Sloane Square carnage

I hit rush hour at London Bridge tube today and edged, ever further underground, in a swamp of people, wondering what would happen if a terrorist decided to blow himself up in such an over-crowded, confined space. I guess the thought of terrorism is never far from the mind of a Londoner, however much we try to project a “Keep Calm and Carry On” exterior.

I’ve been out and about all day today, latterly at a workshop performance of a musical called Henry by my friends Michelle and Lawrence. It was actually me who introduced them to each other and encouraged them to team up as writers. I was thanked profusely in the programme, which touched me greatly. I am very proud to announce that their writing partnership has yielded very rich rewards. The show, though in its relative infancy, plainly has legs. It’s atmospheric, musically inventive, yet very mature, and deeply intriguing. I’m very excited to see how the work develops.

Leading the cast was young Jack Reitman, a Brass family member, and also one of my 100 Faces. He did a great job and I had another proud Dad moment.

I sat on Sloane Square this morning waiting for Philippa. A strange warm, damp wind was circling around me. I sat and watched London pigeons limping and strutting ineffectually around me. There’s nothing more tragic than London pigeons. They always seem to have half their feathers missing, and their claws usually resemble gnarly stumps.

My mind drifted away, to perhaps the last time I’d been on the square itself. It was 1996. I was still at drama school and working as an usher at the Royal Court Theatre. This was about a month before the place closed down for a lengthy refurbishment and we were all dispatched to the New Ambassadors Theatre in the West End.

After the show one night, the ushers were offered overtime to work on an art installation which was due to happen on Sloane Square. Our job would be to usher audience members out of the theatre, across the road, and onto the square itself, where a giant paddling pool had been set up and filled with sand and gallons of water.

The whole area was surrounded by wires to enable the paddling pool to be floodlit and a weird atmospheric, experimental, electronic sound track to be piped into the ether. You know the sort of thing? Curious subtonic rumbles and weird synthy beeps and bleeps.

I don’t remember much about the installation. I remember there being some somewhat self-conscious actors, and a giant canon thing which was spewing little white feathers into the air which were falling onto the audience like snow. I knew it was pretentious. I remember feeling shame.

The audience had to sit on the floor, on some sort of plastic matting. There was a general sense of non-plussedness.

Suddenly, and I can’t remember how it happened, the paddling pool burst and a cascade of water and sand flooded the area where the poor audience was sitting. Initially we thought it was part of the piece, but then it became obvious that something terrible was happening! I still remember the screams as people realised they were soaked through. People started standing up. Others started laughing uncontrollably.

At that point, the installation’s technical manager started yelling, “every body off the tarpaulin. There are live cables. You’ll be electrocuted.”

Panic ensued. The audience started running about. People were tripping over each other, bumping into one another, falling on the cables. The ushers, who were completely ill-equipped to deal with such an incident, stood helplessly, wondering whether their own lives were more important than those of the audience. I howled with laughter, more relieved than anything that the terrible installation was over.

The audience kept running. No one waited around to find out what had happened. In the space of three minutes the entire square was empty, but for a few rather damp-looking actors, some ushers, red-faced organisers and a scene of profound carnage. Sand. Water. Tarpaulin. Feathers.

Perfect!