Confessions of a Box Office Manager: Comps and complaints

"Haven't you got anything better than THAT?!" she whines, jerking her head downwards at the pair of tickets I've just placed on the counter. She doesn't deign to touch them however, perhaps in case they're poisoned (I wish), and seems entirely indifferent to the massive queue that is building up behind her, snaking out of the foyer into the street. Each member of the queue, at least as far as I can see, is clutching the same white printout sheet. A couple of them have a look of grim determination on their faces, but the majority are beaming beatifically at my colleagues and I, as though this is likely to secure them better seating locations (which it might).

"But.. but… you haven't paid" I splutter suavely.

Yes tonight, we are using the C-word. That's right… we're comping. We've got a new show on and preview business has been a little slow. The marketing company has set up a number of generous online deals which are beginning to kick in nicely. But tonight's house has benefited particularly well from this and the majority of stalls and dress circle seats have now been sold, albeit at a hefty discount. Regrettably, some bright spark at the aforementioned marketing firm hadn't bothered to read the most recent sales report I lovingly furnished them with, and has elected to send out a general email to "family and friends" (these marketeers sure have large extended families) offering complimentary tickets to this same performance.

After a terse yet gushing phone conversation (terse at my end, gushing at theirs), I agreed that we would honour the comps but that the majority of them would have to be in the upper circle and balcony.

"Hun, they can hardly complain if they're not paying, can they?" cooed the marketing voice on the phone, with all the misplaced confidence of somebody who has never actually dealt with a queue full of jawdroppingly entitled comp-crazed theatre enthusiasts.

Meanwhile, the current "friend/family" of the marketing firm is still here, drumming her fingers on the counter and glaring at me askance.

"Thing is, I just don't DO upper circle" she says, charmlessly.

"Or paying, apparently" I say under my breath, shuffling through the pile of comps next to me looking for a pair with the magical word 'stalls' on them. Sometimes it's just not worth getting into a battle, not with a lengthy queue, and curtain up in minus ten minutes. Bingo. There we are… stalls. Back row and at the side, but hey NOT upper circle.

"There we go, stalls. OK?" I say, handing over the new tickets, "have a wonderful evening. NEXT!!"

Without a word of thanks, off she scurries. Next up is a very smiley elderly couple with a copy of the marketing print out, which they place carefully on the counter before wishing me a very good evening and asking how I am. They both have walking sticks I notice but I don't have anything particularly easy to get to in the way of comped seats. I have however got a pair of house seats on an aisle in the dress (the area with the fewest steps to negotiate) so I run those off and hand them over. They thank me profusely, but seem to be the genuinely nice types who would be charming and grateful even if their freebies had been the most restricted view seats in the house; in other words the kind of people who it is always a pleasure to help. (See.. I told you being nice works).

The next man is clearly drunk and bellows the words "I got a COMP" at me so loudly that I physically flinch. A moment later I also hear the couple at my colleagues' window – who are actually in the process of handing over their credit card – enquiring "why doesn't HE have to pay then while we do?" Nice work, mate. Back of the upper for you. I'm not sure how much of the show he will actually see anyway, but at least he's near the toilet. But not the bar.

Talking of the bar, the interesting thing about these heavily comped performances is that the following day the house manager is inevitably complaining about how low the bar takings are given the number of seats occupied. The "free night out" mentality is clearly all-pervasive.

Next up is a large family group, bearing no less than six of the marketing print outs between them. If they are expecting to sit together, this could be a problem. I shuffle through the pile of remaining tickets and simultaneously check the plan to see what's left.

"I'm really sorry, but I am going to have to give you two lots of three, and three pairs, is that going to be OK?"

"WHAT?! I can't sit with my kids?" screeches the matriarch (oh dear, here we go…)

I'm about to launch into my weary spiel about how busy the house is and the show starting imminently, when she suddenly grins.

"Babe, I'm joking. They've been a right pain in the arse all the way here. I'll be glad of a bit of peace and bloody quiet for a couple of hours innit." She winks at me, I laugh, she grabs the tickets and off they go. Excellent.

The final bells are sounding, the queue has gone in, the house is looking full and there are maybe two pairs of comps left uncollected. Nice work, team Box Office.

I'm just having a quick scan of the performance plan on my computer screen when a shadow falls over me and a hand lands on the counter with a dull thud. I look up, it's the lady who doesn't DO upper circle, and she has a face on her like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

"These seats" she growls, "they're crap."

I suddenly feel very, very tired… But hey, nobody died.

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