Glee?

I knew, even when joining the University Orchestra (which involved lots of sitting at the back, falling asleep), the Film Club (which involved a bizarre ritual of throwing balled-up newspaper across the auditorium before 'curtain up'), Parachuting Club (multiple trips to goodness-knows-where, to get shouted at by an ex-military type, only to not jump out of a plan) and Light Opera Society (one evening of Gondoliers choruses, an excrutiating night at the bar and never again), I knew that what I really wanted to do was the Theatre Group. 

I'd unsuccessfully auditioned in the First Year (for some Ionesco-esque studenty nonsense) only to get knocked back, never to return.  The Theatre Group were inevitably, from thereon, a group of snooty, tie-dyed, purple hair-streaked morons, who's productions were not going to have their doors darkened by me.  My own theatre-going had already advanced from the early days of Starlight Express to Lettuce and Lovage in a relatively short amount of time.  My poor father remains scarred, to this day, by the memory of a trip to London, with me, to go and look at the fronts of West End Theatres, one-by-one.

But it was the part of Howard in 'Death of a Saleman' that was my breakthrough moment.  The PostGrad Willy Loman's views on interpretation often wildly diverted from that of the clueless Director (who's Happy was cast on his jock-like looks, only to be replaced a short distance down to the line) and the asethetic and technical vision was non-existent.  My only scene involved my playing recordings of my children to the soon to be fired Loman, the 'tape' being inconsistently shouted from the wings by an occasionally-present friend of the Directors.

But it was what I needed to break the clique. 

I'd already told a disgusted flatmate that my ambition was to direct 'Bent'.  He declared that 'he didn't agree with plays like that' and said that he was deeply unlikely to attend as a result.

I was single-minded in my focus.  Although casting was something of a catastrophe (all three of my leads had to be recast thanks to the competing production of 'Troilus and Cressida' that was being delivered, by the aforementioned Willy Loman, in the Main House) I managed to pull together a group who were as passionate about the piece, in the end, as I was.

I had a view on everything.  The poster, the set, the stripes in the concentration camp uniforms, the programme, the lighting, the music, the sound, the party.  I dived into some misery-making research and had numerous sleepless nights thanks to the oft-absence of my leading man (Ch... - still grieving from the death of his mother and flaky beyond belief - at one point falling asleep in the loo between scenes).  It was the third year of my degree but this was the important undertaking in my life.

It was 1993.  Gay plays were, indeed, being produced at the National Theatre these days.  Ian McKellen was long 'out' but not everyone was.  The pink-starred posters, around campus, caused something of a rumpus in some areas.  And ticket sales in the first instance were slow.

And on the first night, in the first scene, the three-quarters full audience laughed.  Granted there were jokes in the first scene.  I can't say I realised - it took me quite by surprise.  Some girls in the front row sighed at R's death as Wolf.  And at the end, with Ch's death.  There was silence.  Then applause.  Then total crazines.  People loved it.  I was utterly shell-shocked and shrugged off the plaudits in the Union Bar.  The second night saw one of the original Theatre Clique in tears.  And the third and last night was packed.  To the rafters.  I'd held the curtain so my family could come and I could only find a place to sit on the steps.

My brother shoved a massive bottle of Southern Comfort in my hand at the end. My mother said something awkward about it being OK as long as the boys weren't doing it for real.  And my flatmate was saying that it was the best thing that he'd seen in his life.  He was collecting autographs from the cast.  And from me.