The time I passed out at the National Theatre

On May 1, 2015, I went to the National Theatre to review my first play as a journalist. This is the only piece I have written about that Friday evening.

A week before the general election, when all signs were pointing towards another hung parliament, the National was running a production on zero-hour contracts called ‘Beyond Caring’. I’d interviewed the play’s writer some weeks earlier and was offered two tickets to the press night. Having just started as a political reporter, I was unsure how I would fare as a critic.

My main preoccupation, however, was on who to bring along. I’d been taken with someone for a while but not got very far. I felt this offered one last hope; if a theatre ticket wasn’t a goer, that was all I needed to know. An hour or two after posing the question, my phone vibrated.

Sounds good. x

Dressed in an old suit and an ill-fitting, crinkled blue shirt, I waited on London’s Southbank. She was late, and I’d left my glasses at home. If she were nearby, I wouldn’t know about it until the last moment. The uncertainty made me anxious. I lit cigarette after cigarette and devoured a pint to calm my nerves.

Then I saw her. My stomach flipped. After fluffing the greeting (my tongue had never felt heavier), I suggested we went inside. On the way, the play’s writer thanked me for our interview. ‘Hope she noticed that,’ I thought to myself. We grabbed a couple of drinks from the bar and collected our tickets.

The venue was intimate. We had to walk across the stage to get to our seats. As the play began, the lights remained on in the auditorium. The actors performed just metres away.

I soon realised it wasn’t the best choice for a first date. It was a claustrophobic, relentless play about a highly charged political issue.

After an hour, I was getting deeply uncomfortable. I’d been for a run in the afternoon and had drunk lots of water. I’d added two beers in the time since. I needed to go to the toilet.

As time wore on and the play continued without an interval, I considered my options. How would I get to the bathroom if we had to walk across the stage? Would I just nonchalantly saunter past the actors and say, ‘don’t mind me?’

Behind were two doors that looked vaguely like fire exits in either corner. But what if I set off an alarm? Were they even proper doors?

The sharp pain in my bladder was becoming excruciating. I looked at the empty plastic cup in my hands where my beer had once been and, in a darker moment, wondered if I could use it to my advantage.

I started to sweat. Hot blood filled my cheeks. I turned my head to make sure she couldn’t see me. As I looked back at the stage, all the colour drained from my face. Black spots appeared in my vision.

I was about to pass out.

I had three options. One, walk across the stage and interrupt the play. Two, stay seated and try to ride it out (with the added risk of falling unconscious and potentially urinating on my date). Three, take a punt on the fire exit.

Seemingly out of nowhere, the play’s central characters began having sex. For whatever reason, that was the final straw. I had to get out.

I walked gingerly towards the back of the theatre. An usher greeted me at the fire exit. I took a step forward and then, nothing.

Darkness.

I awoke to find a group of people standing over me. I was on my back, and my head was throbbing. I’d collapsed. Somehow — and to my eternal relief — my trousers were dry.

“Are you okay, sir? Have you had too much to drink?” a woman asked. I tried to stand up. She told me to stay put, with an ambulance on its way. “Please, please get me to a bathroom,” I pleaded.

I was pulled to my feet and walked forward.

I passed out again.

When I came to, I was encouraged to remain in place. Knowing things were about to get a whole lot worse before they got better, I responded: “I’m so sorry… I have to get to a toilet.”

Reluctantly, the staff guided me to an exit. After holding onto anything I could to retain balance, I made it to the main building and went straight to the bathroom. The relief was indescribable.

Paramedics were waiting for me in the foyer. I had a cut on the back of my head, and they were checking for concussion. My companion arrived, looking shocked. She, like everyone else, had heard a loud bang but thought I’d walked into a false door. That was until she saw people hurtling up the side of the stage to come to my aid.

I asked the paramedic checking my blood if he’d ever heard of someone passing out from needing the toilet. “No,” he replied. “But we do often get call outs to old women who pass out because they’re constipated.”

My eyes widened. As if he’d just said that.

Constipated grannies.

We burst into laughter.

After being given the all-clear, we went for dinner, a few drinks and parted ways around midnight. That was the last time I saw her.

I woke early the next morning with a thumping headache. I looked at my bedside table. The light on my phone was flashing green. One message received.

Looking forward to reading that review x