3 SEPTEMBER 2005, Page 36

Mine’s a lasagne

Jeremy Clarke

Tickets for Who’s the Daddy?, which ended last Sunday, were like gold dust. Even co-writer Lloyd Evans couldn’t help. I rang and rang the King’s Head box office hoping for returns. And then I rang again and the cheerful, cynical lady who answers the phone went away and I heard voices off. When she came back she offered me a pair of tickets very reluctantly, as if strictly speaking she was issuing them in contravention of fire and safety regulations, English common law, and all known laws of science and nature. The tickets were for Friday week. Would we be dining in the theatre beforehand, she said, and, if we were, would we be having the lasagne or the roast lamb? I was so happy at being vouchsafed tickets I would have gladly had the mutton rings. Yes, we would be eating, I said, and the lasagne would be grand.

Friday week came. Just before lunch I was standing on the boundary of the cricket pitch in front of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea, fielding for The Spectator XI. The Economist batsmen were hitting our bowlers all over west London. My phone rang. (Mexican Hat Dance.) It was the lady from the King’s Head box office. Had we said we’d wanted the vegetarian lasagne or the meat lasagne? Another stratospheric six went sailing over my head. ‘Meat,’ I said. ‘So that’s a meat lasagne for both of you?’ After lunch it was The Spectator’s turn to bat. But, alas, our replying innings was as short, ephemeral and essentially tragic as the life of the mayfly. After the match sorrows were drowned in a small boozer round the corner. And after that a Spectator colleague and I took a cab to the King’s Head, which turned out to be a spit and sawdust sort of a pub with a restaurant out the back that doubles as a small theatre.

The bar was seething with middle-class people desperate for drink. We reported to a lady seated in her own small oasis of calm beside the door to the restaurant/theatre. ‘You two look like you’ve been enjoying yourselves,’ she said. It was the cheerful, cynical lady from the box office.

She consulted her handwritten list and her expression changed from mock officiousness to perplexity. We weren’t on it, it seemed. ‘We’re having the meat lasagne,’ I said, helpfully. But not only were we not on the meat lasagne list, we weren’t on the theatre ticket list either. We were, however, on her list for the vegetarian lasagne and show the next night, she commiserat ed. We took the mix-up on the chin. People were amazed we’d got tickets for Who’s the Daddy? in the first place. Even people at The Spectator office said they couldn’t get tickets. If it took two trips to Islington and a vegetarian lasagne to get to see the thing, then so be it.

Next evening the King’s Head bar was once again in uproar. The cheerful, cynical lady’s small round table beside the door was besieged by anxious patrons. ‘You two look like you’ve been enjoying yourselves,’ she said, for we’d been all day at a free bar at a music festival. She looked down her nose at her list of the chosen. As she’d said they’d be, our names were on it — both for the vegetarian lasagne and the show. Result! Actually, I said (for I hadn’t eaten all day and was on the verge of gnawing at my own vitals) that I’d originally ordered the meat lasagne. Imperturbable to the last, she made a careful alteration to the list and motioned us through to the inner sanctum.

The pre-show diners were crammed on benches, canteen-style. Waiters were sprinting up and down the aisles. The din was tremendous. We found two small gaps, one marked with a card for Mr Clarke and guest (vegetarian lasagne) and one for a Mr Clark (roast lamb). The stage set, purporting to be The Spectator editor’s office and adorned with a ludicrous life-sized portrait of Margaret Thatcher, indicated farce rather than satire. We squeezed in at the spot reserved for Mr Clarke, and two roast lamb dinners were immediately slid in front of us.

Frankly, roast lamb would have hit the spot as well as lasagne. I wasn’t fussy. But we were concerned about having taken Mr Clark’s chosen meal and alerted a passing waiter to the possibility. He whisked the lamb dinners away and seconds later replaced them with vegetarian lasagne. I was about to swallow-dive into mine when he reappeared, deftly removed our plates from under our poised knifes and forks, and ran off with them. And on that slapstick note, the stage manager leapt on to the tiny stage and announced the start of the show.