We zip past croaking, sodden beggars, zoom into the plush theatre, vertigo to the upper circle, acquire a rip-off programme and brush up on a little plot background. So does a rather well upholstered woman behind us.
“I went to Cambridge and I can’t understand it!” she booms at her cushion-faced husband – and most of the theatre. Dear me. My old class prejudice kicks in.
“Think what it’s like for us redbrick folk, us groundlings!” the wife prevents me from yelling.
“Remember we’re out!” Indeed.
But, whenever we’re out at these places, they seem to be replete with such shrill idiots. You don’t get them at QPR or the Odeon. Here, they seem to rule. White. Middle class. Elderly. Smug. There’s a terrific absence of people who are not. Groundlings are a bit thin on the ground.
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