Armchair Theatre

Bland, that’s how it always appeared. But it was a disguise, a ruse that it was long comfortable with and one that would see it bore its way into my brain, sit unsuspected, poised for its moment of triumph ….that fleeting vulnerable second when the imagination of the hour just past, drained away leaving the even blander prospect of another night’s sleep and work or school when the sun rose from its own slumber.

Armchair Theatre for those of the generation of two television channels, was never quite what it seemed. It was ‘Tales of the Unexpected’ rolled up with the ‘Twilight Zone’ and even as youngsters we were allowed to stay up till 11pm and watch it as a family. The drama was never less than riveting, the plot enthralling and as the hand on the clock ticked towards another trip to the dream factory, we would comfort ourselves that the bad guys at the centre of the mayhem, murder and deceit were about to reap the whirlwind of justice usually in the shackles of the electric chair or tethered like a squealing pig to the noosed end of the hangman’s favourite rope.

But this was Armchair Theatre, and Armchair Theatre always had a sting in the tail.

It was the last of the television programmes for the night, and so as the credits started to roll, my Dad would sprung from his own designated armchair faster than Usain Bolt, to intercept and destroy the opening bars of the English National Anthem!

His hand would stretch in victorious fashion for the off-knob!

But then, like a puff-adder or Cape Cobra Armchair Theatre would strike!

Its fangs would deliver its venom, catching dad in mid stride, turning the whole evening on its head, as those who seemed innocent proved guilty, and those who we judged definitely guilty were absolved of all wrong doing. But in the impressionable mind of a nine year old who had been let stay up far too late, the uncertainties of right and wrong became merely a backdrop as his bulging eyes peered through his fingers, his tongue bitten red raw and his untouched tea went cold on the little wooden tray placed at his feet on the hearth of the slowly dimming coals giving up their heat as the day gave up its minutes.

Such was my formative memories of the early sixties, the new fangled state of the art British Relay television on the shelf and the family gathered round for their Wednesday night treat and introduction to conniving duplicity. Mind you the telly took fifteen minutes to warm up, during which time those with things to do fiddled around and the kids waited for the sullen inanimate grey/green screen to metamorphose into a world of living greys and whites.

It was Armchair Theatre time!

“It’s ready” we would shout, and in a trice the throng had been assembled with those other compulsory attendees, Bilsland toast, Co-Op tea, City Bakers’ snowballs and Marks and Spencer’s biscuits that were usually reserved for visitors.

Silence enveloped the room like a blanket of conspiracy.

This was Wednesday, this was stay up late night, this was ‘wide-eyed with shock’ night, this was Armchair Theatre night.

Armchairs and all things related to them have, ever since those nights held for me a degree of mystery, of wariness but most of all suspicion that not everything is as it seems. “Beware the mocking gaze of a conman pocketing your cash” was always my guiding light to life and armchairs in particular.

And so it was that as my time in South Africa approached its twilight hours, I booked in for a few nights at The Armchair on Lower Main Road, Observatory, Cape Town.

I had done what I had set out to do, scratching the surface of South Africa Namibia, Botswana, Zimbabwe and back through Swaziland and Lesotho. The Green Elephant (and much will be written about that haven from the insanity of the world later) had been my home from home while in Cape Town , but now the almost spiritual lure of ‘The Armchair’ proved too much and I found myself, disoriented, dizzy and doubtful, standing on the pavement opposite its ‘come and get me’ windows and coquettish doorstep.




I forcibly blinked and the enticing allure and siren calls in my head softened and muted.

Perhaps the sepia toned vision was a result of the two bottles of red wine (Pinotage if you’re interested) and seven Windhoek lagers of the previous night. As my vapours dispersed the building assumed, as buildings should, an emotionless appearance, almost unassuming with little to suggest to the desperate itinerant that this might be the place to rest his camel for a few days and find a sense of serenity, peace and tranquillity all wrapped in the potential for party, laughter, food, foaming ale, inspiration and flirtation.

I stepped over the threshold and passed through the Stargate into another dimension. One that told a hundred tales, sang a hundred songs and like a great reunion of the travelling world, brought together backpacks large and small, new and old, tattooed with a thousand badges and faded with the sun, rain and probably a million tears as people found not so much what the world had in store for them, but more importantly what deep motivations and hidden strengths made them what they were.

People of every age, colour creed, and gender. Men with grizzled beards, women with moustaches, men with make-up and women who needed make-up. And not just backpackers. This was a jigsaw of life where the pieces were assembled as gingerly as the Jenga towers that crashed with regular abandon to the peals of laughter or cries of disappointment. Like life, the pieces were picked up and the game begun again.

This was no ordinary hostel, motel, lodging or guest house.

Take your place and play your part in the singularity of the ages as television, music, braii, good beer, good food, sink-in sofas, and casually cast cushions vie for territorial claim with bar stools, tables, coffee, tea newspapers, ready laughter, a thousand stories of derring-do. This is a place where the pieces have been assembled with one aim, to meet the needs of the footloose, feckless, fancy free and drifting ships passing in the night but leaving an echo of their presence lingering softly in the air.

As Shakespeare pointed out, ‘all the world’s a stage, and each of us must play our part.’ So who are the players, directors and producers who have taken the bricks, mortar, fixtures and fittings of a typical building in a street of far from typical life, and transformed it into the revitalising drama and reinvigorating mental massage?

Well first there’s Sam. I’m not sure how exactly to describe the philosopher, artist and general observer of all the flotsam and jetsam that washes up at the beach of life that is the bar. So I’ll use her own words.

“Take a picture of me that shows just how tall and elegant I am”.

This was a challenge since Sam had been rejected by the pygmies for being too small.

In an inspired moment we built a very small model of a safe, positioned Sam in the open doorway of the 4ft high mock-up and with the magic of Photoshop gave the impression of unrivalled elegance staring down from the lofty heights of Kilimanjaro.


Sam whose full name is Sam (an unusual phenomenon in Africa), revealed that her name meant ‘gift’, a small present to humanity! In fact Sam made every day a birthday.

She is also seriously into marketing. Nothing gets by this girl when a business opportunity peeks its head above the parapet. As she looked around her little safe, she noticed the convincingly modelled grey bags with the sign of the Rand printed upon them.

“there must be a big demand for moneybags like these” she thought aloud, and immediately drew up her business plan and marketing mission statement

“Come to cape Town, call Sam - for the best in safe sacks that Africa has to offer”

The phone has not stopped ringing, although every call has been terminated by Sam shouting down the receiver “It says ‘sacks’! The advert says ‘sacks’”!

With a smile that could absolve even the most sinful of souls, Sam is your introduction, spirit guide and first clue as to the drama hidden in the folds of the armchair. Folds indeed that most warm blooded males would be happy to search! (rumours that some are still lost are totally unfounded).

Then there is Christian. Christian is Africa Cool , Cape Town sheik, Observatory laid back and the Southern Hemisphere’s answer to The Fonz.

Unfortunately I didn’t get a picture of Christian, but this photo was taken of the bar when he wasn’t there. The skeleton hanging from the shelf is NOT supposed to represent him.

Walk into the bar when Christian is directing proceedings and ‘abracadabra’, your drink is on the bar, positioned perfectly for your left-hand’s grasp, your change by its side before you’ve even decided whether you are going to offer a 20, 100, or coinage in payment.

Christian just knows.

He takes the pain out of decision making and lets the night and you drift into a careless relationship of possibilities, while he tops up your glass, turns down the sounds, cools the ambience and smiles as if he knows a million things that you don’t . He probably does.

Now that’s cool and that is Christian!

Connery, Pitt, Clooney, Daniel Craig and EVEN ME. Believe me, the rules of coolness and street cred will need to be re-defined when Christian strides across the world of celebrity, for he is the walking, talking ‘God-made man’ embodiment of coolness that would keep your milk fresh for ten years.

And so to Michelle!!!!(And believe me Michelle deserves the four exclamation marks - one for each night I stayed there - in my dreams anyway).

Michelle strikes two poses as you can see. The professional and the relaxed. In either case the photographer faces a challenge; just how do you improve on perfection?



Michelle sits at the Armchair‘s answer to the Pearly Gates - the reception that gives entry to the feast of frivolity lying in the sound-proofed chambers of the residents’ zone.

Michelle finds rooms where before there was only an empty air-space. No request is unfulfilled, no fantasy unsatisfied, and cold, windy and wet doorways will go unused for another night. An angel in disguise some may say….and who am I to argue!

She has a secret squad of builders on the go just in case a late night knock echoes through the dark corridors of the romantically lit reception. As the spirits of the exhausted and lonely backpackers emerge from the gloom of the night, Michelle brings her magical skills to the party and by the time she has made the guests welcome, relaxed and comfortable, the bricklayers, plasterers and design consultants have finished a room with a touch of magic, built just to the needs of the night-time stragglers.

Magic is not really the word. I am reliably informed that the whole history of Christianity would have been changed if Michelle’s ancestors had lived in Bethlehem. They would undoubtedly have acquired a room for Mary and Joseph. No stable, no manger, no cows, goats and no a barn full of straw. The Star of Bethlehem would have settled over the nearest Hilton or Trust House Fortie, and the three wise men would have arrived with room service.

I think that Michelle’s power over the future of the world hasn’t yet reached its peak. Perhaps one wet and windy midnight a hungry destitute and poverty-stricken group will arrive unheralded on the doorstep of the Armchair. Michelle will conjure up a room and what they will go on to achieve will no longer be the child of a night on the cold homeless pavement, but a world changing idea dreamt up all because of Michelle, as their heads rested on the cool pillow and comforting quilts of the Armchair.

You just never know when it is going to happen…….but I think Michelle does.

But every orchestra needs a conductor and lead violinist, every dance a choreographer and costumier and every play a playwright and director.

As the cast take their bow, we all stand in applause as the ranks of the twinkle-toed part to reveal the life-blood of the show - Faith and Mike, Mike and Faith.

Their ways are different, their tasks are different and each brings their own speciality to provide a combined sense of service, smiles and every little effort that makes The Armchair the diamond mine it is. Don’t just come and stay. Ask Mike or Faith for something. If they can’t satisfy you themselves I bet they’ll know someone who can.

And keep your eyes and ears peeled for the first hint of their supernatural talents.

Faith was standing one side of the window between bar and non-smoking lounge; Mike was mouthing a request for a till-roll. Two minutes later Faith came into the bar, clear polythene bag in hand, almost bursting at the seams with lemons and limes.

“Doesn’t look much like a till-roll to me” I remarked.

“Faith said I didn’t need one. Changed it this morning. She’ll be right” Mike responded.

“I didn’t hear her saying that” I offered.

“She was thinking it” Mike countered.

“Ah but what about the lemons and limes?”

“I was thinking about them and she picked up on my thoughts”.

I pondered this little example of thought reading and dismissed it as a parlour game. Little did I know!

For there is more. Seated at the bar - “Matt’s end of the bar” as it has been renamed, is where Faith demonstrated her mastery over the occult and the secret rites of mind-reading.

It was an ominously foreboding evening , the clouds heavy and dark snuffing out even the twinkling of the brightest stars and the futile moonbeams. The breeze turned chilly as it whistled through the open door and as the travelling merry-makers made merry as merry-makers tend to do, Faith showed me a picture on her phone.

It was of brightly burning multi-coloured candles, bedecking the bar and tables, familiar faces peering out of the shadows, holding familiar drinks, smiling familiar smiles.

“It was the night the power was cut off without any warning” Faith said in conspiratorial tones.

AND WITH THAT THE ELECTRICITY WAS CUT OFF AGAIN!

Out came the candles and the bar was transformed again into a big birthday cake.

Yes, one word from Faith and Mother Nature bends her knee in obedience.

But not only does Faith control the elements, she can also see deep inside your innermost secret chamber and read your long hidden truths.

I had just completed the first draft of this blog entry, unseen by eyes other than my own, when Faith said.

“When I was young(er), we always gathered as a family to listen to the drama and mystery plays on the radio”.

The cold grip of fate on my shoulder tightened as surely it was no coincidence that here I was writing about drama, mystery and Armchair Theatre, and Faith tugged on a silver thread of magic between my writing and her childhood. Did she know in her soul what was being written? Was this another clue to the missing link between mind, body and life’s unexplored depths? Was Faith placed on this earth by the gods to open up a backpackers’ hotel as a cover for her more important mission - leading the poor lost tribes of mankind out of the darkness of superstition and into the light of a new self-awakening.

Have no doubt, you will be hearing a lot more of Faith. Raising the dead, turning water into wine, feeding the five thousand. No problem for Faith. Let’s be honest, anyone who can keep the beer flowing when the power is cut to her wish, and who can see into the depths of your subconscious is surely destined for demigod status!

And of course last, not least, and maybe even a first among equals is Mike.

Mike is the glue, the hammer and nails, the flitting presence that keeps the cushions on the armchair puffed-up and comfortable. Mike lights fires of mystery and keeps the embers burning till even the most Doubting of Thomases is convinced that time can stand still, logic can be suspended and every room in the building is another planet in the South Africa’s answer to the profound questions of creation.

Mike doesn’t actually appear to do anything, but you must not be fooled by his apparent devotion to sitting down, breathing shallowly and surviving on a diet of biltong and beer. This is just another mystery to be solved during your stay. Every room you enter, every stair you climb, every door, every cupboard, every ornament sports the indelible fingerprint of Mike at his creative best.

If all you remember from your visit is Mike asking for more beer and biltong, you will have missed the real secret of the ‘man with the plan’.

So enter the armchair with your eyes wide-open and your personal antenna primed for the unexpected, the irrational. Take no rule book, no recipe and leave your expectations on the doorstep. Experience the riddle of time as days turn into nights and weeks and the accepted laws of nature are bent to the will of the Mike, the master playwright.

And then when you leave, say your goodbyes and turn the corner leaving the haunting disturbance of The Armchair behind you.

But stop a moment and look back around the bend to see if it is still there, inviting you back, holding the potential for surprise and shock and guarding the secret of a changing world? Or has it dissolved like a ghost into ages past, or even worse was it just a product of an overactive imagination and too much Windhoek beer?

Relief will flood over you as you can still see the red painted building still standing tall and magnetic as through its open windows a laugh or exclamation escapes into the outside world. The memory of that first day’s disorientation, dizziness and doubt will make a surprising but welcome return as you whisper in amazement to yourself….“It was real after all”!

But unlike Armchair Theatre, The Armchair keeps it surprises only for those who enter its fabled corridors and so as you trudge to the railway, Baz bus, or coach station, Sam, Michelle, Christian, Faith and Mike get preparations for the next performance under way. Rooms are buffed up, curtains freshened, new music fills the air, a slight adjustment here, a movement of a cushion there. Everything needs to be just right for the next needy nomad who rings the bell.

The Armchair is expecting you; they know who you are, they know when you will arrive; and they know what you need.

How do they do it?

That’s the mystery and only they know the secret.

Your task is just to settle into your very own Armchair upholstered with all the wisdom of the ancients, let your worries disappear while your minds are cleansed and souls refreshed.

Make yourself comfortable as the drama is about to begin again!

As for me, well herds of wild unicorns will not prevent me from returning……..but next time I’ll bring Garlic and Holy Water, for on my final day Michelle informed me that The Armchair had originally been called ‘The Armchair Theatre’.

The world is not as it seems! Woooooooooooooooooo!

Hail hail


Matt