job number 107
The Royal Albert Hall, Autumn 1991. I am wearing black suit trousers, a red blazer, and a false bow tie. On stage are two men wearing large amounts of body fat, and nappies. Every couple of minutes they grapple with one another, slap each other around a bit, then retreat.
The job is an usher in the Royal Albert Hall. In spite of the dress code, it’s tolerable. My friend Rebecca with the Irish boyfriend fixed me up with the job. When she’s there, she makes me laugh. She’s very easily shocked. Apart from the proms, the job has also permitted me to see The Flaming Lips, middleweight boxing, the awards ceremony for the RCA, and far too many fusillades during the 1812.
Tonight is Sumo night. The Hall has been transformed. The Japanese have taken over. They’re there in force, with corporate guests. The extras are sushi packs and cans of Sapporo, at that point in UK history one of the most desirable beers available. At the end of the night I find several unopened cans and hide them away. The atmosphere is carnivalesque: there are few better sights than obese men slapping each other around in the shadow of the Hall’s epic organ.
I am on duty on a lower tier. I have a view of the whole Hall. The scale of the Hall alters, sometimes it seems vast, sometimes compact. Tonight is a vast night. I look up to the left, at the boxes. In one, overlooking the stage from the right, two tiers up, I spot two European women with two Japanese men. One of the Europeans is blonde, the other dark. I cannot make out their features.
A certainty grips me that these are people I know. There is no way of telling as they are too far away, but it nags at me. My enjoyment is spoiled. I want to leave my post and go and knock on the box door, which opens from the inside. If I leave my post it might jeapordise my job. If the box door opens and I find what I suspect I might find, dressed up in my red jacket and bow tie, non-cathartic humiliation threatens.
I do not go to the box. Perhaps I do not go out of fear of losing my job. Perhaps it is because I am not sure that these really are people I know, and I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Perhaps it’s because these really are people I know. To confront this, to confront them, to open the door, would be too much to bear.
The night ends, the box empties, the wrestlers vanish. I steal some beer and cycle home.
The job is an usher in the Royal Albert Hall. In spite of the dress code, it’s tolerable. My friend Rebecca with the Irish boyfriend fixed me up with the job. When she’s there, she makes me laugh. She’s very easily shocked. Apart from the proms, the job has also permitted me to see The Flaming Lips, middleweight boxing, the awards ceremony for the RCA, and far too many fusillades during the 1812.
Tonight is Sumo night. The Hall has been transformed. The Japanese have taken over. They’re there in force, with corporate guests. The extras are sushi packs and cans of Sapporo, at that point in UK history one of the most desirable beers available. At the end of the night I find several unopened cans and hide them away. The atmosphere is carnivalesque: there are few better sights than obese men slapping each other around in the shadow of the Hall’s epic organ.
I am on duty on a lower tier. I have a view of the whole Hall. The scale of the Hall alters, sometimes it seems vast, sometimes compact. Tonight is a vast night. I look up to the left, at the boxes. In one, overlooking the stage from the right, two tiers up, I spot two European women with two Japanese men. One of the Europeans is blonde, the other dark. I cannot make out their features.
A certainty grips me that these are people I know. There is no way of telling as they are too far away, but it nags at me. My enjoyment is spoiled. I want to leave my post and go and knock on the box door, which opens from the inside. If I leave my post it might jeapordise my job. If the box door opens and I find what I suspect I might find, dressed up in my red jacket and bow tie, non-cathartic humiliation threatens.
I do not go to the box. Perhaps I do not go out of fear of losing my job. Perhaps it is because I am not sure that these really are people I know, and I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Perhaps it’s because these really are people I know. To confront this, to confront them, to open the door, would be too much to bear.
The night ends, the box empties, the wrestlers vanish. I steal some beer and cycle home.
posted by maldoror at 11:57 a. m.
2 Comments:
Yes, I seem to recall that there was champagne in the box, and thinking that, along with his transatlantic accent, the man in the djay did not really know how to wear it.
I don't remember the man in the dj or the transatlantic accent. I remember getting a slightly cricked neck. I remember a lot of suits. I remember remembering.
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