“Ma Phon-e, Ma Music-e, Ma Lif-e”

7^th February 2008

My continuing tour of London fringe theatre took me this week to The South London Theatre, which operates from the Old Fire Station at West Norwood. The SLT is a “Little Theatre”, which means, essentially, that it is an amateur theatre club. I hadn’t quite appreciated this when I booked through the Metro listings. Amateur theatre is different from fringe. The audience has a high friend/family content, so the theatrical experience is different: one can feel the them willing the cast on, which is nice; but there is also the faintest ripple of supportive laughter when a line comes out not quite right, which perverts the playwright’s purpose. Nothing wrong with that, of course, it’s just different.

Just for the record, they were playing their own adaptation of “Dracula”, and jolly well they did it too, both adaptation and performance. And they have a nice bar (pity it was Lent!); and a Young’s pub nearby (ditto Lent).

But the main theatrical experience of the evening was the train journey. Being old, getting there on public transport, which is now free-at-the-point-of-use, is a matter of honour. And, using the guile that comes with age, I can coerce the TfL journey planner into helping. A cross-over and fifteen-minute wait at Peckham Rye saw me on the Beckenham Junction train.

Wherein took place the night’s main feature.

As I settled into my seat, I could hear music. Well, “music” is a bit of an exaggeration. It was rhythmical speaking in which, (how can I put this delicately?) the syllables “fuck” and “nig” featured prominently and repetitively (OK, maybe that’s not too delicate!).

Now there are some poor souls I encounter on trains who leak tinny music out of their ears. Such people have curious little earplugs (presumably provided by a sympathetic physician) to conceal their embarrassing misfortune from the rest of us. They’re pretty ineffective, but it’s the thought that counts. I always feel sorry for them: and to make it worse, the music they are afflicted with is pretty awful. I thank God I’m not inside the earplugs.

But this was not one of those.

This music was emanating from a telephone. A telephone! Who would want a telephone that plays music? Especially music as bad as this. What would be the point? One can now get gramophones the size of a streamlined domino? Of course, the answer lies in the price: telephones of amazing technological sophistication can now be obtained for a price somewhere between cheap and free. (In fact, at Peckham Rye station, as two acquaintances of mine can testify, such phones are available just for the asking, if you ask in the right kind of way.)

So we already have a pointer to the misfortunate nature of our hero: our hero is clearly poor.

So the curtain now rises. I am settled into my book (I was going to say “settled quietly”, but that doesn’t really fit, does it?). “Fuck” and “nig” emanate rhythmically and repetitively from the telephone at the front of the carriage. The telephone is carried by our hero. We are given time to observe our hero, before the action begins. He is not a native son. He is not pallid of feature nor shaven of head. He is an immigrant, of indistinct origin. His shiny black hair is arranged in the manner of a professional footballer. His moustache has not yet reached even candidate status. He is dressed formally from top to toe in the fleece uniform of a “hoodie”. The uniform, has seen better days: much better days. He is stooped over, head down, staring doggedly at the telephone. (you may wonder at the excessive detail of the stage directions, but there isn’t going to be very much text in this play.)

An unseen, strong, male voice from the back of the train says “Turn that down! We don’t want to hear that.”

Our young hero fiddles with his phone. The music gets louder.

A large black man, sitting next to me, startles me out of my book by shouting angrily: “He said turn it down. We’re going home from a hard day. We don’t need this. Six people have asked you to turn it down. (I’ve clearly missed the first act!) Just turn it down.”

Our young hero sways rhythmically. His eyes flicker slyly round the carriage, head lowered, much in the manner of the late and saintly Diana.

I feel this democratic expression merits some audience participation: “Make that seven.” I add, meekly.

An ageing, balding man, sitting opposite our hero, engages in vigorous questioning of said hero. We can tell it’s questioning, but we can’t hear the questions.

And at this point, our young hero reveals the extent of his rebellion. He unveils the mantra of his cause: “Ma Phon-e, ma music-e, ma lif-e!” he intones, falteringly. (I use the faint extra syllable at the end of each word to lend weight to the “outsider” nature of our hero.)

The questioning continues. The only response is the mantra, growing in confidence. We reach West Norwood. I get off, this litany fading into the distance.

Now that’s theatre!

I go to see Dracula.

On the way home, there was an unexpected difficulty to surmount: did you know that, from West Norwood, all lines lead to London: in both directions? In old-fashioned parlance, both lines are “up” lines. I got an immediate picture of the morning rush hour: like M. Hulot’s Holiday, a herd of commuters stampeding from one platform to another as the trains are announced. But it’s easy at this time of night: there’s only one train.

There was a final moment of pleasure: when I got off at New Cross Gate, the bus stop was just outside, and the 321 appeared just as I got to it. The perfect end to a perfect evening. Except I got off a stop too soon!

Well, I need the exercise.