The Red Lion

southbanklondon.com

As I took my seat in the Dorfman Theatre, taking in the authenticity of Anthony Ward's set with its muddied walls and dirtied showers, it felt strangely familiar. The yearning I had to get myself back into one of those changing rooms - to struggle to pull my socks over my shin pads, bang my boots, to sit on one of those old battered benches - was pulling me in. The nostalgia was hitting me big time.

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Daniel Mays lured us in further with his spectacular bitching about the state of the turf - especially around the goal-line - about referees, about pitch misconduct (we all have a story about the time THAT ref heard us call him something we shouldn't). Mays had energy like you wouldn't believe, commandeering the stage like he'd trodden its boards a thousand times. He had grit and ownership - everything a manager normally possesses - minus the chewing gum.

The first half allowed us into this male world, seething with homoeroticism that is all but celebrated yet confidently exercised. The youngest of our three man cast was Calvin Demba - playing a wayward young kid with talent on a ball and a few secrets in tow. It wasn't just a game for him, football was the place he was in control, the bit of turf he owned and the place he shone beyond his usual parameters. If there's anything I recognise, its that. That feeling you get on the pitch where everything else drifts away and for 90mins you control your own destiny. Even if it's just in your own little sunday league bubble, it's yours and you're in charge. Even on those misty winter mornings in the playground, with visible breath, wearing just a cotton school shirt and freezing my tits off - because yes, I have those. I wanted to get out on that field instantly. I was getting restless in the theatre. I felt Jordan's frustration, his worries about his knee injury, his aggression at being asked to cheat. His awkwardness at getting his kit off for a massage from another man - not that he was the only one to strip of course, all three of our men had their moment. For an actor I've only seen as a gobby little bad boy in Channel4s Youngers (which I actually loved btw) - I was suitably impressed with his command over his character. I'm quite excited by where he might go next, he's definitely one to watch.

Our cast weren't left to make drama where it wasn't written - Patrick Marber's script provided an authentic peek into a world any footballer would recognise. The line 'your sorry soul is always there to pull you back', 'he's man marking you' sticks out as one of the best. Some lines came off as a bit OTT and cheesy, but if you've ever been in a changing room it's exactly the kind of fearless prose that eeks its way into every conversation pre and post match.

Once again I was left to admire the set during the interval, where stage hands delivered scatters of ankle tape, mud and a worn-kit, filling the room with the musty smell of sweat and TCP. Even attention was given to the clock on the wall, showing that match time was over as the light outside the windows had shifted around the set. I longed to be there for real, unwinding after a game, nursing swollen ankles, with the stench of wet boots unavoidably seeping from the car boot. Again though I was awoken from my dreaming and given a story of three men who lived and breathed their club - albeit in their own way.

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The second half was the time for our oldest cast member Peter Wight to really come into his own. The club was all Yates had, a club built on fairness and support - contradictory to Kidd who would do anything to get ahead. Whether it's three points on match day or £3000 through a dodgy transfer he was always looking to maximise potential for his reputation at the club. But our Yates was having none of it, even if it meant getting his hands dirty in the process. And dirty he did. He fights to mentor young Jordan facing direct opposition from May's character, Kidd and this time, the score line didn't matter. The most intense match was going on inside the changing room - which is why the play gets away with never showing any character playing football. The drama is already there.

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Yates wins our hearts with his passion but by the end we're not sure who has it right. All three men have lied in the name of the sport they love BECAUSE they love it. It's hard to hate anyone by the end. We have an odd sort of hero worship going on - or maybe we just empathise.

The finale of the piece was unexpected. As Yates becomes the last of the three to get his kit off, we watch as he once again abides by the routine the audience has accustomed to. Alone in the changing rooms he plugs the plug in the wall, unreels the extension cable - but this time he keeps going. He unreels it long enough to walk it into the shower room - without the club he has nothing left - and his final moments are driven home by the sharp reality of just how much the beautiful game means to people. Even our rivals conclude that they are in fact both the same.

Marber's script gave us all of passion-filled cliches we expected but it gave us something else too. A feeling of integrity amongst the lies and an empathy for anyone who puts their heart and soul into football, on and off the pitch. It was empowering and the first thing I did when I got home is get my kit ready for training. It seems so many of us escape to this muddy-walled changing room, and The Red Lion only made me realise how much I rely on it for sanity. A beautiful ode to a beautiful game with a soft spot for anyone who immerses themselves in club life and football fanaticism - even the groundsman with the dodgy goal line!