BEHIND THE CURTAIN

WHERE I WAS MEANT TO BE

WHERE I WAS MEANT TO BE
I took a job at Butlins as a Redcoat in between West End contracts.
It wasn’t a grand career move.
It was a detour.
It was also a refuge.
I didn’t know what direction I was taking. I just knew I needed distance from the pressure and the politics. Butlins felt smaller. Contained. Manageable.
At the time, it felt like stepping sideways.
In hindsight, it was exactly where I was meant to be.
Because that’s where I met her.
The Ents Manager
She had been a dancer.
She understood performance.
She understood structure.
She ran a tight ship — but she was kind.
She said it as it was. No sugar-coating. But she respected you. She nurtured. She built a team that was genuinely fun to work in.
She could play tough. Especially with the younger ones. I was older, so I wasn’t intimidated. I saw the fairness underneath it.
Kindness.Leadership.Stability.
In a period where I felt untethered, she was structure.
The Message
Last Thursday, I sent her a long message.
She was already very ill.
I knew the end was near. I had been told she would be going onto morphine. That once they increased it, she likely wouldn’t come back from it.
She sent a video back.
Struggling to breathe. People around her gently telling her to stop. “Okay, that’s enough.” Trying to protect her energy.
But she kept going.
She wanted to finish.
It was the most wonderful message from a woman who knew she was dying — and still wanted to give something back.
Yesterday, she passed away.
Way too young.
Immensely sad. Immensely unfair.
Theatre and Loss
Over the years, others have gone too.
Actors I’ve worked alongside. People you shared dressing rooms with. People who once felt permanent because they were central to that chapter of your life.
When someone from theatre dies, it hits differently.
You don’t just lose a person.
You lose a rehearsal room.A corridor.A shared joke before places.A version of yourself that existed when they did.
And you ask yourself quiet questions.
Was I close enough?Did I give enough?Did I really know them?
Most of the time, the honest answer is no.
You know the programme bio.You know the roles.You don’t know the full weight they carried.
In theatre, we perform beside each other deeply — but rarely fully.
The Illusion of Permanence
There’s something strange about this industry.
We think shows last forever.
We think careers last forever.
We think there will always be another contract.
But they don’t.
And there won’t.
You can be in a major West End show and still be gone from the industry quietly a few years later. No headline. No ceremony.
The stage carries on.
It always does.
The Detour That Wasn’t
Butlins felt like a pause in the “real” career.
A detour.
A refuge.
Something temporary before the next big thing.
What I didn’t realise was that the detour would give me something far more lasting than another credit.
It gave me her.
A leader who showed that you can be firm without being cruel.
Structured without being rigid.
Strong without losing humour.
And it gave me a final message — one she insisted on finishing — when she could barely breathe.
The Truth
In theatre, we think a career lasts forever.
It doesn’t.
The applause fades.The contracts end.The buildings outlive us.
What lasts — if we’re fortunate — is the way someone steadied you when you needed refuge.
And sometimes you only understand the weight of that… when they’re gone.
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THE SWING TRACK

The Swing Track
I was never a swing.
And I don’t think I could have been.
It’s harder than people think.
In a company of thirty-two or thirty-three, there were eleven male ensemble tracks.
Eleven.
When I did the show, there were two male swings covering them.
Two.
On paper, that looks efficient.
In practice, it means holding eleven separate choreographies, traffic patterns, harmonies, quick changes, prop plots and spatial maps in your head — knowing you might not physically step into one of those tracks for weeks.
Or months.
And still being expected to execute it cleanly at 7:30pm.
Swings don’t get repetition the same way the rest of us do.
If you’re in one track nightly, muscle memory builds quietly. You stop thinking about corners. You stop calculating traffic. It sits in the body.
A swing doesn’t live in one track.
They store multiple.
If we were doing an understudy run, that was their rehearsal too. If someone moved up to cover a principal, the swing would step into that person’s ensemble track. That was often their only chance to physically refresh it.
Otherwise?
They’re side stage.
During the show.
Watching.
Not casually.
Checking someone’s track. Noting spacing. Marking small adjustments. If something changed in a clean-up rehearsal — a diagonal altered, a lyric shifted, a new cross added — they needed to log it.
Because they are the backup system.
And mathematically, two swings for eleven tracks doesn’t always hold.
I remember nights when people were off and it was physically impossible for two male swings to cover everything. Other cast members doubled up on bits. Picked up traffic that technically wasn’t theirs.
It worked.
But it shouldn’t have been necessary.
Apparently there are four now.
That tells you something.
The biggest misconception is that swings are “just ensemble who cover.”
They’re not.
They can be swings and covers simultaneously. My swing was also second cover for Marius while I was first. So they weren’t sitting around on a show day. They were learning principal material, monitoring ensemble tracks, attending every rehearsal, adjusting to changes.
They are always ready.
An understudy can be called at any moment.
A swing can be called for multiple tracks at once.
That’s a vast amount to retain.
And unlike a principal cover, they don’t get applause for stepping in. They’re often invisible to the audience.
The brain strain isn’t loud.
It’s constant.
Standing side stage during a performance, tracking someone else’s route in case tomorrow it’s yours.
Not watching for enjoyment.
Watching for retention.
They are part of the company in a way that’s easy to overlook.
Without swings, people would work through illness.
Without swings, the structure collapses.
I wasn’t one.
But I watched them.
And it’s not for the faint-hearted.
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SITZPROBE

Sitzprobe
You walk into a rehearsal room and the layout is different.
Chairs in rows.
Music stands.
A full orchestra where there’s usually a piano.
In front of them, a line of microphones.
You don’t face the room.
You face them.
And the Musical Director.
Sitzprobe is the first time you hear the full score live, with the company singing. No staging. No movement. No lighting. Just sound.
Full orchestra.
Not reduced.
Not synthesised.
Strings. Brass. Woodwind. Percussion laid out properly.
You’ve been rehearsing with a piano for weeks. Clean. Functional. Precise.
Then the first downbeat lands.
And it’s not clean.
It’s huge.
You hear every instrument. Every bow change. Every breath in the brass. Percussion that feels physical rather than supportive. It’s raw in a way it never quite is once you’re in the theatre.
On stage in the actual building, the sound can feel distant. You rarely get foldback. You’re often watching the MD closely because certain entries are exposed and tricky. You’re relying on the baton, not the swell.
But in the rehearsal room, it’s direct.
You feel it in your chest.
Your heart rate lifts.
It’s one of those rare moments where you stop thinking about marks and traffic and costume plots and you just register what’s happening.
This is what the show actually sounds like.
You’re suddenly aware of the level of musicianship in front of you. Players who make the score breathe in a way the piano never could. The detail is exposed. The attack sharper. The dynamics wider.
And then the principals sing over it.
That’s the second shift.
You’ve heard them in rehearsal. You know their voices. But against full orchestra, something else happens. The scale changes. The sound lifts.
There’s a moment where you think, quietly, this is ridiculous.
In the best way.
Tempo doesn’t usually change dramatically. It’s been set. It’s agreed. Though you know from watching the show later that different conductors bring slightly different weight. A musical supervisor might favour a fraction more drive. Another might let something breathe.
It’s a balance.
But the first time you hear it all together — orchestra and cast in one room — it’s overwhelming.
Not chaotic.
Overwhelming.
You’re standing at a mic in a rehearsal room, no costume, no set, no lighting.
And it already feels like an event.
There’s something raw about Sitzprobe. No spectacle. No distraction. Just score and voice.
You’re aware of how lucky you are.
Not in a sentimental way.
In a practical one.
You are inside something substantial.
By the time you reach the theatre, it becomes controlled. Balanced. Mixed. Shaped for the space.
But Sitzprobe?
That’s the first time the engine turns over at full power.
And you’re standing right in front of it.
 
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THE REVOLVE

The Revolve
You don’t think about it at first.
It’s just part of the floor.
Until it moves.
In Les Misérables, the revolve isn’t decorative. It’s structural. Entire perspectives depend on it. Streets rotate into interiors. Scenes travel instead of cutting. The barricade drives on along a track that locks into the revolve so the scale shifts in front of your eyes.
It’s not a feature.
It’s the spine.
Multi-directional.
Left.
Right.
Half.
Quarter.
Back.
You stand still while it moves beneath you.
You walk against it, compensating so your pace looks natural.
You enter mid-rotation.
You sing while it shifts under your feet.
Heels on a moving surface. Breath controlled while the floor isn’t.
The audience sees fluid staging.
You feel torque.
Automation is precise. It moves exactly when programmed. Health and safety doesn’t allow improvisation. If it turns, it turns because it’s meant to.
The risk is human.
A step taken a fraction early. A misjudged count. A heel placed slightly off centre. Losing balance isn’t theatrical — it’s a micro-adjustment that must look intentional.
You learn the rhythm of it. You feel directional change through your feet. You know where the edge is without looking.
And then preview night.
The room is charged. Press. Celebrities. The sense that this is the first real public test.
The revolve breaks down.
Stops.
Not a mistimed cue. Not a human error.
A failure.
And when the revolve stops in that show, perspective stops. The giant barricades that drive on along track cannot align. The visual grammar of the production collapses.
The cast are pumped. Adrenaline high. You can feel the collective instinct.
We’ll make it work.
We’ll build it out of what’s on stage.
We’ll adapt.
Because that’s what theatre people do.
But this isn’t a missing chair.
This is the structural mechanism of the show.
Without the revolve, the barricade sequence cannot function as designed. Sightlines fail. Transitions don’t read. The visual language of the production disintegrates.
The producer makes the call.
Performance cancelled.
Announcement to a heavily celebrity-filled audience.
You stand there in costume, heart still racing from the opening energy that never fully released.
The revolve sits still.
That’s the thing about automation.
When it works, it’s invisible.
When it stops, everything stops with it.
The audience never sees the mental maths required to stand on moving ground and make it look steady.
They don’t see the core strength, the balance adjustments, the timing recalculations.
They don’t see how much of the storytelling depends on that motor turning beneath your feet.
They see spectacle.
You feel machinery.
The revolve doesn’t care how ready you are.
It moves when it moves.
And if it doesn’t—
The entire world above it pauses.
Until it can turn again.
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THE COMPANY MANAGER

The Company Manager
If you want to know how a show actually runs, don’t start with the star.
Start with the Company Manager.
As with any job, when holiday requests open up, everyone rushes to get their requests in, it’s no different in theatre. Securing the warm sunny month you want to fly away to the sun. I was rubbish, I always left it til last minute and had to take what was left.
That’s usually the first interaction.
You walk in carefully phrased. Dates clear. Cover arranged if needed. You don’t demand. You ask.
They listen.
Warm. But firm.
They check the grid. Check the schedule. Check who else is off. They already know which weeks are tight. They know when press are coming. They know when half the cast have quietly requested the same long weekend.
They don’t panic.
They assess.
Because that’s their job.
But their job didn’t start when you arrived.
They were there long before any actor stepped into the rehearsal room.
Organising contracts. Distributing information. Liaising with high management. Coordinating with the theatre the company is about to occupy. Setting up payroll systems. Scheduling. Fielding queries.
While actors are in rehearsals focusing on scenes and music, they are working in parallel — fiercely — keeping communication moving in multiple directions at once.
Actors informed.
Producers informed.
Theatre management informed.
If something shifts, they know.
If something breaks, they’re already dealing with it.
They answer all of it.
Patiently.
Repeatedly.
From the outside, people assume big theatre names are running the building. A producer like Cameron Mackintosh must be the person you go to, right?
No.
The Company Manager is the feet on the ground.
They are admin. HR. Payroll. Scheduling. Mediator. Listener. Gatekeeper.
They sit between actors and hierarchy. They liaise up and down constantly. They translate expectation. They apply policy. They absorb frustration.
You can be friendly.
But they have the final say.
That balance matters.
They might feel like a proud parent — someone you go to if something is wrong or bothering you. Someone who listens properly. But they are also representing the structure.
If something needs reporting, they decide how that travels.
If something needs diffusing, they manage it quietly.
In a company of thirty-plus performers, personalities collide. Egos exist. Energy fluctuates. Someone is always tired. Someone is always frustrated.
The Company Manager is the voice of reason in the middle of that.
Not loudly.
Calmly.
They don’t perform authority.
They apply it.
There’s no glamour in it.
They aren’t on stage.
They don’t take a bow.
But without them, payroll doesn’t run. Holidays overlap. Sickness becomes chaos. Information fractures between cast and management.
You go in asking for three days off.
They’re managing thirty lives, eight shows a week, a theatre building, and a production hierarchy above them.
Warm.
Firm.
Always calm.
That’s not friendship.
That’s structure working.
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THE SHOW REPORT

The Show Report
You don’t see it.
That’s the point.
The show finishes. Curtain call. Wigs off. Mic out. Tea if you want it. Home.
Somewhere else in the building, the day is being written down.
The Show Report isn’t theatrical. It’s administrative. Quiet. Typed.
You get used to knowing it exists.
You don’t need to read it to feel its presence.
It will contain the practical things first.
Act One timing.
Act Two timing.
Were we long?
Were we short?
Are we drifting?
Because time creeping by even two minutes a night becomes ten by the end of a week. Sloppiness hides in seconds. The report keeps it honest.
Then the mechanics.
Set pieces breaking down.
Automation issues.
Sound faults.
Lighting discrepancies.
Anything that technical, stage management, cast or management bring to the Stage Manager’s attention — it can go in.
It should go in.
It’s a record.
If someone is frequently late, that pattern lives there.
If there was an argument, it may live there.
If something didn’t happen the way it should have, it can live there.
You don’t see it being written.
But you know it is.
Occasionally, the next day, a company note appears.
“On the other night…”
“Head office have said…”
A correction.
A reminder.
A tightening.
Usually addressed to everyone.
Management prefer to scold the group rather than name individuals. It keeps things controlled. It also irritates the people who weren’t involved.
If it’s personal, it doesn’t arrive publicly.
You’re pulled aside.
Company Manager.
Conversation.
Explanation.
Warning if necessary.
Exactly like any HR department.
The Show Report is not emotional.
It’s structural.
It protects the production. It logs deviations. It records the health of the machine.
I never read one.
If I had, I probably would have scanned it for my own name.
That’s human.
But the report is going to be written whether you worry about it or not.
You learn to accept that.
Because theatre may feel artistic, collaborative, expressive.
But it’s also a business.
And in a business, everything is documented.
Everyone is replaceable.
The curtain comes down.
The show is written up.
And tomorrow, it runs again.
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FIRST DAY IN COSTUME

First Day in Costume
When I started out in Les Miserables, by first big costume fitting was at Bermans & Nathans, who were later bought out by Angels Costumes in 1992, who are still going stong.
You walk in and it already feels different from rehearsal.
You’ve auditioned.You got the job.You’ve started rehearsing in joggers and trainers.Now you’re standing in one of the most established costume houses in London for your first professional fitting.
That’s when it shifts.
This isn’t borrowed rehearsal kit.
These are costumes for a brand-new production.The first ever national tour of a large-scale musical outside London.
And some of it is being made for you.
Rails of period costume.
Britches.Tail coats.Cravats.Boots.Top hats.
You don’t need a mirror to feel it.
Period clothing changes posture immediately. The cut of a coat pulls your shoulders back. Britches sit differently on the hips. Boots alter your stride. You don’t slouch in that kind of tailoring.
You walk like a gentleman because the clothes insist on it.
Nothing surprises you physically — no shock weight, no hidden restriction — but the structure of it is undeniable. It keeps you upright. It informs the spine before you even think about character.
There isn’t just one look.
There’s your ensemble track.
Your understudy track.
Multiple changes.
Different hats.
Different coats.
Some pieces are measured from scratch. Tape measure around chest, waist, inside leg. Notes taken quietly.
Other items are pulled from rails and handed to you to try.
“Let’s see this one.”
You step into partial builds. Some complete. Some pinned. Some still being finished in another room.
It’s a process.
The Costume Designer is there.
Watching.
Approving.
Rejecting.
You might like something. It might feel right. Doesn’t matter.
She says yes or no.
That’s the hierarchy.
You stand on a small platform while hems are marked. Sleeves adjusted. A boot checked for line rather than comfort.
It isn’t about preference.
It’s about silhouette.
For the first time, you see yourself as part of the production rather than someone rehearsing it.
This is the buzz.
Not applause.
Not opening night.
Standing in a tail coat, looking in a Bermans mirror, knowing this is real.
You’re no longer imagining the show.
You’re wearing it.
Rehearsal clothes let you act.
Costume makes you accountable to the period.
You leave with fittings logged, alterations noted, pieces still in progress.
But something has changed.
You walked in as a cast member.
You walk out dressed for a world.
And it fits.
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FIRST PREVIIEW

First Preview
You can only rehearse so much.
At some point, the show demands an audience.
It isn’t optional.
You’ve built it in a room. You’ve walked it in tech. You’ve heard it in Sitzprobe. You’ve cleaned it up. You’ve reset it.
But until there are people sitting in the dark, it isn’t finished.
First Preview is when the final ingredient arrives.
The cast are ready for it. They need it. Energy only travels properly when it has somewhere to land.
The public are stoked. It’s been publicised. Expectation is high. They’re walking in curious, excited, ready to receive something.
And you step on stage knowing this is the first real exchange.
You’ve made choices. The director has shaped moments. Beats have been designed to land in particular places.
And then the audience reacts.
Sometimes exactly where you expect.
Sometimes not.
An odd laugh appears in a place that wasn’t built for laughter.
Or a moment you were sure would ripple — sits quietly.
Neither is wrong.
That’s the thing.
From a director’s perspective, from an actor’s perspective, you can’t always determine why a laugh appears where it does. You can analyse it later. You can speculate. But in the moment, it’s instinct.
A mystery laugh announces itself and your body stands to attention.
What did I do?
Was it me?
Was it her?
Was that line different?
Are they laughing because we’re brilliant — or because we’re rubbish?
The brain will run every version.
And you’ll never truly know.
First Preview is where discipline matters.
The temptation is to adjust immediately. Lean into the laugh. Correct the silence. Chase something.
That’s the danger.
If you start riding solo — shifting timing, adding weight, trimming pauses — you jeopardise someone else’s rhythm. The show is a structure. If one person recalibrates mid-performance, the architecture shifts.
So you don’t.
You believe in the piece.
You trust the direction.
You stick to what was built.
Because the audience needs consistency to learn how to watch the show. Preview audiences are discovering the tone as much as you are discovering them.
By the second, third, fourth preview, patterns emerge.
But the first?
It’s a live experiment.
The audience is teaching you how the room breathes.
And you are resisting the urge to rewrite it on the spot.
You hold the line.
That’s what makes it believable.
That’s what makes it intentional.
The rehearsal room built the structure.
First Preview tests it.
And then the real run begins.
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AGEING IN A YOUTH-DRIVEN INDUSTRY

Ageing in a Youth-Driven Industry
I saw the audition on Spotlight and almost didn’t submit.
It had been twenty-eight years since I’d been in Phantom. Touring and London. Mid-nineties. I was young then. Covering romantic leads. In the building. In the rhythm of it.
Now I was older. Greyer. Heavier. A different version of the same man.
No agent. Just a self-submission.
I sent it without expectation.
And then they called me in.
That’s the first shock when you attempt re-entry. You assume the door has quietly closed. When it opens, even slightly, it feels seismic.
I prepared properly. I’d just finished pantomime and my voice wasn’t pristine, but I brought it into line. I knew the material. I knew the world. I knew what that stage required.
I walked into the room.
The associate director recognised me from decades ago. Immediately.
That alone tells you something. You are not invisible. You are remembered.
He said I had a wonderful voice. The room was warm. The singing landed well. It felt solid. Not hopeful — solid.
For the first time in years, I felt positioned again.
A week later, an email arrived.
The person I would have replaced had re-signed. There was no track suitable for me. They loved the audition.
That’s not standard. Usually you hear nothing. Silence is the industry’s preferred response. So the email was generous.
And I was proud.
Genuinely proud.
Because whatever the outcome, I had walked back into a West End audition room nearly three decades after I’d last stood in that show — and I was good enough.
But here is the structural truth:
It didn’t quite work out this time.
And that phrase carries more weight than it sounds.
Because this wasn’t just about one role.
It was about re-entry.
When you leave the West End — even voluntarily — the clock doesn’t stop.
You may still perform. You may still sing. You may work consistently elsewhere. You may be artistically fulfilled.
But if you are not physically in that ecosystem, the narrative around you begins to cool.
Out of sight becomes out of story.
Credits that once felt current begin to read as archival.
You don’t feel older. But you are filed differently.
I left around thirty. Not because I couldn’t work. Not because I didn’t love it. I went abroad. Cabaret-style contracts. Cruise-scale rooms. A different arena, but still performing. Still disciplined. Still sharp.
From inside that life, it didn’t feel like disappearance.
From outside the West End machine, it was.
Years later, when I tried to re-enter properly, I encountered something subtle.
An agent sent me into an audition with a very well-known director. She knew my history. She knew I’d been abroad for ten years.
The feedback came back: “He thinks you are a little cabaret.”
That phrase doesn’t appear from nowhere.
It appears because a label has been placed before you walk into the room.
Cabaret.
Not West End ensemble.Not leading man cover.Cabaret.
And once a label sits in the air, it shifts perception.
My voice was in good condition. Strong enough, in my opinion, for ensemble in any major show. But perception had already moved.
This is the re-entry penalty.
When you are present in the machine, you are current.
When you are absent, you become interpreted.
Absence allows others to define you.
Age compounds that.
Because when you attempt to return later in life, you are not stepping back into the bracket you left.
You are stepping into a new one.
The last time I was auditioning regularly, I was in rooms for romantic leads. First covers. Young men with urgency in their voice.
Now, structurally, I am suitable for more mature tracks.
Which is fine.
That part doesn’t offend me.
What shifts is not just the role — it’s the energy.
Young performers entering now are trained to an extraordinary level. They are triple and quadruple threats. They are hungry. They are in the system from the start.
They look at someone like me with politeness. Respect, even. But there is an undercurrent — not malicious, just factual.
You are further along the timeline.
They are beginning.
Producers think commercially. Marketing skews youthful. Refresh casting cycles lean toward injection. Energy is a commodity.
When I was young, I saw older actors phased out. Some quietly non-renewed after years in a show. Some repositioned. Some simply gone.
At the time, it looked natural.
Now I understand it structurally.
The industry doesn’t always remove you.
It reclassifies you.
And reclassification can feel like erasure.
The Phantom audition in 2023 proved something important to me.
I was not delusional.
I was not clinging to a fantasy.
I could stand in that room and deliver at standard.
But the machine isn’t only assessing ability.
It is assessing alignment.
Does this body fit the current grid?Does this age sit correctly in the line-up?Does this narrative serve the production as it stands?
And sometimes the answer is no — not because you are incapable, but because the shape has shifted.
Absence accelerates that shift.
If I had remained continuously in the West End ecosystem, even moving sideways, even plateauing, my narrative would have evolved with it.
Instead, there was a gap.
And gaps invite reinterpretation.
Absence ages you faster than time.
You may feel artistically intact. Vocally secure. Mentally ready.
But the industry measures continuity.
Not intention.
Here’s the blunt part.
The West End does not owe you a comeback.
It does not preserve a space for you because you were once there.
It runs forward.
Refreshes cast.Rebrands.Repositions.Repopulates.
If you are not moving with it, it moves without you.
That isn’t cruelty.
It’s velocity.
The pride I felt walking out of that Phantom audition was real. It mattered.
The disappointment mattered too.
But the larger lesson was structural.
Ageing in this industry isn’t about looking older.
It’s about whether you remained in circulation.
Longevity is not simply surviving time.
It is surviving absence.
Because once you step out of the machine, even briefly, it recalibrates without you.
And when you return, you are not resuming your old position.
You are auditioning as a new version — in a system that has already moved on.
In a youth-driven industry, age is not the threat.
Disappearance is.
Absence ages you faster than time.
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WHEN BOREDOM SETS IN ON TOUR

When Boredom Sets In on Tour
Dublin.
Huge theatre. Proper scale. One of those houses where the stage feels endless and the lighting has room to breathe.
We were deep into a long-stay tour of a large-scale period musical. Not a quick stop. Not a passing visit. We were settled. We knew the building. We knew the rhythms. We knew which nights the audience leaned louder and which nights they sat back.
And the show was locked.
That’s what happens on long stays.
The first few weeks are sharp. You’re adjusting to the space. Listening to the acoustic. Tweaking spacing to fit the stage.
By the time you’ve been in for months, the show runs on muscle memory.
Every cross lands.Every harmony sits.Every cue arrives exactly where it should.
You could perform it half-asleep.
And that’s when boredom creeps in — not because the show is bad, but because it’s airtight.
There’s a big scene where most of us are on stage as beggars and general undesirables. It’s busy. Layered. Cloaks, grime, crossing traffic, controlled chaos. It looks wild. It isn’t. Every step is plotted.
Same every night.
And when repetition becomes automatic, the brain starts looking for something to keep itself alert.
Two cast members, who shall remain ANONYMOUS, decided they were going to introduce a daily private challenge.
Nothing disruptive. Nothing audience-facing. Just something microscopic to amuse themselves.
One day, the challenge was sumo wrestling.
In the middle of the beggar scene.
Subtly.
Not full-body grappling. Not anything that would read from Row G. Just slow, deliberate shoulder pressure. Circling. Testing weight. Two destitute figures apparently having a territorial dispute while technically still performing their tracks.
From the stalls, it read as atmospheric stage business.
From the stage, we knew exactly what was going on.
The rule was simple:
It must never break spacing.It must never disturb a cue.It must never pull focus.
The audience still had to see a perfectly disciplined period musical.
That’s the part people misunderstand about long tours.
Boredom doesn’t make you sloppy.
If anything, it makes you hyper-aware.
Because the show has to hold.
You can’t unravel a production just because you’re comfortable in the building. The audience is seeing it for the first time, even if it’s your three-hundredth.
So the “sumo” lived in the periphery. Small enough that it looked like natural movement. Controlled enough that it never affected the scene.
they thought THEY’D got away with it.
We had a loyal following who travelled to see the show. They were at stage door that evening — warm, enthusiastic, as always.
And then one of them said:
“Did you see so-and-so sumo wrestling in the middle of that scene?”
I had to keep a completely straight face.
“Sumo wrestling?”
Absolute composure.
Because that’s the contract.
On stage, you can be ridiculous within reason.
At stage door, you are dignified.
Now — it isn’t just actors who get bored.
There’s a pivotal moment later in the show. One of the principals lets another character escape and fires a rifle into the air. Big beat. High stakes. Gunshot. The other principal runs.
It’s a serious moment.
Or at least, it’s meant to be.
On this particular evening, when the rifle went off, the fly tower crew decided it would be a good idea to drop a rubber chicken from above.
A rubber chicken.
Into one of the most intense moments of the scene.
Perfect timing. Gunshot. Squawk-shaped object descending from the heavens.
Most of the ensemble were on stage at that point, supposedly asleep.
You have never seen so many shoulders shaking while people are meant to be unconscious.
Faces buried into the floor. Cloaks pulled higher. Entire bodies vibrating with suppressed laughter.
The principals, I suspect, were less amused.
They were carrying the scene. High emotion. Focused. Committed.
And somewhere above them, gravity had delivered poultry.
It did not go unnoticed.
The crew did not get away with it.
They were reprimanded by their boss fairly swiftly, which is only right. There’s a line between keeping yourselves entertained and derailing a pivotal moment.
But for that one performance, the backstage and onstage worlds collided beautifully.
The audience, somehow, still received the story.
The principals powered through like professionals.
The ensemble tried not to visibly convulse.
And a rubber chicken briefly joined a nineteenth-century revolution.
That’s long-stay theatre life.
It isn’t chaos.
It isn’t disrespect.
It’s humans repeating something perfectly, night after night, and occasionally allowing a crack of absurdity to slip through.
The discipline underneath it is what makes it possible.
You can only get away with micro-mischief when the machine is solid.
From the front, the show is immaculate.
From the inside, it’s a group of adults in period costume trying to keep month five interesting.
Sometimes by sumo wrestling in a slum.
Sometimes by introducing airborne poultry into a dramatic gunshot.
Theatre shenanigans.
And somehow — it still works.
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