THE OLD VIC

Really? The Old Vic? Off-west-end?

Well, yes. Not only is the statement a geographical certainty, but there was a time when the Old Vic was considered so off-west-end that wealthy theatre-goers would hire armed escorts to see them safely past the brigands and blackguards of Waterloo Bridge. Now we just have Boris patrolling the realm on his 21-speed steed, deterring potential ne’er-do-wells by ejecting the word “Oik!” like a demented boar. How times change.

No, the Old Vic shouldn’t be excluded for being the overfed hoyden in the off-west-end playground. Let’s not forget those bully-bombs it stood up to in WWII. Neither can we discount the words of my favourite-actor-that-I’ve-never-seen-act, Edmund Kean, to the Vic’s audience:

“In my life I have never acted to such a set of ignorant, unmitigated brutes as I have before me.”

As close to the constipated exclamations of a fringe actor as ever I’ve heard.

The Vic’s walls sweat with the talents of the ages. Literally. Up the stairs from the stalls you’ll feel the piercing eyes of Richard Burton upon you. Waltz with Michael Redgrave and Edith Evans on your way down to the loo. Chat with a wild-eyed Peter Scofield by the circle bar. The place is thick with ghosts, metaphorical and apparent. Having spent a terrifying summer locking up backstage, I’ll testify that things really do go bump down stage right (the poltergeists can be pacified by playing radio over the tannoy, just ask the stage-doorkeeper).

Working at the Vic assisted and protracted my progress like an overly tactile lollipop-man. Employment there was a warm, fuzzy refuge from the lean months of our acting careers, when expulsions of drama school graduates bumped us down from hot young gambits to tepid mid-tween two-bits. Strange thing is, I’ve mapped out the trajectory of my acting jobs and every good gig I’ve ever had has come about because of working behind that damned, glorious bar.

Consider it when next you take a trip down The Cut. Take a good look at the faces tearing your tickets and mixing your Gin & Tonic. You’ll never find a team as nimble-witted and mammoth-hearted. But a few of them you’ll be seeing again in starrier performances than “That’ll Be £4.20 Please Madam”. Bet your life. So this week’s blog is dedicated to the ushers and bar-staff at this leviathan of the off-west-end, including those who’ve gone on to become film stars, award-winning writers and Hollywood costume designers (they know who they are). More importantly, here’s to those still grafting there today. They won’t be for long.

Charles Kingsley once described the Vic as:

“…a licensed pit of darkness, a trap of temptation, profligacy and ruin.”

Now, say what you like about The Water Babies, but anyone who’s ever had one too many lychee martinis in the temporal vortex that is the Pit Bar will understand exactly what old Charlie’s on about.

Yet another reason to surrender to the spirits of the Old Vic.
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