WHITE BEAR THEATRE CLUB

Every good theatre has versatility on its side. The Manchester Royal Exchange doubles nicely as an intergalactic spaceship. The Old Vic’s public bar successfully moonlights as an Ultimate Fighting Arena (well, it did before they installed CCTV). And the National Theatre is obviously London’s unofficial bastion in the likely event of zombies overwhelming the South Bank.

And then there’s the White Bear Theatre Club. If it weren’t for the signs, you might think that you’d wandered into the wrong place and certainly the wrong decade. There are no less than half a dozen televisions offering a variety of sporting events in a pub the size of a pool table. Yellowing league listings adorn the walls. Earnest pencilings of famous football stars line the corridor to the toilets. And the clientele are a trans-era collective of flat-caps, tracksuits and motorcycle jackets. As a curious finale, the barman feeds the flowers out front with the slops from leftover pint glasses. So what on earth would I be doing there seeing a play about Byron and the Shelleys?

Well, it was a play I auditioned for. And like all bitter and thespically-challenged actors I was curious to see how it would turn out without the acute disadvantage of me. My previous experience of the White Bear involved a surly barman giving me a good telling-off for requesting a coffee. I had learned my lesson, and this time ordered an ale, which, somewhat ironically, tasted of mocha.

Waiting for curtain up, I spoke to a member of the flat-cap constituency – a quartz-eyed fellow by the name of Topper.

‘So have you seen much in the theatre out back?’

‘Nah, theatre’s not really my thing. John tried to drag me along once, but—‘

‘John?’

‘John Hurt. Used to have a little breakfast pint together. But like I said, not really my thing…’

Truly these men are the living chronicles of actors gone by.

Now, being the penny-pincher that I am I had a two-for-one offer. The amiable box office took my announcement of this by promptly doubling the price of my tickets. Confusion unmuddled, I sat down on the side of the corner theatre (like the Old Red Lion, the venue seats its audience on one right angle and the stage on the other), sipping my beer and ignoring the taste of Arabica bean. I now pass judgement on the production in the time-honoured manner of many a rejected actor:

Absolute cracker of a night. I’ve not seen quality of this caliber in one of the smaller theatres for yonks. Actually, for a theatre that sits somewhere in the Twilight Zone between Kennington and Oval, it was astounding. Not only that, it was produced with barely a piece of furniture beyond a pillow and stool. It was a packed house propped up by deliciously filthy language. The way theatre about the Romantic poets should be.

See, I can be a good sport. Something, incidentally, that the White Bear has in abundance.