Of all the staff in all the venues all over the world there’s one person you don’t mess with, and that’s the Door Bitch. She has the power to turf you out at the drop of a hat, ticket or not, so you’d best be nice to her my friends!
Being the first point of contact upon entry all she has to do is take your ticket or your money and give you a stamp right? Wrong. Not only does she do that, but she deals with the lazy people who’ve yet to collect their tickets and then hold up the queue as they’ve forgotten their booking information, their ID, their credit card, their name and everything that proves they’re indeed who they say they are. And upon being told their word is simply not good enough they act astounded at the fact you don’t simply just trust them and let them in. All it takes is some basic manners and a little organisation on the punters part and you’re in the door, but you’d be surprised how hard those two things can be to some people.
And then of course there’s the VIP or guest list. A list of people so important they give anyone from the Dalai Lama to Barack Obama a run for their money. They can be musicians’ friends or relatives, fellow musos, record company goons, media moguls, cringeworthy critics or competition winners. But no matter who they are they’re all of the mind they are above it all as they are ‘on the list’. As many tickets as the nobodies like to put on themselves (excuse the pun), to a Door Bitch they’re the same as everyone else, if not all the more painful and way more fun to annoy.
And heaven forbid they’re not on the list! Organising and tour managing a show is a complete nightmare in itself without a bunch of tail-riding free loaders wanting to blag their way in gratis. And when a nobody who thinks they’re somebody is left off the list the fall out for the Door Bitch can be brutal, never mind the fact she has nothing to do with said list and is simply handed it at doors open on the night. They proceed to want to peruse the list themselves and if his names listed can become Stevie Wonder in the blink of an eye, despite the fact they’re white with ginger hair (denied). They drop a myriad of ‘names’ from a great height – none of which the Door Bitch has ever heard of – thinking it will part all seas (denied). They offer anything from dollars to drinks to invites to one of their most exclusive parties (denied). All to avoid actually paying and supporting their so-called ‘best friends’ artistic endeavours.
Besides all this there’s the steady flowing torrent of random questions the Door Bitch must answer repeatedly between all of the aforementioned: Where’s the loo? What time are they on? Who’s playing? Are there any tickets left? How much are drinks? What time does it finish? What’s the address here? Is Joe Blogg’s here? Why is the sky blue? What is the meaning of life??
So next time you enter a show spare a thought for the Door Bitch as in real life hours she’s not a bitch at all. But no matter how organised, on time and polite you may be there are ten people behind you who have no tickets, no money, no ID and absolutely no clue.
