How to Talk to Box Office Staff

The much publicised article on "How to Talk to a Woman Who is Wearing Headphones" has received plentiful scorn and criticism over the last week or so. Some have viewed it as a how-to guide for those who wish to harass women in the street, but have lacked the confidence to do so until now. Others have expressed differing viewpoints, probably. How else are you supposed to talk to women against their will if someone's not there to provide step by step instructions? And that's a good point. If you can't learn to take basic social cues, or take "no" for answer, then how are you supposed to force people to do what you wish, even if they are ugly bitches that you didn't even want to talk to anyway? Well, I say "people".... Obviously, we all know that women aren't really people. Not like you and I, fellow human men.

Anyway, speaking of non-people, and inspired by the powerhouse of modern thinking that wrote the above mentioned piece, I thought I'd share with you a guide on how to interact with box office staff. And, if you don't like it, I'll just edit it and also add in some testimony from my fans. I could have fans.

How to Talk to Box Office Staff

These days, it can be hard to appear cultured and pretend to be tapped into the artistic pulse of society. In a world where advancing technology has allowed for new media and the ability for any man, woman or cat to gain a voice and an audience, sometimes it can be tricky to find the right event at which to be seen. In these difficult times, it's good to know that you can walk into any theatre and find someone to ask about their upcoming performances. After all, theatre is what the intellectuals look at, eh? It might not be as good as TV or something, but if you just pretend to know what you're talking about then people will see how smart and interesting you are.

Often, the staff will appear busy, but that doesn't mean you cannot speak to them. It's their job to serve you, and they'll appreciate the opportunity to speak to you. You pay their wages.

The Approach

As you approach, awkwardly dance in front of them to suggest that you are unsure of which member of staff to approach. Laugh as you do this, so they are put at ease and can appreciate the originality of your hilarious gambit. Men, be sure to choose the pretty girl if one is present, and inform them of the reasons for your choice. Women, defer to your man's better judgement in choosing the appropriate staff member here. Stand directly in front of them, displaying no weakness (as close as humanly possibly. Ideally, close enough that they will be able to taste you. If you can manage to actually be inside them, that's perfect).

Have a smirk that betrays your confidence that you own them, even though you have no idea what you're on about. It's not important to have even the vaguest clue what you're here for, as it's the help's job to work that shit out for you. Most of them will hang up the phone on whatever other loser they're talking to at this point, so just start expecting them to psychically divine your needs from here on out.

However, if they haven't looked at you, or haven't noticed you yet, simply get their attention with a click of your fingers. Maybe stare at your watch a couple of times, and sigh audibly no less than once every 5-10 seconds. They will most likely speak to you at this point, appreciating that you have more important matters to attend to, and regretting that they've wasted this much of your time.

If they persist in dealing with whatever else they're doing before accommodating you, make sure to convey your exasperation in the tone of voice you use when they finally grant you audience.

Of course, if they steadfastly refuse to recognise your importance, direct your attention to their co-worker. Do not tolerate their insolence. Feel free to dart your glance furiously between the two. Subconsciously, they will feel the need to compete for your custom. They are as bitches to you.

The interaction should proceed as follows:

Customer: Tickets.

Staff: (impressed at your stripped down approach to conversation) Yes, sir. What would you like to see?

Customer: What's on?

Staff: (should be giggling and flirting by this point) This month, we have a show called....

Customer: Two tickets.

Staff: OK, what date would you like to go?

Customer: I can do any day.

Staff: Alright, well our best availability would be this Tuesday, where we can....

Customer: Can't do this Tuesday.

Staff: How about next Thursday?

Customer: Can't do days that begin with the letter 'T'. Actually, I can only go on a Friday, three weeks from last week.

Staff: (respecting your ability to keep them on their toes) So....two weeks from now then?

Customer: *sigh* (this will stamp out their sass)

Staff: (contrite, besotted) Would you prefer seats in the stalls, grand circle, or upper circle?

Customer: I don't know. What do you have?

Staff: Approximately 400 seats are still available for....

Customer: Show me each one on your screen.

Having asserted your dominance in this conversation (and torn the computer from their clutches so they cannot withhold any of the secret seats that we all know they keep hidden from us) they will be yours to mold. They will crave your acceptance, and spread word far and wide of the day they met their match. Refuse to give them details. It's all just a trick so they can call you up in the middle of night and beg you for money to feed their drug addictions.

Look behind you, over both shoulders. If there is no queue, continue as before. Should a queue have developed, gesture with your fellow customers in a manner that conveys the futility of your dealngs with these simpletons.

Take out your phone, and make a phone call, whilst maintaining your position at their counter. This will further demonstrate to them that you have better things to do.

Common Mistakes Made When Approaching Box Office Staff

I) Providing any reasonable amount of information that they could use to push through a booking in a supposedly reasonable amount of time. They're swindling you, somehow. Stay frosty.

II) Heeding their advice. You know better.

III) Remembering details. These tickets that were sold to you as restricted view do not have a full view of the stage. This shall not stand! Stand up straight, lest they deduce how ineffectual your genitals are, and unleash your righteous fury. Poke people in the chest with your finger. How long have they been alive? Not as long as you, that's how long!

IV) Allowing them and their ilk to dictate where you can and cannot go in the theatre. Barriers were not meant for you. Move those stage lights out of your way. Rules were made for weaker people than you. You fought in wars....or at least, you would have had there been any good wars on when you were younger.

V) Taking their word for it when they say that a performance is "sold out". The correct response is to ask them to clarify this statement repeatedly. What does "sold out" mean anyway? There must be one ticket. You only need four. Are there none in the stalls? Fine, grand circle then. Not one ticket available in the whole theatre? Alright, alright....how about two and two?

VI) If this approach makes you feel uncomfortable, you may attempt to communicate with them as people. You can remain patient, present your preferred options and listen to what they have to say, on the assumption that they may have a keener insight than you into the workings of the venue. This will not garner their respect. The more assertive males among us shall instruct our women to wave at you from the centre of....I don't know....the boxes, or something. That's where the Queen sits like, yeah?. You will learn your lesson through envy, peasant.


So, there it is. Now you know how to speak to box office staff. Be the sociopath you were born to be. Fuck shit up, compadre.

Painless

Three and a half years ago, I started to write an entry in this blog, but I just couldn't finish it. Every few months since, I've thought about returning to the quarter written draft that remains, but....well, today I've deleted that piece. Today, I start again.

Time travel has always been my go to daydream. I'd get lost in the surface thoughts of a future version of me showing up to tell me all that lay ahead, give me a sense of who I would become. Recently, it hit me that, seeing as I now see myself as the one who travels back, I really have gotten older. The future I saw for myself never anticipated the baldness.

I'd tell myself a lot of things about the future that became my present, and amongst them I'd focus on society's changes, even within the last decade. And make no mistake about it, society has and will continue to change in incredible ways. Opinions will change and people will evolve. It's what we do, now likely at a quicker rate than ever before. And a large reason for that has been the impact of social media. I believe access to these sites and apps has been a genuine tool for positive attitude shifts in our culture. It really has brought the world together. Sure, there are still kinks to be ironed out. Nobody wants to view more evidence that their crazy aunt Pauline really hates brown people, but there's reason for hope in it. Not about Pauline though. Fuck Pauline. You hear that, fictional family member? Fuck your fictional self.

"Things change, people change, hairstyles change, interest rates fluctuate."

But some things are not changing quickly enough.

Life can hang by a thought.

In September 2012, I was sitting on a too small couch, drinking beer and scrolling through Facebook when I saw something that stopped my heart for just a beat- a picture of a friend. That was it. Nothing significant in the picture at a glance, and I could easily have scrolled past had three letters not caught my eye:

R.I.P.

I gulped, and went to his page, thinking it was likely a joke from a mate of his, but aware of the nagging feeling in the back of my head that this could be more. Another picture. Another eulogy. I shambled into my flatmate's room and asked if he'd heard anything from back home about this. We did some digging, and over the course of an hour or two we received confirmation of what we feared. It hit hard.

Now, some of you reading this will know who I'm talking about, and I don't doubt you felt that same punch to the gut as I did. We're never ready for news like that. Everyone's got their demons, but we're never prepared for the demons to win. Over a week I tried to write down some thoughts, some feelings and find some catharsis. It didn't work, and the words I could commit to seemed so woefully inadequate. It's been three and a half years and they still seem so, but here we are.

If I were to travel back in time to talk to an even 21 year old version of myself, I'd find someone with a largely myopic view of mental illness. I remember having a discussion with someone in Spirit or The Academy or whatever it was then/is now that involved me mentioning how I saw suicide as an entirely selfish act. There's people out there with real problems, and you'd hear celebrities talking about depression, as though they have the right to feel sad when they have so much going for them.

"The easy way out."

I knew depression was more than "feeling a little sad". I wasn't entirely clueless, but in imagining talking to this version of myself, this would have to be a major point in our discussion. I'm fortunate enough that I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of prolonged lows I have experienced in my life. Even when things have been bad, I've had refuge in other thoughts or pursuits. Yet in those prolonged low spells, it was harder, darker and a more claustrophobic feeling closing in.

I can't claim to know how it feels to suffer depression, or anxiety or any other form of mental anguish or illness. Not really. I can ask a mother how it feels to give birth, and get an idea of how it might be, but until you yank a person through my junk I could only have an abstract picture. Watching a film, not living the life. So, for that reason, I apologise if it comes across as though I'm suggesting I have any idea what the fuck I'm talking about here. I don't.

There are periods where life can be too much. And I don't mean the responsibilities, needs or specific outside fears of life; I mean life in general. Those times when you can't get out because anything, everything and nothing in particular all feel too much. You're stuck in a prison of your own mind, but it passes. You have the keys.

For some people, life is lived in solitary confinement. Complete isolation, and darkness. They know there's a world outside of this black void, but they're starting to forget how it felt to live there. We can visit. We can experience the horror from behind a door and tell them we're there for them. Maybe they can describe their confinement, and we can sympathise and console them from the other side of that door, but we're not in there with them. And in the absence of light, they themselves might not even know what they're living with in there. They can't see where the walls are. We get to go home. And maybe one day, if they're lucky, so will they. They know where the exit is, but they're getting tired of waiting for the key to open it. And then there's this other door. They don't know what's on the other side of it, but something tells them it's not good. It's not the exit to the place they want to go, and they know that it will lock behind them if they go through. How long do they stay in that dark room before going through that other door becomes a better option than staying here and hoping?

This might not be how it is for everyone, and, like I said, I can only fool myself into thinking I have any inkling of how it feels to live with mental illness. And so, I can only apologise if my interpretation is offensively wide of the mark.

I know a good number of people who suffer with depression and myriad other mental illnesses, and I've barely noticed how we've grown in our ability to speak about these matters. Yet, we have. The taboo is not broken, but it's getting there.

A person I know once told me of a time (roughly 15 years ago) when they, as a teenager, went to a doctor to discuss their suspicions that they may be dealing with depression.

"No, you just have an artistic temperament."

I've known a person who was sent  home from hospital the night after a suicide attempt, despite having earnestly stated that, if left alone, they would try again. They tried again that night, and ended up back in that same hospital.

I've known a person who, after some really bad news, began to cry just a few silent tears before chiding themselves aloud because "crying is a sign of weakness".

Yet, I've also known a person who, when I was going through a hard time a few years back, reached out to me. They told that if I needed any counselling to help me through it, they would pay for me to go see someone who had been helping them through some stuff too. If you're reading this, you might not even remember that moment, but it helped and for that I thank you.

I know incredibly brave people- some who suffer in silence, and others who openly disclose and discuss the battles they face. I can't tell you what you need, and I might not be able to help, but I hope you know that there is help out there. If you need to talk to someone, anyone, then please do. It's easier to speak than to take back those things that remained unsaid. I know that speaking is not always what everyone needs, and so I say to seek comfort in whatever it may be that offers you hope or help.

I've spoken to a few friends in the last year alone who've spoken to counsellors to work through dark times in their lives. And I know, for them at least, it was a great benefit.

In Ireland, and elsewhere, mental health funding and treatment is not good enough. It's just fucking not. Too many times we still hear of this serious matter that ravages many in society being brushed aside. Not seeing the problem does not mean it does not exist. It's not the one you see that gets you.

I don't know that there was one incident or defining moment that made me realise that depression was not as straightforward as I'd believed. Nor was suicide some sort of cowardly act. It was sadly something that was beyond control, and well beyond my understanding. There are no barriers, borders or safe spaces to prevent the onset of such conditions. It's not as though it's a choice. I suspect I just grew up, and was fortunate enough to be surrounded by people with a greater understanding of things than I did.

This has to change. It might not seem like it, but talking about it is helping. So let's keep talking about it.

Remember that, whatever else, you don't have to be "happy" for anyone else though. Nobody's happy. Just strive to be how you need to be to get by. And if you need to talk to someone, talk to someone. Talk to a professional, talk to a friend, talk to me. Please, just talk to someone. We'll listen.

Deebs Heart Festival

I've been sitting here for a little while trying to think of anything more to type than "I'm broken." Here's what I've got:

I'm still broken.

I need sleep, my right knee's only purpose now is to "stand" as a warning to the other knee, with my head still carrying the remnants of Monday's hangover like a maggot in a monkey skull. Was it worth it for a week of festival volunteering?

Totally.

In 2006, a friend of mine got involved in the Dublin International Film Festival. It only took two years of me stewing in my hatred of working a bank job before I took his advice to do the same. So, in 2008, I volunteered for my first festival. Being the guy who got me involved, Paddy was basically my spirit guide for that week and a half. My single friend who spent way too much time talking about his own arse. He was a walking case study in how to successfully cock block yourself. Just never got hints, ranging from the subtle to girls blatantly throwing themselves at his single self. On the other hand, I was smugly in the midst of a long term relationship marked by occasional death and constant arguments over my being painfully shy and introverted. And I'd just shaved my luxurious, full head of hair for the first time.

Over the course of that festival, I came out of my shell, and went from being described as "a man of few words" on opening night to being part of all conquering quiz champs The Hat Jamboree

....and changing my whole outlook on what I could do going forward. Met some good people at that festival, caught up with some of them occasionally through the year, but not a whole lot of socialising going on in those Bebo days. I couldn't wait for everything to kick off again a year later. Volunteering had a profound impact on me, and changed the course of things for me more than I could have anticipated.

Paddy? Paddy, by the end of that festival, was still the personification of masturbation (sorry buddy).

By the time 2011 rolled around, a lot of things were different. I was now the human embodiment of self cock blocking, post-Twirlgate and just a few months away from chucking myself down some stairs rather than tell a girl I wasn't interested. I'd gone from a 3 star volunteer

To whatever the hell this was

....or this

That first year of DIFF had spurred me on to leaving banking behind, and getting involved in multiple other festivals. Getting paid to do one of them, front of house at Dublin Fringe, gave me a taste for making a living of it. DIFF 2010 saw me cut my teeth as a venue manager, with an eye for the way things should be done.

Drinking at the same festival led me to getting a job at an Edinburgh Fringe venue box office. Another pivotal DIFF moment for me.

When 2011's film festival rolled around, I was back for my second year as venue manager, and leaning towards a future out of Ireland in box office. A little (lot) balder, a little wiser. Paddy was back too, as one of my deputies. He was now in a long term relationship. We'd essentially switched lives....partly. Dude was (and is) still doing far better than I could dream of, professionally speaking. It was a different crowd by then. The 08 crew had moved up or moved on, for the most part, and a new and excellent group of people had come aboard.

As much fun as I had, and although I'm still buds with a lot of people from that time, it wasn't my best festival. Partly due to some personal stuff, and partly due to festival fatigue, I knew that I was done with DIFF. Hell, I was done with Dublin in general, and it showed in my efforts. Except for singing Build Me Up Buttercup over the radio to one Miss Elphinstone as she spoke to a customer- that was some of my best work. One more Ed Fringe later and I had a flat in Scotland by October (with another person I'd met through DIFF in 2008 no less, in the form of DJ Phil).

Don't get me wrong; there were high points

....aggression (if only in honour of Phil's short lived Tumblr page that was Halpin -vs- ____)

....strange visitors

....erotic adventures

....and the other short lived Phil Tumblr project that was Fuck Yeah What Deebs Wore.

I went off to Edinburgh to work a bunch of festivals for actual cash money, and ended up working box office gigs in a couple of theatres. This has been my full time deal for the last number of years thanks to Paddy and the Dublin International Film Festival. I came back more or less every year at some point or other for a special guest spot as "guy who drinks and gets memorably weird at the quiz".

Then, last year I went back to volunteering. It was strange to be doing so again, perhaps more so as I was now volunteering alongside long time volunteers who had only been starting out in my last year. And in a festival that had changed a great deal since my last time working at it. It has a little more to it now. A professional buzz that was starting to move it away from the smaller operation it had been those years ago. Still, it had retained the core dynamic of being a fun place to meet new people or hang out with old friends once your shifts were done. And that fresh fear of meeting someone for the first time, only for them to say "Oh YOU'RE Deebs! I've heard all about you...." and for me not even have to ask what they've heard. It might not always be the same story, but it's one of a number that do the rounds. Can't think why....

Again this year, I decided that coming home to volunteer was a decent way to use up some holiday time from work. A Snelgrove Holiday as it is officially known. Add in an opportunity to visit family, and Paddy's return to the fold for the first time since 2011, and there was no way I wasn't going to be about.

Plenty has changed in those five years. I've moved to Edinburgh, and found a new line of work. Paddy got married, and worked his way into tech nerdy work that I have no way of understanding, Yet there we were in the year of our lord 2016, and I'm back in a long term relationship with a girl who has to live with my bullshit, and Paddy is back being my single friend who talks way too much about his own arse. We're right back where my DIFF adventure began 8 years ago. Older, balder (in my case at least) and....still making a tit of myself at the quiz.

I've worked quite a few festivals since I first started out on this road in February of 2008. At least one every year since, some for as little as one day, others for as long as six months. I've worked the biggest arts festival in the world, and did it again. Worked a festival that inspired that one in the first place, and worked out on the border of Scotland and England for some classical musical deal that I only remember for the pan haggerty.

But DIFF is my festival. It will always have the fondest memories for me, and no other job can rival its place in my heart. It's the one that's given me a fucked up knee, by kick-starting my several month long love affair with limbo. An injury that required Paddy to catch me while I was doing a spot of queue management this year, because my knee completely buckled.
http://fooltide.blogspot.co.uk/2011/03/distinguished-by-disgrace.html

It's a festival that required me to babysit an idiot.
http://fooltide.blogspot.co.uk/2010/11/is-it-bird-is-it-plane-no-its-blog.html

A festival that brought about the most awkward handshake in recorded history.
http://fooltide.blogspot.co.uk/2011/02/shake.html

This year it allowed me to hear Richard Gere name drop the Dalai Lama on a night when a woman literally abandoned her baby to get a picture of him on the red carpet, allowed me to break The Curse of Murphy's Law, and allowed me to get all kinds of inebriated in the presence of some excellent people.

Chances are that if you'reading this, you have met me solely because Paddy convinced me to apply to get involved with a relatively small film festival almost a decade ago. The quality of a festival can be judged by the people who make it happen. For this reason, I would recommend DIFF to anyone. It might not have the sheer size of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe (which I would also suggest everyone should experience), but there's an intangible charm about Dublin's fair festival that has me thinking it's more special than any other.

A special mention to Sam, who, having captured so many instances of my stupidity, once said:

"I have come to the realisation that IF I ever turn out to be a well respected and somewhat famous film person.......history will record that you were my first muse. This is disconcerting."

Thank you to the people who make ADIFF what it has been, and what it is today. Thank you to all the people who have been responsible for capturing the moments where I have made such a gobshite of myself, and for those who've helped to make those moments happen.

I'll see most of you next year.