“Tea, Sympathy, and a Fun-Size Mars Bar”

When I’m in rehearsals with my director’s hat on, my job is simple: create a space where actors can be their best. They’ll do it differently to me—sometimes wildly differently—but that’s the joy. There’s no point in giving line readings or barking orders. I can offer tips, I can validate, I can occasionally mutter, “Perhaps try it without the limp this time,” but above all, I need to let them flourish. I have a single rule: I never ask actors to do anything I wouldn’t do myself. Which means trapeze, horseback, and bicycles are all out. I’ve attempted at least one of those in the past, and the less said the better. (Picture me in a harness, dangling like an apologetic ham, and you’ll get the idea.) It struck me recently that this is the same in the workplace. If you’re a leader in a company, you’re asking your staff to perform. But here’s the test: would you, yourself, do what you’re asking of them? This thought crystallised during my recent excursion into the seventh circle of hell that is Avanti West Coast. On Sunday evening I set off northwards, four hours of my life in the tender arms of Avanti. I was lucky enough—so I thought—to be in first class. At Euston, the guard made the announcement in the same tone a dentist uses before a root canal: there would be no service in first class. If I wanted anything, I had to trot off to the buffet car like a famished Labrador. There I found a charming girl who looked faintly ashamed of her job description. I waved my first-class ticket hopefully, only to be told that it entitled me to a cup of tea, a fun-size chocolate bar, and a bottle of water that could comfortably fit inside a thimble. Not the proper bottles displayed on the shelf, but some apologetic little ones hidden under the counter, like contraband. She was mortified. I was hungry. I bought a sandwich. So much for dinner included in the price of the ticket. Still, I looked forward to the return journey. Surely things would improve. A steward appeared, smiling, offered a drink, then got off at Preston ten minutes later. For the next one hour and fifty minutes between Preston and Wolverhampton there was no service. None. I trudged back to the buffet car, five carriages away. The staff there were equally embarrassed. “We’re told not to serve between Preston and Wolverhampton,” they whispered, as though reciting an official secrets act. No tea, no water, no nothing. Unless I paid again. Over £200 for a first-class return ticket, and for nearly half the journey one is expected to subsist on thin air. By the time we reached Wolverhampton I was desperate enough to cheer at the sight of a steak and ale pie. Birmingham New Street provided asticky toffee pudding no less, and for the first time in my life I considered it a beacon of civilisation. And that, I realised, is the problem. The staff were trying their hardest. They were courteous, helpful, and mortified. But they had been hamstrung by some middle manager, probably sat in a regional office with a wardrobe full of chinos and polo shirts, who thought this was all “best for the business.” It never is. Because everything you do in a business is for the customer. And if the customer pays for something, and you deny them half of it, you are not “running a business.” You are running a con. Compare this with our stay the other weekend at Thoresby Hall, part of the Warner Leisure group. A grand old pile, preparing for a facelift, but still managing to be both welcoming and fun. What made it special? The staff. Katie, the food and beverage manager, who served us dinner. The bubbly lady who got us an early breakfast before our gigs. The receptionist who greeted us warmly. Staff who weren’t shackled by restrictive diktats, but empowered to do their best. The lesson? Whether in the rehearsal room or the boardroom, the trick is to let people flourish. Trust them, enable them, and they’ll shine. The Avanti staff were doing their best under impossible restrictions. The Warner staff were doing their best because they’d been allowed to. And guess which I’ll happily pay to see again? Because in the end, the customer funds the whole enterprise. That’s true of theatre audiences, hotel guests, and train passengers alike. The moment you forget that—when you hobble your staff and betray your customers—you’ve lost the plot. And if there’s one thing I know from directing plays: once you lose the plot, there’s very little chance of getting the audience back. ⸻

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