Game? at the Southwark Playhouse, 2^nd April 2008

When I was much younger, I used to travel regularly from SE London to the Medway Towns. During most of the time I did it, they (you know, that ‘they’) were busy turning the A2 into a proper road. Each journey was an adventure, to see what was different from last time, and where the traffic jams were going to appear. Eventually (and I do mean eventually), they finished the transformation, and I raced along the whole journey at motorway speeds, without seeing very much, except the road signs: which, looking back, wasn’t nearly as interesting.

The last time I visited the Southwark Playhouse, it was in an altogether more primitive state. Actually, it’s still pretty primitive, but the performance area is much improved. So much so that it’s possible there is more than one performance area. I was tempted to ask, but then I remembered the A2, and realised that that would spoil the fun. In any case, in my curious view of a theatre journey, it would amount to interrupting the play itself and asking for an explanation. I shall wait for future visits, and see where the traffic jams have moved to (if you see what I mean): and figure it out for myself.

Game? is claimed as an Edinburgh fringe hit, being nominated there for the best original work award. It also claims to be authorless, to have been devised by the company. So it had much of the flavour of “Whose Line is it, Anyway”, with highly mannered performances banging firmly into each other. These clashes usually resolved themselves into little nuggets of surreal characterisation, often with hilarious results. All with a significant physical (as opposed to verbal) component, which seemed to be the main point.

So we all left (how would I know? I left) feeling I’d been dragged along some cliff walk in a rather bracing wind: very enjoyable. When I say we all left, actually one of the cast got left behind, sellotaped to the stage; and to two members of the audience. Making it one of those occasions where we needed some courage to tell us that it was time to applaud. And at least two of us required even more courage to cut themselves adrift and go home.

Stopping for a pint afterwards shifted my focus rather too abruptly to Arsenal 1, Liverpool 1, with half-an-hour to go, and another set of highly mannered performances (from the audience of drinkers, that is). Not banging into each other, of course, except when Chelsea got mentioned.

And then I met an American.

I have a view of life that says you haven’t understood something properly until it has resolved itself into a paradox. In this case, the paradox is that I never speak to strangers in pubs, but almost everyone I know I first met in a pub. It is wise never to speak to strangers in pubs, because all the people worth meeting are following the same rule: the people keen to talk to you are the ones not worth meeting; often they are particularly not worth meeting.

So how did I contrive to meet an American? A pleasantry after being pushed into each other revealed an American accent. A further pleasantry about Liverpool’s American ownership revealed he knew little about football (‘soccer’, sorry), being a visitor, staying in the Hilton opposite. Now I used to go to the States quite a lot, and I’m very fond of Americans: they are quite the most hospitable people I’ve ever met. So I felt a need to be hospitable, at least to the extent of being politely friendly. Among the British middle classes, and (consequently?) among the British press, Americans, in general, have the same sort of reputation enjoyed by the Pope in Portadown. Being retired now, it’s been a long time since I’ve visited the States, so I had forgotten my first-hand experience of them. It was nice to be reminded. The great Peter Ustinov used to tell a story about flying to Australia. In his story, he noticed, as he passed through Heathrow, that although it was packed, everyone was contriving to avoid each other, whereas when he arrived at Sydney airport, there was only one other man in the terminal, and this man bumped into him. Americans, it seems to me, share this willing acceptance of strangers (in the right circumstances, of course).

So I made a new friend, as usual in a pub. And I may even get to meet him again: I told him of my impending “Great American Trip”, and he gave me his email address. He even forgave me thinking that one of the places I was going, in northern Delaware, was actually in Maryland, where he comes from.

It’s a good job Lent’s over. Stopping in a pub (actually, this pub is hard to avoid coming out of the Southwark Playhouse) added some real theatre to the evening.