An unexplainable claustrophobic nuisance gradually pervade my untested frail limbs when the stage sparkles to life, diverting me from my dreamy yearning for white wine and Madagascan-vanilla ice-cream at the interval. The sordidness of the rocky and craggy scenography anaesthetises me from the glamorous formality of the auditorium, with blinding torches on robust helmets remorselessly stinging my confident imperturbability like a treacherous mosquito. I am catapulted, descending anxiously underground via a wobbly and unstable lift, in the surreal reality – if you pardon my jeu de mots or, in other terms, wordplay – of the gritty life of 1980s miners.
