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Telegraph
05-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
I was assaulted in a London theatre – audiences are out of control
It was a play about artificial intelligence, which was ironic considering the lack of the human variety in the theatre that night. East is South, currently running at the Hampstead Theatre in north London, is an absorbing, thought-provoking production from Beau Willimon, the creator of House of Cards. The play stars New Zealand actor Cliff Curtis who performed a Haka in the final scene. His rage was palpable – though not quite as much as the wallop across my head a few minutes later when a member of the audience decided on a rather less artistic approach to channelling their emotions. Two people directly behind me had been disruptive throughout (it's a long play with no interval): whispering, fidgeting, mobiles chirruping, bags zipped and unzipped and stifled laughing so impossible to ignore I had to lean forward in my seat to concentrate. As a regular visitor to the West End, I'd sniffily assumed I'd remain immune to the aggression and violence invading our theatres by sticking to more cerebral productions in arthouse venues. There have been frequent reports of fights breaking out – at performances of Hamilton and The Bodyguard in Manchester, and in productions of Jersey Boys in both Edinburgh and Glasgow. A Dolly Parton musical in Manchester had to be suspended due to homophobic abuse from an audience member. But I thought I would be safe at this acclaimed artistic powerhouse. So when, behind me, a phone came out to take a photo of the cast as they took a solitary bow after the Haka in Hampstead, I turned around to observe this latest evidence of deteriorating standards now even in high art. What greeted me was less All Blacks, more Millwall. 'What? WHAT! What do you want, you f---ing ugly f---.' My adversary leapt over the spare seat next to me and was standing between me and the stage, still verbally raging. I bent down to grab my phone from my bag to record the confrontation but as I came back up – whack! – an open palm slammed across the side of my head. Not bad for a girl. Yes, the star of this sideshow was a woman in her early 20s with expensive layers and an ugly temper. As my protagonist made for the exit, a woman whom I presumed was her mother was still wedged into the row behind and repeatedly shouting: 'What did you say to her?' Dazed, I turned to say, 'Nothing, I said nothing,' expecting embarrassment, concern, an apology. Instead, the woman screamed in my face: 'SHE'S DISABLED!' In tears, and with the side of my head burning, I moved to the opposite exit to notify staff to stop the women leaving the building and call police. And so began a second act with a more depressing finale than the play I'd just watched; for it tells us more about who we are now as a society than any art to which we may look for understanding. Desperate to secure evidence I went back, shaking, to the front row where people were still queueing to leave and asked a woman from two seats along if she would be a witness. She refused. Astonished, I returned to the ushers expecting some assistance and spotted the two women now standing in the foyer as if nothing had happened. A duty manager then appeared and said she had been made aware there may have been a disability involved and would this affect how I wanted to proceed? Had the ringing in my ears developed into aural hallucinations? She couldn't possibly be prioritising the perpetrator over the victim… But the police hadn't even been called. A fashionably dressed woman in a puffer jacket then presented herself, expressing kindness and sympathy, to say she'd seen it all and agreed to be a witness. I asked the ushers to get a pen and paper so I could secure her details. That request was also refused. As I pleaded with them, I saw the duty manager and a security guy talking to the women in the foyer. They then left the building. The duty manager returned and said something about my attacker having ADHD and asked again how I wanted to proceed. Still, the police had not been contacted, but I was offered an ambulance which I declined. Shocked now as much at the lack of basic common sense and duty of care as at the assault itself, I wandered out to the busy foyer. The assault had taken place in front of the entire audience, many of whom had stayed to socialise; not one signalled even a nod of sympathy. I went to the bar for a stiff drink to calm my nerves where the only seat available was a tall stool at a high table which left me feeling rather wobbly. Finally, a security guy handed me a mobile with the police on the line but background noise made conversation difficult. As I gave the phone back I asked why no one had thought even just to take a clearly distressed woman away from the melee, maybe to an office where I could at least talk to the police in peace. 'You didn't ask,' he replied. He then admonished me with great judgment for having bought a drink, outrageously claiming I'd turned down an ice pack in my desperation to get to the bar (I have no recollection of being offered one). I asked for his name. He told me he didn't have to provide it. Aghast, I asked him to repeat himself. 'I don't HAVE to give you my name. But it's XX XX,' he said as if doing me a favour. I was left to make my own way home. The next morning I complained to the theatre and then requested my witness's details so that I may thank her for the kindness she'd communicated – the only humanity of the whole night – as well as ask her to record her recollection while still fresh. Yet again I was refused. 'I cannot pass on personal information from one member of the public to another without their express permission,' I was told by a director as seemingly devoid of compassion – or cognisance of customer service – as his staff. I pointed out these weren't mere 'members of the public' subject to data protection but parties to a criminal offence with express permission already given for personal information to be passed on: I wouldn't have to beg for it now if his staff hadn't obstructed the exchange. Now, more than a week later, the theatre has 'gone dark' on me. The result of investigations into the drama that unfolded off-stage that night have not as yet arrived, nor any information about the witness who watched it all play out. Such lack of empathy has been more distressing than the assault. While thuggery has now clearly invaded this last bastion of civilised society, humanity has already exited stage left. A spokesperson for the Hampstead Theatre responded to the Telegraph: 'We would like to express our sympathy to Ms Walsh for what happened during her recent visit. We take the safety of our patrons very seriously and incidents like this are thankfully very rare. On the evening our team acted in a professional and appropriate manner, giving support and establishing whether medical care was needed. They also contacted the police and we are happy to assist them with any further enquiries.'
Yahoo
05-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
I was assaulted in a London theatre – audiences are out of control
It was a play about artificial intelligence, which was ironic considering the lack of the human variety in the theatre that night. East is South, currently running at the Hampstead Theatre in north London, is an absorbing, thought-provoking production from Beau Willimon, the creator of House of Cards. The play stars New Zealand actor Cliff Curtis who performed a Haka in the final scene. His rage was palpable – though not quite as much as the wallop across my head a few minutes later when a member of the audience decided on a rather less artistic approach to channelling their emotions. Two people directly behind me had been disruptive throughout (it's a long play with no interval): whispering, fidgeting, mobiles chirruping, bags zipped and unzipped and stifled laughing so impossible to ignore I had to lean forward in my seat to concentrate. As a regular visitor to the West End, I'd sniffily assumed I'd remain immune to the aggression and violence invading our theatres by sticking to more cerebral productions in arthouse venues. There have been frequent reports of fights breaking out – at performances of Hamilton and The Bodyguard in Manchester, and in productions of Jersey Boys in both Edinburgh and Glasgow. A Dolly Parton musical in Manchester had to be suspended due to homophobic abuse from an audience member. But I thought I would be safe at this acclaimed artistic powerhouse. So when, behind me, a phone came out to take a photo of the cast as they took a solitary bow after the Haka in Hampstead, I turned around to observe this latest evidence of deteriorating standards now even in high art. What greeted me was less All Blacks, more Millwall. 'What? WHAT! What do you want, you f---ing ugly f---.' My adversary leapt over the spare seat next to me and was standing between me and the stage, still verbally raging. I bent down to grab my phone from my bag to record the confrontation but as I came back up – whack! – an open palm slammed across the side of my head. Not bad for a girl. Yes, the star of this sideshow was a woman in her early 20s with expensive layers and an ugly temper. As my protagonist made for the exit, a woman whom I presumed was her mother was still wedged into the row behind and repeatedly shouting: 'What did you say to her?' Dazed, I turned to say, 'Nothing, I said nothing,' expecting embarrassment, concern, an apology. Instead, the woman screamed in my face: 'SHE'S DISABLED!' In tears, and with the side of my head burning, I moved to the opposite exit to notify staff to stop the women leaving the building and call police. And so began a second act with a more depressing finale than the play I'd just watched; for it tells us more about who we are now as a society than any art to which we may look for understanding. Desperate to secure evidence I went back, shaking, to the front row where people were still queueing to leave and asked a woman from two seats along if she would be a witness. She refused. Astonished, I returned to the ushers expecting some assistance and spotted the two women now standing in the foyer as if nothing had happened. A duty manager then appeared and said she had been made aware there may have been a disability involved and would this affect how I wanted to proceed? Had the ringing in my ears developed into aural hallucinations? She couldn't possibly be prioritising the perpetrator over the victim… But the police hadn't even been called. A fashionably dressed woman in a puffer jacket then presented herself, expressing kindness and sympathy, to say she'd seen it all and agreed to be a witness. I asked the ushers to get a pen and paper so I could secure her details. That request was also refused. As I pleaded with them, I saw the duty manager and a security guy talking to the women in the foyer. They then left the building. The duty manager returned and said something about my attacker having ADHD and asked again how I wanted to proceed. Still, the police had not been contacted, but I was offered an ambulance which I declined. Shocked now as much at the lack of basic common sense and duty of care as at the assault itself, I wandered out to the busy foyer. The assault had taken place in front of the entire audience, many of whom had stayed to socialise; not one signalled even a nod of sympathy. I went to the bar for a stiff drink to calm my nerves where the only seat available was a tall stool at a high table which left me feeling rather wobbly. Finally, a security guy handed me a mobile with the police on the line but background noise made conversation difficult. As I gave the phone back I asked why no one had thought even just to take a clearly distressed woman away from the melee, maybe to an office where I could at least talk to the police in peace. 'You didn't ask,' he replied. He then admonished me with great judgment for having bought a drink, outrageously claiming I'd turned down an ice pack in my desperation to get to the bar (I have no recollection of being offered one). I asked for his name. He told me he didn't have to provide it. Aghast, I asked him to repeat himself. 'I don't HAVE to give you my name. But it's XX XX,' he said as if doing me a favour. I was left to make my own way home. The next morning I complained to the theatre and then requested my witness's details so that I may thank her for the kindness she'd communicated – the only humanity of the whole night – as well as ask her to record her recollection while still fresh. Yet again I was refused. 'I cannot pass on personal information from one member of the public to another without their express permission,' I was told by a director as seemingly devoid of compassion – or cognisance of customer service – as his staff. I pointed out these weren't mere 'members of the public' subject to data protection but parties to a criminal offence with express permission already given for personal information to be passed on: I wouldn't have to beg for it now if his staff hadn't obstructed the exchange. Now, more than a week later, the theatre has 'gone dark' on me. The result of investigations into the drama that unfolded off-stage that night have not as yet arrived, nor any information about the witness who watched it all play out. Such lack of empathy has been more distressing than the assault. While thuggery has now clearly invaded this last bastion of civilised society, humanity has already exited stage left. A spokesperson for the Hampstead Theatre responded to the Telegraph: 'We would like to express our sympathy to Ms Walsh for what happened during her recent visit. We take the safety of our patrons very seriously and incidents like this are thankfully very rare. On the evening our team acted in a professional and appropriate manner, giving support and establishing whether medical care was needed. They also contacted the police and we are happy to assist them with any further enquiries.' Broaden your horizons with award-winning British journalism. Try The Telegraph free for 1 month with unlimited access to our award-winning website, exclusive app, money-saving offers and more.
