Spending the Pension – The Old Red Lion

There’s always some theatre on a train, don’t you find? I didn’t have time to buy a paper, so I fidgeted about looking for something to catch my attention. The young man beside me is playing a video game: on his phone: the ubiquitous mobile phone. I try to figure out what the game is, without spoiling his enjoyment. It seems to me to boil down to a sophisticated adaptation of Space Invaders. We stop at Blackheath. It is, of course, dark. Blackheath is living up to its name. The young man suddenly looks up anxiously. He clearly can’t figure out which station he’s at.

“Blackheath”, I offer, helpfully.

“Oh my god”, he cries, and leaps to his feet. I strain the aged frame getting out of his way. The doors start to shut. He forces his head through, but, with great foresight, pauses to look for the station sign. Then he forces the rest of himself through. (From the point-of-view of Blackheath, it must have had something in common with the birth in "Alien".)

Now, what sort of person doesn’t recognise his own station: even in the dark?

And now, a little digression: I don’t just go out to fringe theatre, I sometimes like to go to permiership football matches. It’s just so much better than trying to watch it on TV, in the face of the director’s determined attempts to show cavorting, gum-chewing managers, gobbing footballers, sleeping children, pretty girls, half-naked fatties, in fact, anything but football. TV always shows you a close-up of something, just when you want to look round the field to see what’s about to happen next. To go to matches, I have to have ready access to tickets. The easiest way is to become an away supporter for an “up-country” team. This allows one to see all the London teams once a year, which is enough football for any grown man. For reasons we needn’t go into, I have chosen to support Manchester City.

The ORL (it’s logo suggests this is what it wants to be called) theatre has little brass supporter plates on all the seats. The seat next to mine proclaimed its supporter to be none-other-than said Manchester City Football Club. So I support Manchester City, and Manchester City supports the ORL: my first visit and I discover that I’m an associate of one of its patrons: that’s a good start.

Perhaps it’s because it’s so far north. When I originally saw the name, in the Metro listings, I got it into my head that it must be in Red Lion Street (you know, just off Holborn). I can’t explain, now, why I thought that, but I did.

And so to the play: spending the Pension is really enjoyable. The humour is quality-Glasgow. I’m from Glasgow myself, so I didn’t even have to tune-in, though I imagine most of the audience did. I had one serious complaint, though. It concerned the lead character, played by the playwright. Not the strong language, which lent verisimilitude to the part, but the absurd claim to successful “pulling” in the Safeways on Paisley Road West. Now that’s something I know about, and I’ve never managed it, despite being far better-looking than he is.

The play came in two halves: an old couple, newly met, discovering love; and a young couple, ditto. I felt there could have been more interaction. If the old man had explained to the young woman what men are really like, there could have been much hilarity. And if the old woman had explained to the young man what women hope for, there might have been some enlightenment.

The ORL seems like a nice pub, but it’s still Lent, dammit. It’s going to be Lent for bloody ages. I wonder if there are four fringe theatres which aren’t in pubs?