Hal and his pal Dennis have just robbed a bank and need a place to stash their loot. With the police hot on their trail, the boys decide to hide the stolen cash in the coffin that contains Hal's late mother, Mrs. McLeavy. While old Mr. McLeavy is busy cataloguing the flowers sent in memory of his wife, Hal and Dennis stuff Mummy in the wardrobe and the money in the casket. Fay, Mrs. McLeavy's nurse, stumbles upon her dead patient and demands a cut in the action. But before the three criminals can sneak away with their booty, the notorious Inspector Truscott of the Yard starts snooping around the house and throws a wrench in their plans.
Hal – Matt Di Angelo
Dennis - Javone Prince
Fay - Doon Mackichan,
Inspector Truscott: - David Haig
Mr. McLeavy – James Hayes
Warning – leaving an unfavourable review for this production results in the Marketing Manager of the Tricycle getting stroppy:
Well, I was prepared for the usual Tricycle Theatre pandemonium of trying to get a seat. But for some reason, it didn’t happen. Whether people just got there late, were so knackered from shoving each other around in shops while doing some last minute Christmas shopping or were taking “goodwill to all men” literally this year, everyone was very sedate and well mannered and the only person I ended up tutting at was some strange American woman who kept saying to her companion “I’m gonna go gedda cuppawater fromthebar – you wanna cuppawater fromthebar?”
Now, my regular readers will already know that farce is not one of my greatest loves. In fact, show me a vicar with no trousers on and a French maid and I will generally run screaming from the building, trampling strong men underfoot in an attempt to get out. But I wasn’t feeling that great, and the strange American woman was in the way and, I thought, might think I was some kind of terrorist and grapple me to the floor. So I had to stay put. And, once again, proceeded to sit there in stony-faced bewilderment while other audience members pissed themselves laughing like hyenas on Ecstasy (and in one case, actually joining in with some of the lines). For not only did Orton write farce, he apparently wrote something called “Nihlistic farce” which I’m afraid I don’t understand at all. And, more to the point, find about as funny and entertaining as having blazing cactus spines inserted under my fingernails. I don’t think I’ve every felt quite so lonely at the theatre. Everyone seemed to be having such a great time, and I was metaphorically in the kitchen washing up. What the cast must have thought of me sitting there stony-faced in the front row with my arms crossed makes me shudder. Believe me, I tried to find it funny, I really did. But it completely missed me. Even the sight of David Haig, a chap I would willingly walk over broken glass to watch, pouring with sweat and actually within grabbing distance, failed to evoke any response. I just didn’t get it. I know – I’m a lost cause. I don’t like Sophocles, I don’t like Orton, I don’t like Brecht. I don’t like Albee. Many of Shakespeare's plays leave me totally cold. Maybe I should hand in my “Theatre Reviewer” badge and grow pumpkins instead.
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