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Confessions of a Box Office Manager: When the show must not go on

When the Stalls flood with sewage, there’s only one thing to do

"It's definite then?" I say into the phone, wincing delicately.

"Yes dear, it's definite," replies the House Manager, "the entire auditorium smells of raw sewage and the Stalls carpets have turned the colour of sh-"

"OK, OK, I get the picture thanks."

"I've been in touch with the production office and told the company manager," he continues. "Now do you have forms to hand out, or do you need me to do that as well?!" (A sure sign of our House Manager being under pressure is that he ramps up the sarcasm a few notches. We've never really got on.)

"No, it's all fine, thank you" I say, and hang up.

So… tonight, due to circumstances beyond our control (actually: a massive flood caused by the antiquated plumbing of a neighbouring restaurant), ladies and gentlemen, the performance is cancelled. I'm afraid the show must NOT go on.

This happens so seldom (in nearly two decades of working in the West End this is only the fourth time I have had to deal with this) that it takes a couple of moments to get into gear and work out what needs to be done.

Firstly, the clerks in the phone room and on the window need to be informed, and I also have a quick ring round of the ticket agents and the TKTS booth to make sure they immediately take the performance off sale.

As is so typical on occasions like this, we haven't seen a customer face-to-face for hours but now that we have no show, a nice little queue is building up. Whatsmore, we have to act quickly as the excremental aroma from the "situation" in the Stalls is beginning slowly but surely to permeate the foyer.

A couple at the back of the line are holding their noses while looking daggers at the people in front of them, as though they are responsible for this unholy stench. A well dressed elderly lady has produced a bottle of expensive looking cologne from her handbag and is spraying it around with a look of aggressive determination on her face. There'll be an outbreak of mass coughing next. Yep, here it comes…

Great! Now our foyer smells and sounds like some sort of plague pit.

'I want the organ grinder not the monkey'

Next, we dig out and photocopy the form we give to ticket holders for cancelled shows, detailing what their options are and how they can go about getting an exchange or refund. Wherever possible we try to encourage patrons to change their seats to another date but realistically with tourists and out-of-towners that is sometimes impossible.

I have to intervene in a rather heated exchange between one of our most experienced clerks and a lady who is taking this cancellation extremely personally. Not only is she after an upgrade to front Stalls for a future date (her current tickets are restricted view rear Uppers) but she wants her train fares to be refunded, luncheon vouchers, a new frock, overnight accommodation, and the head of John The Baptist.

Meanwhile the queue behind her grows steadily, amidst a cacophony of coughing. In the end she departs with much improved seats and the email address of the Theatre Manager. I suspect she'll end up with a complimentary bottle of fizz on the night she attends. I could murder a glass of that now, actually. Anyway…

A stroppy group leader is shouting at another clerk, demanding to speak to the manager. When I come over and ask if I can help, he bellows "no! I don't want you! I want the manager of the theatre itself! I want the organ grinder not the monkey!"

Having been suitably put in my place, I decide it's probably best not to point out that the House Manager was last seen wearing a pair of rubber gloves and a grim expression, large bucket in hand… so I try and get hold of the organ grinder by walkie talkie.

"Hello? Box Office to House Manager?"

There is a brutal crackling sound then "YES?!" screams a tiny yet hysterical sounding voice, several pitches higher than the one we're accustomed to hearing.

"Could you come to the foyer please as we have a customer who would like to speak to you?"

"WHAAAAAT?!!" (This even higher than the previous response).

"I said… could you come to the foyer please, as…"

"Yesyesyes, I'm on my way" crackles the walkie talkie, viciously. I have a wonderful mental picture of him removing his waders before making the climb up to the foyer.

It turns out that the problem with the group leader is that he had paid in cash for a large number of seats a few weeks ago and couldn't wrap his head around the fact that any monies taken are banked on a daily basis; therefore he couldn't have an immediate cash refund as we just don't keep that volume of money on the premises, and a cheque would have to be issued in due course. Of course I could have told him that, as could the clerk he spoke to initially, but then we are but monkeys.

To be fair, the majority of customers tonight have been remarkably good humoured about the fact that their evening has been curtailed. At the end of the day, it is hard to argue with the smell of human waste and the sight of a House Manager who looks like they could spontaneously combust at any moment. Most patrons have opted to exchange their seats to a future date, and I just hope that the plumbing problem will be sorted so that tomorrow night's show can go ahead. After all, to completely misquote Wilde: "To cancel one performance may be regarded as a misfortune, to cancel two looks like carelessness."

But hey, nobody died.

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