Stag Party


Yup, I'm off to Above the Stag.

It's almost like I planned it,

Now, if I were a decent blogger (or even a decent liar), I'd tell you that's exactly what I did. But I'm not, and I didn't. Plan it, I mean. I was actually intending to get this one checked off the list in May, but a last-minute diary reshuffle had me bumping the home of the UK's LGBT+ Theatre over a couple of weeks. And it's only while I'm walking through Vauxhall, and seeing all the rainbow-tinged goodness everywhere, that I connect the brightly-coloured dots, and apologise to the theatre gods for spending so long bitching them out for messing with my calendar. I should have known they had this shit covered. I mean, someone has to. And I certainly don't.

It's a warm evening, and it looks like there's more people hanging out, drinks in hand, on the small square of grass outside the theatre, then there are gathered within.

I lean against a tree and try and get a photo of the building, but it's completely impossible. I can barely even see the entrance through the absolute party that is going on out here. All I'm getting is a hazy purple light, glowing from within the curved glass frontage. A halo hanging over the heads of my fellow theatre-goers. It's all rather magical.

Despite the image conjured by the name, the Above the Stag is not actually above the Stag. It's not above anything, let alone a horny deer pub. If anything, it lies underneath. Tucked within one of the railway arches that live near Vauxhall station.

I decide it's time to go in.

It's pretty busy in here too. There's a massive queue at the bar, and every table is taken. No wonder the people are spilling out onto the street.

One end of the bar has been assigned to box office duties. There's a big lit up sign screaming TICKETS up on the wall behind. The queue is significantly shorter on this end. There's only one person in front of me.


But with our queue now composed of two, we manage to attract the attention of one of the bar staff and she comes over to deal with the business of ticketage.


When it's my turn, I give my surname and she taps away at my name on the touchscreen behind the counter. A second later a small printer buzzes, and my ticket emerges, printed on thin receipt paper. All very fancy.

The doors still aren't open, so I suppose I should find somewhere to stand. At least, I think they're not open. I don't actually know where they are. None of the doors I spy around look likely. There's no helpful THEATRE sign to match the TICKETS one above the bar.

But the room is heaving, and there's still a healthy queue of people intent on getting their drinks, and no one looks overly concerned about going anywhere quite yet, so I settle into the business of just hanging around, waiting for instruction.

But I soon find myself darting and waltzing back and forth as I try and get out of people's way. It really is very busy in here. All my darting and waltzing gradually moves me from one side of the bar to the other, and I'm now standing amongst a small group, all clutching receipt-paper printed tickets in their hands. There's a set of double doors down here. Unmarked. Unlike the loos right next door. Through the small windows set into the doors I can see show posters. This must be it. And these people must be all the keen-bean theatre crowd, just bursting to get into the space. Or possibly, given our location, busting for the loo. I can't quite tell. Bursting for something or other, for sure, though.


We look at the doors, and then at each other.


We all look back at the doors.


We keep staring. 












Except, hang on. Someone sitting in the row in front of me is flicking through something. A booklet. The kind of booklet that I, if I didn't know better, would say looks exactly like a programme.


There are pictures interspersed with the text. Photos. Headshots.

That's a fucking programme.

He has a programme.






This is fringe theatre to the lux.





Too soon it's the interval, and still giggling, I make my way back out of the auditorium.

I'm on a mission after all. Gotta get that programme.


Buying one however, now that's where it gets tricky.



"Sorry, sorry," she says, just as her wine is being poured. "I ordered Sauvingnon blanc."




"For which show?" he asks.

I'm stumped.


"Fanny and Stella," steps in the other lady, demonstrating more grace than I could ever be capable of considering I just queue-barged her.





Isn't that something.

I flip forward to the staff list. Bit of a habit of mine. I like seeing who works for theatres. And for the first time in a good long while, I see someone credited for the programmes. That's lovely. I like that. I'm certainly not mentioned as the producer of my programmes anywhere in mine. Perhaps I should start sneaking that in there... anyway, good on Jon Bradfield. They've done a great job. Love the interview with the writer, Glenn Chandler. Very nice.

The bar's getting crowded again. Really crowded. Without taking a single step I seem to have been swept along, away from my little corner, into the middle of the room. And people are still pouring in from the theatre doors. I didn't think that small space could even hold this many people.


The main house.

The. Main. House.

Long neglected neurons start firing. 

That's why there are so many people.

That's why I got asked which programme I wanted.

Above the Stag isn't one theatre. It's two.


We're skirting dangerously close to 300 theatres now. Finding a new studio to add to my list is really not what I need right now.




The cast stop to stare at her in wonder.

"She's going through a stage," says Mark Pearce.



The pianist pulls a face.





