I watch Nick manfully struggling alone with the wheelbrace. To be honest, we all jump out to try and help, but apart from Rodders, who actually gets the spare out of the van, the rest of it is just window-dressing, and we are mere spectators. The evening is given a surreal twist when the bus pulls up behind us, and Steve, no doubt fuelled by Jack Daniels as well as the milk of human kindness, starts running around the assembled group, popping squares of Cadbury’s chocolate in our mouths before disappearing into the night. Afterwards it’s one of those “ Did I imagine that or did it really happen ?” moments, but the tell-tale choccy marks on my fleece provide the answer. At last we’re back on the road and make Newark without further incident. I resolve to do a tiny bit of work before climbing into my bunk, and pull my stupidly heavy office bag up onto the seat beside me….which is where it still is when I wake up an hour later, the zipper having made an attractive impression in my cheek. Note to self…try sleeping in the bunk next time……..