Andy Richardson: Diverse audiences are the gifts that keep on giving

It’s a little more involved than that, of course, but if I get carried away and start imagining I do something useful for a part-time, after-hours living, my adorable dad will remind me that I am but a gofer and really ought to calm down.

So a bag carrier it is.

Visiting theatres around the UK when I ought to be tucked up in bed, I mind my Ps and Qs, laugh in all the right places and make a mean cup of tea, when required.

I’m brilliant at parking vans, carrying boxes and taking the gaffer tape off stages without ripping up the black paint. And believe me, that ain’t easy.

There are unexpected joys. Touring the mean streets of Scotland – and they are just that – traversing the affluent shires or visiting towns without two halfpennies to rub together provides insight into our Great British Isles.

In Burnley, there are queues halfway down the road for McDonalds.

In Yarm, a Ludlow-for-Yorkshire has the rowdiest Friday night crowd of women-who-love Prosecco.

A recent jaunt provided insight into towns that are closer to home.

Shrewsbury, for instance, has the politest audience of almost any town. While the beer-throwing denizens of Falkirk find themselves arguing with one another during a show, stopping a performance to air their grievances or shouting at other audience members to leave, in Shrewsbury the audiences are more civilised than a Royal courtier.

Polite to a fault, generous with their applause and engaged when the performer speaks, Shropshire’s County Town is the acme of good manners.

Dudley, in contrast, has audiences that are like the theatrical equivalent of a warm hug.

Sweet and humble, they envelop a performer with a fuzzy glow of kindness. Bless their Black Country hearts.

They also have a way with gifts. While some towns offer expensive bottles of brandy or painstakingly drawn portraits, Dudley offers two pints of lager and a packet of triple-cooked scratchings. Quite literally.

A recent visit elicited one bunch of flowers, two bottles of strong lager and a packet of Mr Porky’s finest. I know, because I ate the scratchings after the show.

Thank you to the man in Row C. They were delicious, though I threw them away halfway through lest I spend the night in the coronary care unit at Russells Hall.

For me, you can’t go wrong with a packet of pork crunch. All the flavour and all of the texture but without the artery-clogging saturated fat.

But I digress. And the man who bought the golden packet of Mr Porky triple-cooked scratchings was only trying to be kind. Thank you, sir. And here’s to more Black Country snacks.

Bewdley has audiences that seem not to get out too much.

Taking photographs mid-performance is a bug-bear for performers who suddenly see a face light up as the camera reflects on the guilty party. The pop of a shutter and flash of a tiny bulb throws a performance off for minutes as the speaker tries to gather their train of thought while putting to one side the immense frustration they feel towards the person who erred.

Telford is a barrel of laughs. Bawdy, up-for-a-laugh and with a crew that are as happy-go-lucky as the audience, it’s a favoured pit stop for a number of performers who view it as a home-from-home.

The tiny, market town concert halls of Shropshire offer an intimate experience that feels like being in someone’s living room. A big living room, admittedly, but a living room all the same.

The Black Country is a favourite. A region where people shout out: ‘Yam alright, mucker,’ it puts performers at ease, makes them feel welcome and though artists frequently can’t understand a word anyone is saying, at least the warmth and generosity of spirit makes them feel welcome.