Pimping for 'War Horse'

"Are there any tickets available for War Horse?" Shelley asked.

The man in the ticket booth was the theatrical type; he wore a black sweater that dissolved into the darkness.

"No," he said, "at this stage, you'd have to sleep with a member of the cast to get into War Horse."

He paused, allowing us time to consider.

"OK," said Shelley, "what about The Mousetrap?"

"Oh. I can get you tickets for that," he said, without looking at his computer.

"Alright, and how much would they be?"

"Cheapest is £14," he said.

"And those seats are OK?"

"They're on the second tier, but it's a tiny theatre anyway."

Sensing now the opportunity to be sold something, Shelley pressed on:

"Oh, it's small, is it? So is there any chance it might sell out soon?"

"Oh no, no—that show never sells out."

"OooooK … so, is it actually any good?"

He took a breath.

"It's not thrilling," he said. "It's pretty much just something people see so they can say they've seen it."

By this stage the money in our pockets was glowing white-hot.

"OK," said Shelley, "so if that's a no-go, is there any other 'hidden gem' in the West End you could recommend?"

He shook his head with grim finality: "No."

Then stopped:

"Except for War Horse, of course … but, as I said ..."