Never Underestimate Doris Day Fans

photo credit: kevin dooley

Up until recently I considered theatre goers to be, in the main, a fairly discerning and polite cross-section of the population. An audience usually comprised of retired elderly couples, middle class arty intellectuals, drama students and the odd flamboyant homosexual – a sea of corduroy, ethnic print silks and glass beads. Maybe even a glass eye or two. A generalisation perhaps but I don’t think anyone would condemn me for assuming that aggression was a low scoring trait in the character profile of your average drama enthusiast. I was however proved wrong during an episode at the library theatre last Saturday.

I was working my first shift there and it has to be said, was not in the healthiest of states after a few black sambucas the night before. Having been swiftly moved from the bar when it looked like a more experienced member of staff might be needed to deal with a surprise afternoon rush, I was placed on the doors. Probably one of the easiest tasks you might think, as did I, happily selling programmes and looking forward to watching the imminent entertainment. I was given explicit instructions not to open the doors until directed to do so by the manager and unsure of the time, I chirpily informed people when requested, ‘Just a few more Minutes’.

A few minutes elapsed, then a few more and as enquiries became more frustrated and frequent I found myself repeating this mantra with less and less confidence. I could feel the oppressive presence of bodies closing in on me, like cows in a field, gradually moving towards me in unison. Their gaze angrily shifting between me and the door as if I were the only thing standing between them and theatrical bliss. At some point I learnt that the delay was down to a technical fault, information I passed on at my detriment because I was unable to answer any follow up questions. Soon began an audible hum of tutting, sighing and head shaking, I think there may even have been cries for bottled water to be handed out. It was warm in there and there was perspiration (in my case probably alcohol related) but I wasn’t convinced there was any immediate risk of dehydration.

A woman suddenly lunged towards me and, thinking she was making a run for it, I politely pointed out that she wasn’t allowed to go through the door. This didn’t go down well. Apparently she just needed to lean against something. I thought it might be worth drawing her attention to the fact that just a few metres away in the cafe was a plethora of chairs but she didn’t want to make a fuss.

After a while an announcement was made advising customers that there would be a delay of half an hour. It took people a a few minutes to realise that there was a world outside of the sweaty foyer they were all fervently gathered in but gradually they began to disperse. Not before I had one last battle with the public, desperately trying to hold closed the door to a prohibited bar area, full only of props and chorus members. The prospect of a thirst quenching beverage, fuelling their irrational desire to struggle on.

Exhausted I was pleased when the doors finally opened and I surveyed the ageing rabble as they sat down. Not 30 minutes earlier they had been fighting tooth and nail to watch ‘Desperate to be Doris’ (a farcical comedy centred around the songs of Doris Day). Now they looked deceptively gentile and enthusiastic. Lesson learned, I won’t stereotype so quickly in future. The play itself wasn’t altogether comfortable watching, particularly at the end when the crowd were encouraged to waive their arms in the air and sing Que Sera Sera. Somewhat hypocritically they obliged.