Among the thousands of shows this year clamouring for our attention, Mind the Gap managed to stand out,largely because it was staged inside an actual council-issued wheelie bin.
Yes, that’s right. The performer, who introduces himself only as “Gregor, Keeper of the Lid,” spends the entire 55 minutes inside the bin, popping his head out occasionally to whisper sweet nothings about his doomed affair with the London Underground. The narrative, such as it exists, revolves around Gregor’s passionate yet forbidden love for the Piccadilly Line. “She was always late, but so am I,” he sighs, before lowering himself back into his plastic coffin and shaking it violently to simulate “the rumble of a train through the tunnels of desire.”
From the moment the show begins, audience comfort is not considered. We are crammed into a makeshift venue that resembles the back corridor of a Greggs, seated on stools that feel like they’ve been designed as a warning against sedentary lifestyles. The smell of bin plastic under stage lights fills the room, creating an atmosphere that can best be described as austerity chic.
The performance itself is a kind of postmodern endurance test. Gregor alternates between monologues about his subterranean romance and long periods of silence where he simply closes the lid and leaves us in darkness. One audience member whispered, “Is this part of it?” only to be shushed by Gregor’s muffled voice from inside: “All silence is part of it.”
There is, inevitably, music. At the 37-minute mark, Gregor produces a battered kazoo, pokes it through the bin slot, and wheezes out a haunting rendition of something that may have once been My Heart Will Go On. This, he tells us, represents “the signal failures of my soul.” A few people giggled; the rest stared into the void, wondering whether leaving early would constitute art criticism or self-preservation.
The finale is bold, if not exactly triumphant. Gregor attempts to climb fully out of the bin, tangling himself in his own prop railway map, before collapsing to the floor and declaring, “We are all commuters of the heart!” The house lights come up, revealing an audience unsure whether to clap, call for help, or demand a refund. In the end, we did clap, partly out of politeness and partly because we were relieved it was over.
