Theatre of rudeness

I’m told that the new production of Dvorˇák’s Rusalka at the Royal Opera House is controversial. There were boos at the first night and reports of audience members walking out in disgust.

I too walked out in disgust. Mine, however, had nothing to do with what was happening on stage. It was prompted by the man sitting next to me, who arrived trailing BO the impact of which could alone knock out any Iranian nuclear bomb.

The odour was so powerful that I had to get out as soon as possible. No part of my mind could focus on the performance; I had to hold myself together until the first pause when I could flee.

When I mentioned this to friends the next morning, the floodgates opened. Almost everyone had had a similar experience. There is, it seems, a hidden menace in British cultural life: the curse of the BO neighbour. We may joke about continental standards of personal hygiene but, having worked in Brussels for nearly ten years, I never once encountered this very British hazard.

I wish the problem were merely BO. But noxious odours are just the most potent expression of a wider issue: we no longer know how to conduct ourselves in public. When was the last time you went to a film and didn’t see the flicker of a phone screen, as someone was busy texting? And it’s barely even worth mentioning the rustling of sweet wrappers or crisp bags, so normal is it now.

Go to the theatre and the likelihood is you will watch a play with a running commentary from an audience member behind you. At least that’s connected to the event in hand. There will just as likely be whispering on a phone — as if somehow it’s fine if you’re not speaking at full volume.