The Curse of the Corn Chip

Slicing gherkins to the accompaniment of Mark Lawson's uniquely irritating, nonsensically undulating tones on Radio 4's 'Front Row' one evening, my attention was caught by a review of Simon Stephens' new play, 'Punk Rock'.

Lawson warbled that it was 'a piece that immediately feels like one of the major dramas of our time.' What a pitch. I raced to google the show, trembling with FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out).  Imagine how my heart thrilled to discover that it was coming to a theatre near me.  Given that there's almost nothing near me unless you count dairy cows and a septic tank, this in itself felt like a small miracle.

And so it was that I arrived with a happy heart at the Salisbury Playhouse one evening for the four star reviewed Major Drama of our Time.

It's a play set in a public school and incorporates some loud music and swearing as well as reference to teenage sex.  Oh and there's a certain amount of violence.  Given these credentials, it was always going to be a winner for A level Theatre Studies and B Tech Performing Arts students.  Hell, start them on accessible swearing and teen themes and work your way up to existentialism, I say.  The theatre went dark; the kids from the sixth form college that were ranged in front of me, squealed and cheered.  I gritted my teeth. 

The action had barely got under way when the oversized youth in front of me dragged out a catering sized packet of Doritos (other corn chips are available - none though, smell quite like the real thing) and began dipping into them.  With impressive dexterity, he eased them out of the foil bag straight into his extra large mouth, carefully licking the fairy-corn-chip dust from his everso slightly hairy top lip.  To be fair to him, he was making an effort to eat them quietly.  I could hear him sucking them before he crunched them.  Slowly. 

In my former life as a teacher the first thing I taught my students before I'd let them near the public on outings to the theatre was that there is an art to being a live audience.  "No whooping when the lights go down and all confection should be despatched outside of the auditorium.  The effort and concentration required to unwrap a Fox's Glacier Mint or worse, a Starburst, takes you away from the action on stage.  It's inconsiderate of the other people around you, who have paid hard earned cash for their tickets, and it's disrespectful to the professionals sweating it out on stage for their Equity minimum wage,"  I'd roar.

Mastication in public is a dodgy area at the best of times, but my Dorito drenched neighbour, who had so pungently fragranced the air, seemed oblivious to my offence.  My husband, seated at my right hand side, a bit like Jesus, intervened.  Leaning forward, he asked the fat headed goon if he intended to munch his way through the entire first half?  It was enough of a hint.  The packet was put beneath his seat until the interval.

I popped out for a swift gin and grapefruit and, passing the lad and his peers, overheard him slating the unreasonable man in the row behind who'd told him to stop eating.  Clearly, this had made more of an impact than the (brilliant) show.  I don't know if it was the chemicals I'd imbibed from breathing the Doritos dust, but I couldn't let it go.  I tapped him on the shoulder and said (oh I'm not proud of this, let me tell you) "You wouldn't have starved for the fifty-five minutes of Act 1, you know."

At this, a bespectacled woman sprang at me.  "If you've got a problem with one of my students, you should bring it to me!" she announced.  I looked at her.  I looked at the lad.  Seventeen?
"Is he not responsible for his own behaviour, then?" I asked.  I did a quick trawl of my memory.  At seventeen, I'd crashed my Fiat Panda, doing untold damage to the engine.  At no point did any one of my teachers throw themselves between me and my irate father and tell him to address his grievance to them.

The conversation that ensued left me incredulous.  The bespectacled teacher accused me of being rude and overbearing.  I countered that she had a responsibility to teach her students how to behave in the theatre.  "Don't you tell me how to do my job, love," she retaliated.  It became clear that she intended to defend to the death (mine, if she had her way) that boy's right to eat crisps in the theatre.  "You don't have to take that and you're not going to," she said to him, "I'll swap seats with you!"

I gave up.  I give up.  Another class of teenagers is left to stew in its ignorance and their teacher thinks she's doing them a service.

The play was about a school shooting.  Doritos weren't mentioned as a motive, but perhaps Simon Stephens might explore that another time...