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Confessions of a Box Office Manager: A disconcerting encounter

The latest confrontation with our West End mole involves a jaded celebrity

The smell of alcohol is an occupational hazard in this job. By that I don't mean from us in the Box Office itself (apart from that lamentable occasion when, due to a rota "malfunction", one was forced to return to work after the annual SOBOM [Society of London Box Officers and Managers] Christmas lunch… the less said about that the better).

No, I meant that during the incoming of a performance (usually evenings but it's not unheard of at matinees: some people just don't know what moderation is when it comes to those bottomless Prosecco brunch deals) we frequently deal with ticket-collecting patrons who get to the theatre having partaken of a particularly lavish (in other words, boozy) meal. Or they've just sunk a few cocktails to stay themselves through the upcoming extravaganza. And why not: having a night out in the West End is a special occasion, especially at today's astronomical prices, and that often goes hand in hand with a couple of glasses of something fruity and mellow.

However, it is 10.30am right now and the boozy stench since the last person came through the foyer door is stomach turning. I am laboriously putting seats onto the TKTS Booth system (tonight is quite empty and we need all the help we can get) so I just call "Sorry, I'll be right with you" without taking my eyes off the screen.

"No worries, darling" answers a gruff voice, followed by maniacal laughter, which only increases the intoxicating fumes. Oh dear, I think to myself, this could get interesting.

A moment later and I'm done with the Booth…

"Sorry about that, how can I help y-…??" I trail off as I find myself staring straight into the bloodshot eyes of a former showbiz icon.

To backtrack a little, the fallen star barely standing in front of me now broke all Box Office records at this very theatre a decade ago. This was before I worked here, but it was big news at the time: it was his West End, in fact his STAGE, debut after becoming a superstar thanks to a recurring TV role and a couple of big movies, and, to quote Tom Stoppard, "people were donating kidneys to get tickets". Since then though he has become tabloid and social media fodder thanks to a well documented fondness for high living ("high" being the operative word).

Once stunningly good looking, he now looks a little emaciated and a lot manic, but it is unmistakably him.

"Oh hello" I blurt out, for all the world as though he is a long lost chum rather than somebody I last saw in the Daily Mail – it's free at my gym, OK? don't judge me – falling out of a night club.

"How's it going?" he asks, giving me a cheery if unsteady thumbs-up "GOOD?!"

"Yes thanks it's fine." (I decide it wouldn't be politic to tell him you could land a small plane in the auditorium this evening without killing anybody) "How are YOU?!" (Again, like I've known him personally for years.)

"I am F***ING AWESOME thanks, mate. YEAH! Really good!"

"Well, that's great!"

"YEEEEEEAH man! F***ing great!"

He stands there for what feels like an eternity rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands in his pockets and fixing me with an intense, but not unfriendly, stare. He is also sniffing a lot. What does he actually want?

"Business good is it?" he finally asks, as I struggle to maintain eye contact.

"Well, er, you know what it's like" (why would he know what it's like?! He is/was a screen star and the only time he ever appeared at this theatre it was the hottest ticket in town…) "this time of year and all…"

"A-HAAAA!" he springs forward alarmingly, "so business not so great then?!" (He's clearly more on-the-ball than he looks.)

"Well, no, it IS pretty dead this week" I concede. Thank God the producers aren't within earshot.

"You know what I'm gonna do, Tom?" – my name isn't Tom, he never asked my name and if he had I wouldn't have told him it was Tom, because it isn't… in fact I am wearing a name badge with my name on it, and it definitely isn't Tom – "Tom, I'm gonna call (name of theatre owner) right now and I'm gonna get them to put me back here in a big show. Like before. Yeah. That's what I'm gonna do, Tom. F*** yeah!"

"OK. Jolly good" I bleat feebly.

Next thing he is thrusting his hand through the window at me. I shake it uncertainly.

"Great to meet ya" he bellows, "stay lucky!" and with that he turns on his heel and strides at high speed back onto the street, leaving the foyer door swinging in his wake.

I feel a bit shell-shocked, and also rather sad. Often after meeting somebody famous I ring my mum or my best mate and have a bit of a "guess who I've just seen" chat. But I really don't feel like doing that right now.

So I go back to topping up the Booth allocation… I hope tonight's house picks up a bit, and I hope Tom's new celebrity friend gets the care and help he needs. A disconcerting encounter… but hey, nobody died.