High culture and that

Missus O and I are off to an RSC production of Henry IV Part II tomorrow evening.  It's at The Barbican, which is handy for us to get through.  Unfortunately, the seat in the auditorium are fucking atrocious, which as it's a 3-hour play, is less than brilliant.

The seats appear to have been designed by some disciple of Ernő Goldfinger.  They're all form and no function.  The bit behind one's lumbar spine has been recessed, making it impossible to rest the small of one's back.  Sadly this idiot aperture sits above a very shallow arse dish (I don't know the mot juste in chair architecture for the bit your buttocks sit on).  This means the jutting-out bit of chair back pushes on your shoulder blades as you try and follow the Tudor action.

Usually uncomfortable seats take their time in making their presence known.  Not these ones though.  As soon as you flop down in one, it's clear something is seriously to cock.  They're so poor, these perches, that we won't be going back to The Barbican.  That's some shit chair, isn't it?  The production was brilliant, but I won't be going back because my arse can't tolerate another sitting.  Their loss I suppose.  I might write to them, pointing out this big old hole in their business model.  In these straightened economic times, the arts, particularly high falutin' guff like Shakespeare, needs to ensure the customer comes back.  They shooting themselves in the loins.  It's not good enough.

I might have to pack a rubber ring tomorrow evening.  Oh woe.