Coram Boy – National Theatre, 20th December 2006

Well, I don’t know what I was expecting – but this wasn’t it! In retrospect, I think I was expecting a fairly “Dickensian” type play about a long lost, golden haired orphan suffering all sorts of misery until, 10 minutes before the final curtain, being saved from the orphanage by his hitherto unrecognised parents. What I got was a dark, brooding “18th century” story of infanticide, betrayal, child slavery, corruption, greed and lust – with a bit of kiddy-fiddling thrown in for good measure. Everything you wanted for Christmas - and all set to the music of Handel, ye gods.

Its difficult to write a balanced review of something which has left one gasping for breath with its sweep – rather like I would have about the National’s “His Dark Materials” a couple of years back – another wonderful NT production based on a book for young adults. I can only say that authors are obviously producing far, far better stuff for teenagers these days than anything I ever got. The one failing of the production is really the fault of the original story in that the second act is somewhat over-reliant on “lucky co-incidences” but then I suppose that Georgian literature of the time is very similar.

Among an incredibly strong cast, Abby Ford gave such a credible portrayal of the young Alexander Ashbrook that, for most of the first act, I was sure I was watching a 15 year old boy. William Scott-Mason was totally convincing as a brutish Sir William. Justine Mitchell took a while to get into her stride but, in the second half as her character reaches womanhood, gave a very touching performance. Perhaps it’s a mark of Tim McMullan’s skill that I failed to recognise him in Act 2 as the same character as in Act 1 – he changed both physically and vocally from a dark, swaggering, sweaty monster to a slightly effeminate and mincing one – both equally dangerous in their way. There was perhaps slightly too much of Connie Booth about Ruth Gemmell’s physical appearance of Mrs Lynch for comfort, but she made a rip-roaring vilanness when the text got darker – just the type of classic, doublecrossing sidekick that a villan should watch his back around. Nicholas Tizzard was very effective as a slightly grumpy Handel – just how I always imagined Handel would have been in real life – and his last lines, effectively drawing a knife of reality through the butter of sentimentality in the closing scene were delivered with devastating comic timing.

Some great staging – I particularly liked the dramatic“underwater” scene at the height of Act 2 – and found myself wondering why the particular effect had never been used in “Twelfth Night” or “The Tempest”. It was – quite frankly – smashing. I will pass comment (please feel free to roll your eyes here) that the flowers used to decorate the Ashbrook’s ball were completely wrong for the period. It would have been slightly more convincing had the harpsichord used in the Ashbrook’s drawing room not been the same one as that in the children’s playhouse, nor had it reappeared in the drawing room after being smashed in the playhouse, or had Lady Ashbrook appeared in just the one costume all the way through. But, nitpicking aside. This was great. It was intelligent enough to make me think, funny enough to make me laugh, moving enough to make the woman in the next seat cry, and it even made Clive announce that he wanted to read the book. And if there’s higher praise than that, I don’t know what it is.

Much Ado About Nothing – Novello Theatre Friday 8th December 2006

I think I once read a book called “The Land of Lost Opportunity”. This production could have been wonderful, but was completely botched by the director and cast, and I don’t recall ever being quite so unmoved by a production of a Shakespeare play (although I have walked out of a couple).

Casting was pretty dire. I thought Tamsin Craig made a good effort (for a non-Shakespearian actress) at Beatrice (she was apparently cast because of her “comedy actress” status) but she obviously couldn’t make up her mind whether she was playing it as Holly Golightly or Rizzo from “Grease”. Putting her in shades for her first scene really didn’t help the character establish herself – much of this first scene (the “baiting” of Benedick) should be played with the eyes as well as the dialogue. Morven Christie was DIRE as Hero – both her diction and projection were appalling and most of her dialogue was either inaudible, incomprehensible or both as a result. Heck – she’s playing Juliet later in the season – there’s one to miss if you can. Adam Rayner was similarly dire as Claudio – no passion, no courtliness and no perceptible passage of thought behind the eyes. OK, Claudio is one of those dreadful “Ferdinand” roles (the kind which, in opera or operetta would be played by the principal tenor) in which little is really required other than the ability to deliver the lines correctly and look pretty. The role is a mould, and it would have been good to see an actor break out of it! The singer Yvette Rochester-Dougan made an unlikely Balthasar and I can’t really say that the setting of “Sigh no more, Ladies” passed any kind of muster. OK, you force me – it was grim. And, for a production set in Cuba (nice opportunity for the RSC to showcase some of its ethnic actors), why were she and Don Pedro the only non-white inhabitants? Or were we supposed to assume that Leonardo and all his family were members of the colonial elite? Even the members of the local Watch were white to a man.

Which brings me nicely on to Bette Bourne, who struggled with what is probably Shakey’s unfunniest “comedy” role. I’ve often sat and watched some poor bastard playing Dogberry desperately flogging his lines in order to try and raise a laugh, and even an actor of Bourne’s calibre made it very heavy going. It must be very trying for gay actors to be constantly given gay roles (poor James Dreyfuss, for instance) but Bourne would have been far funnier and far more watchable if the director had decided whether he should play the role as Arthur or Martha. In this case, Martha would have been funnier – Bourne is a master of camp timing and comic putdowns – but Bourne inhabited this “on the fence” role very uneasily. Sexuality wasn’t explicit, but there was a suggestion of a relationship with Verges and some vague caressing of the Muscle Boy Watch Member – so, was he or wasn’t he? It would have been fun to see Dogberry being true to himself amidst all the macho posturing by the other male characters – this is, after all, a play about facades and masks, some of which we use in order to hide from others, some of which we use in order to hide from ourselves.

The only real acting credits go to Jonny Weir in the thankless role of Don John. This character is a minor one and it is never adequately explained why he does what he does (he’s just “All purpose evil Shakespearean disaffected with his lot in life and therefore out to get revenge on absolutely anyone who appears vaguely happy” I suppose). But at least you could hear what he was saying. With such a good voice, why wasn’t he playing Benedick?

Ah, Benedick. Sorry, but Branagh was much better (but Joseph Wilson did look shaggable wearing that beard).

The one set (a “Messinan/Cuban Courtyard”) looked pretty enough to begin with but became rather tiring when used for the entire production without change. Very little, if any use was made of the balcony which was a shame as there might well have been some good comic possibilities in using it. Good use was made of the Vespa – but a) why were its wheels mounted on boxes and b) why on earth was it on the set for the entirety of the first half? Could not one of the characters have arrived on it, parked it and then perhaps driven off on it again? And that bloody potted plant – surely the director could have come up with some better way of having Benedick eavesdrop in the garden scene? Behind you love! There’s a balcony! I saw the Renaissance Theatre Company do “Twelfth Night” once in which the “box tree” was a decorated Christmas tree. And the “hiding behind” this was just as contrived, stupid and irritating as in this production. OK, OK, suspension of disbelief is sometimes necessary, but this was just plain boring.

And what a strange ending! “Ado” is like “Dream” – needs ending with a good, jolly dance with which to shake away all the traces of the unpleasantness which has gone before. But in this production, the dance died away and Don Pedro was left marooned in a cold white spotlight. Bizarre. Points will be given to any of my readers able to explain this.

Actually, its just come to me that the story I referred to at the beginning is actually the title of a chapter in Agatha Christie’s autobiography and should be “The Land of Lost Content”. But this is still pertinent to this review, and in fact fits it rather better, because as I made my way home along a cold and windy Strand that evening, I was pretty discontent myself.

There are no actual deaths in “Ado”. The only death which occurred in this production was that of the production itself – a long, slow, painfully drawn out affair, which I observed taking place during 3¾ hours in an overheated theatre while watching second and third rate actors and a poor director murdering one of Shakepeare’s best loved plays.

Titanic! – West Wickham Operatic Society, Churchill Theatre Bromley – Saturday 25th November 2006

I enjoyed this, I really, really did! I was expecting quite a lot and WWOS didn’t disappoint me. In fact, I got more pleasure out of this than I have from a lot of professional productions in the West End recently. Sure, there was the odd little thing which marked this out as an amateur production, but in the main it was very well presented and I am glad that WWOS took a risk to present what must be a difficult show to market given that all amateur productions these days must be box-office led.

In retrospect, some of the direction was perhaps rather uninspired and flat (showing that directing a show and playing a principal part in it at the same time is really not to be recommended), and there were several missed opportunities as regards choreography. The lovely waltz “Autumn” which is being played as the ship approaches its fatal collision with the iceberg cried out for a stage full of couples waltzing their way towards disaster, which would have pointed up nicely the arrogance of the upper classes on board. The First Class Dining Room scene looked cramped on stage, with many of the diners at the Captain’s Table having their backs to the audience. I know that the director must have been going for realism at this point, but artistic licence in these situations is allowed, and it would have been much easier for the audience to hear the conversations taking place had the cast been arranged around three sides of the table.

I also have a couple of gripes over some of the costumes. For a show so firmly set in its period (1912), there were an awful lot of costumes from the 1930s – several of the ladies in the chorus were wearing clothes in a style which just wouldn’t have existed in 1912. Many evening gowns were also far too modern. These errors were made worse by the appearance of many of the female cast in silk pajamas in Act 2, when they should all have been wearing long nightdresses. There was at least one chorus lady wearing a costume which was identifiably from “HMS Pinafore”. I spotted several modern suitcases being taken aboard when they should all have been period leather ones.

However, these are minor gripes. The chorus were well drilled, animated and interested in what was going on around them at all times. They were, however, not really helped by the sound imbalance caused by miking all the principals; on many occasions choruses which should have filled the theatre with sound were completely overshadowed and drowned out by the principals singing at the front of the stage. This was a real shame as the show contains a lot of opportunities for the chorus to really shine. Chorus discipline was excellent though and when they were really given their head, the sound was wonderful.

In general, scenery was fairly sparse (probably because the show demands so many quick changes of scene) but effective. The one scene where complete realism was attempted (the First Class Dining Room) looked a little awkward and was spoiled by the chandelier hanging completely off kilter.

Of the principals, Terry Gauntless and Pauline Gregoire take the honours as Isidor and Ida Strauss – they brought true poignancy to all their scenes and their song in Act 2, in which they reflect on a long and happy married life together as the final lifeboat floats away was almost unbearable – and I mean that in a complimentary sense. I found Jonathan French a little wooden as Captain Smith, but I suppose that was in character. However, had he trimmed his beard slightly, it would have helped his diction somewhat. David Hodgson was completely unable to sustain his notes as First Officer Murdoch and was embarrassingly flat on occasion. Luke Birchenough as the Lookout was excellent – fresh voiced and clear. Paul Mount was brilliant as Steward Edges and, although the singing required of him was sometimes out of his range, I feel his acting abilities overcame any of these shortcomings. Nat Hook displayed an impressive pair of biceps as the Stoker, and was excellent throughout his long and difficult solo (so can be excused for sounding somewhat vocally tired by the end of it). Bob Faint, as Major Butt, was obviously doing his best “Lionel Jeffries in Chitty Bang Bang” impression all night and I found this rather wearing, although this may well have been the fault of the script rather than the actor. Down in Second Class, Amanda Farrant was slightly over the top as Alice Beane (although cannot be faulted on her singing – especially the horrendously difficult “Embarkation” section in which she identifies many of the First Class passengers) but Chris Arden was vocally out of his depth as her long suffering husband. In Steerage, the honours were taken by Nicola Henderson as Kate McGowan – she had an amazing voice and wasn’t afraid to put it to good use when it was needed.

Despite my criticisms, I really enjoyed the entire evening aboard Titanic and am glad to have seen such a good production of this very rarely seen show.

Peter Pan on Ice – Crystal Palace Arena, Sunday 12th November 2006

Dreadful. Absolutely effing dreadful. A terrible script, barely coherent to even those of us familiar with the story, and full of unnecessary “we must find something for the chorus to do” sections. Dire, uninspired, unimaginative choreography by Robin Cousins. Unimaginative costumes and some truly horrendous wigs. BAD music – there are only so many times one can reprise “Reach for the Stars” before it becomes irritating, even for S Club 7 fans (Im sure there are still some). Lugubrious narration in the forced “Hewwo, kiddiwinkies! Isn’t dis wuvvley!” style – which fools nobody, particularly not sassy and streetwise kids - by Smiley Smiley Carole Smiley. Dreadful voice-overs by Bonnie Langford (as the Oldest Wendy In Town) and Brian Blessed (reprising his famous “Play Every Part As Brian Blessed” role). Tinkerbell dressed in a ghastly red costume wearing a red fright wig that made her look like Ruby Wax crossed with Cleo Rocos (from Hot Gossip). Extra special touch – red sparkly top hat perched at a “jaunty angle”. (In the famous “Clap your hands if you believe in fairies to save Tinkerbell from dying” scene, I gladly and willingly withheld my applause just to be rid of the talentless old cow). Extremely badly staged aerial fight scene at the end between Pan and Hook – most of which was obscured by the sails of the “Jolly Roger”. Couldn’t get home fast enough.

Couple of good points – dance of Tiger Lily and the Indian Brave (obviously the “Spesh Act” – the choreography of this put all the rest to shame and showed up just how bad the rest of it was). Cute little Peter Pan, ideally cast and with a costume that showed off his flat stomach and pert butt to perfection – would certainly not have minded giving him a Jolly Roger, even if he was French.

Tickets for this crock of shit would normally have been £27.50 each. If we’d paid that, I would have been pig sick, and probably would have lugged half a dozen of the seats home in an attempt to get some value for money out of the evening. As it was, we paid £5.50 each and I still feel ripped off.

But it wasn’t an entirely wasted evening – I found a plastic-wrapped cucumber on the path on the walk back to the bus stop, which I will slice up and put in my sandwiches next week. And that, dear readers, was the high point of the evening.

Thérèse Raquin – National Theatre, Friday 10th November 2006

Curtain up. Scene – a large, gloomy apartment above a shop, Paris, sometime in the very early 20th century. 2 chairs, an artists easel, a small round dining table, a mantle mirror. Four people on stage – a young man (seated), dressed in a black suit and high collared shirt, a young woman (seated in an attitude of deepest boredom) in a long white dress, an elderly woman dressed in dark grey, a middle-aged man (standing at the easel) in brown corduroy trousers, white shirt and waistcoat. “Oh lord”, thought I, “this looks like its going to be grim”. Well, in a way I was right (the play is not the jolliest one I have ever seen, although there were a few laughs here and there), and in another way I was wrong.

Told simply, the eponymous Thérèse Raquin is unhappily married. She and her lover, whom she pretends to despise for the sake of appearance, plot to kill the husband so that they can marry and shag like bunnies under mother-in-law’s nose. Husband is drowned in a boating “accident”, Thérèse and lover marry but find that guilt pursues them from beyond the grave and they slowly go mad. Mother in law discovers their plot, has a stroke. Thérèse and lover commit suicide. Subplot – female friend deliberately invents fascinating lover, weaves complicated stories about same, finally admits that he is merely a figment of her imaginings. So, as I said, not the jolliest evening ahead. But for some reason the story and the predicaments of the characters caught my imagination and I actually found myself rather enjoying the subtle twists of the plot. It was a shame that the second act rather failed to live up to what the first act promised – I fully expected wheelchair bound mother-in-law to be rather nastily done in – she is, after all, the only other person alive who knows of the couple’s guilt, and being somewhat of an afficianado of those wonderful black and white films from the 40 and 50s like “Hush, hush, sweet Charlotte” where the heroine is either blind, deaf, dumb, wheelchair bound or all four, thought I could see a particular plot device rearing its head. But no – mother-in-law nearly manages to unmask the gruesome details but fails, having her ultimate revenge in the sight of the two culprits going slowly mad and finally drinking poisoned wine.

Tautly directed, there were some very nice moments of stagecraft in this production. Thérèse’s long, slow strip wash in an alcove (director having gone for a Degas moment), over which was played a haunting French song, intercut with voice overs and sound effects representing the murder of the hapless husband on the boating lake was very clever, and also cleverly represented time passing, enabling Thérèse to change from a white frock to Widow’s Weeds. The very unexpected segment in Act II in which the apartment wall split open to reveal the love interest staggering down a rainsoaked alleyway, racked with guilt, was unexpected and incredibly clever. And it was a very clever stroke to have the husband’s portrait malevolently glaring down – firstly from the wall of the main room, then from the mother’s bedroom) on the goings on after his death (shades of a fantastic production of “Dangerous Corner” I saw many years ago). The one thing I didn’t like was the “photograph” effects – lights up, murderer and murderess strike pose indicated guilt/decline into madness, lights down, actors change position, lights up again…… as this jarred with the style of the rest of the production. Lighting was very effective, although the light from the open fire in Act II was wrongly sourced and was flat, rather than flickering, which would have added another dimension of chill.

Good strong acting all round from the small cast – particularly from Judy Parfitt as Madame Raquin. I initially found her rather shrill and small voiced, and irritating in the manner of the actress who played Ronnie Corbett’s mother in “Sorry”. But, as she fleshed out her character, I thought “Aha! She’s MEANT to be shrill and irritating!” And it can’t be easy to play a stroke victim for an entire act, wheelchair bound and communicating only in grunts. But she held the entire stage with the expressions of malevolence and hatred shining out from her eyes. Mark Hadfield was very good as the set-in-his-ways friend, doomed to spend every Thursday night playing dominoes with his neighbours.

A couple of small gripes – during the scene in which Thérèse is washing and changing her dress, the rest of the stage is in darkness, the lights having gone down on the rest of the cast playing dominoes at the dining table. Please, Stage Manager, devise a way for the dominoes to be removed from the table without clattering as this completely spoils the effect of the dimly lit bathing scene going on at the back of the stage. And Wardrobe Manager – when a character clearly says to another that she is having trouble undoing the hooks and eyes on the back of her dress, make sure that the dress actually HAS hooks and eyes rather than a zip!

An interesting evening, not what I expected at all.

Coppelia, Royal Opera House, 24th October 2006

I often say that seeing certain productions are like eating an entire box of liqueur chocolates in one go – very little substance and you find yourself rather overwhelmed with goo at the end. “Die Fledermaus” is one of them, and “Coppelia” the other. When the production is the tired old warhorse designed by Osbert Lancaster, which the Royal Ballet have been trotting out for the past 45 years or so, the goo factor is so high that its like wading through a vat of golden syrup and trying to fight off attacks by hordes of marshmallows. Lancaster’s set designs and costumes always veer towards the stickily sentimental, and this production is no exception. Set in a gingerbread “mittel-European” village (the kind where everyone suddenly decides to wear matching outfits for the day – this is “Ballet-ville” after all) Lancaster piles on the whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles until one is left feeling more than slightly nauseous. Maybe he was having a slightly colour-blind day when he chose to team cherry red blouses with pale olive skirts, or acid yellow blouses (with green spots) with white skirts, or forest green tights with burgundy waistcoats, so I did feel really sorry for many of the corps de ballet. But their dancing really could not be faulted – it was brisk, crisp and workmanlike, and can't have been easy in cherry red calf high boots (the lucky outfitters must have thought Christmas had come early when the call from the Costume Deparment came - "We want 50 pairs of cherry red, calf high boots and we want them NOW". Some nice cameo performances as well – the Burgomaster’s daughter managed to convey pride and haughtiness in a lovely pas de deux with Franz. However, the same could not be said for “Dawn”, who was underpowered and rather stiff when she should have completely held the stage and sparkled, and “Prayer” who was extremely wobbly and, I think, put her foot down to steady herself on several occasions. All three of the “Hours of the Day”, “Work” and “Hours of the Night” vignettes were very well performed and extremely prettily and effectively costumed – the tiaras made out of ears of corn for “Work” were a nice touch, as were the star-sparkled overskirts and jet black bodices of “Night”.

I had a problem to with Marianela Nunez’s “Swanhilda”. She seemed to be dancing in a very brittle fashion, with little sense of line or feeling. Although no doubt technically correct in every way, her performance appeared to me to be all technique and very little feeling. The fixed rictus of a smile displayed on her face rarely made it as far as her eyes – only in the small solo in Act 1 where Swanhilda is chasing a butterfly did she really seem to be inhabiting the role. Thiago Soares was suitably cocky as Franz and displayed an impressive pair of thighs. Full marks to the chap playing the thankless (and largely non-dancing) role of Dr. Copellius with nice touches of slightly dotty evil intent. I do loathe it when a gaggle of hyperactive Royal Ballet School pupils storm the stage, especially when their tutors have failed to instruct them not to gurn constantly at the audience – someone should tell them that its pointless squinting into the auditorium looking for Mummie and Deddie. One of the boys forgot to take his hat off for “Prayer” – it’s the salt mines for you, chum, when you get back to class.

Not really much more to be said about this dry heave of a production other than that its time that the Royal Ballet ditched it and launched a new version.

I always feel sorry for the poor cow playing Coppelia. Although she gets the title role, the character is no more than a cipher in the plot, having nothing to do except sit in the window of Dr. Coppelius’ house (which looked rather like the “Hammer House of Horror” stuck in the middle of acres of gingerbread) and wave her arms about a bit, then get dragged on (literally) at the end of Act 2 dressed in a bodysuit. Still, at least Swanhilda’s friend didn’t drop the key to the door and kick it into the pit this time. Oh, and note for Ms. Nunez – try acting “unlocking the door” next time, rather than just pushing it open!

Ken Dodd's Happiness Show, Grand Theatre Blackpool, 15th October6

The First Rule of Show Business, known as a mantra by everyone in The Business all the way from those at the very top down to the rankest, starry-eyed amateur performing in their local church hall is Always Leave Your Audience Wanting More.

So it seems very strange indeed that Ken Dodd, veteran entertainer celebrating 50 years in The Business this year, seems not to know this cardinal rule. The evening began at 7.30pm, and the final curtain came down at 1.00am, by which time my ears were bleeding and my bladder had been beaten into complete submission. Had the performance been trimmed by a couple of hours, then I would be writing that this was a pleasant enough evening out watching classic British Seaside Entertainment of a type very rarely seen these days, but instead it was a gruelling slog – which is really not what you want after a full day of wandering round the shops looking at seaside tat and cute rough boys. Apparently Mr. Dodd is (in)famous for the length of his performances, but really, was it necessary?

OK, its not many entertainers who can stretch their material to nearly six hours, but that’s probably because, with comedy, Less is More. Three hours of the likes of the great modern comedians such Victoria Wood, Ricky Gervais or Eddie Izzard is as much as most people want, desire or actually need. If they carried on for double that period, not only would they use up a huge percentage of their material, but they would also lose a huge percentage of their audience. Most people are not capable of being entertained for that long, particularly when the material is SO OLD! Many of Dodd’s “jokes” had probably already been repeated to death when Noah told them during the long winter nights on the Ark. This didn’t seem to spoil the enjoyment of many of the audience, most of who were already quite old when God was a boy. Ironically, when Dodd is being up to date, he is actually very funny – some of his jokes about mobile phones and other aspects of modern life were spot on and wouldn’t have been out of place as part of an Eddie Izzard routine. And his self-deprecating routines about his well-documented tussles with the taxman were very funny as well. But they were lost in a welter of old and tired material – a lot of which was inaudible due to poor diction - including a couple of homophobic jokes about Dale Winton and Elton John of the old “backs to the wall, lads” type. On this basis, I suppose we were lucky to have been spared any “nigger” jokes because, of course, pensioners find these SO funny.

The evening was not best served by its “variety” format. What was already shaping up to be a very long evening was interminably lengthened by three appearances of a small gaggle of simpering children from the local stage school doing “cute” routines dressed as the Diddy Men, service personnel from WW2 and ancient, long dead “comedians” like Tommy Trinder and Arthur Askey. Apparently, Doddy’s core audience find such performances endearing. I just find them nauseating. Dodd was further “supported” by a run of the mill singer/pianist dressed in a spangly frock and pink Stetson (“Hmmmmm, what can I wear on stage to give my act that Country and Western feel? I know – a pink Stetson from one of the novelty shops on the pier! The very thing!”) whose routine consisted of such ‘classics’ as “Yesterday Once More” (i.e. the kind of song that your mother likes to have on the radio while doing the washing up) and the world’s most disorganised magician – a chap who was not untalented but whose stagecraft could do with a good tightening up - or at the very least a “glamorous assistant” to move his equipment around, make sure that the chickens don’t get over-excited and wander off into the wings (“Doves? Nah, everyone does doves. I’m gonna do chickens! And ducks! And maybe a goose or two!”), and take the hems of his trouser legs up by about 9 inches. I’m sure that he could have found some more exciting music for his act than the theme to Hawaii Five-O – music like that turns even the best magic act into cliché.

Anyway, back to the plot. What was profoundly irritating about Ken Dodd is the way in which he seemed to be constantly taunting his audience with the length of his act. Time and time again we heard comments of the “You’ve been a wonderful audience” type, at which people’s ears tend to prick up and think “Aha, its nearly over” but then on plunged Doddy into yet another “set”. I could almost hear many of the audience quietly losing the will to live at these points, and indeed many people decided that enough was enough and quietly crept out at various points. The four people sitting in front of me actually left at the interval – obviously feeling that four hours of Ken Dodd was quite enough for one evening. Goodness knows how those staying in hotels that didn’t provide late keys, those who had to work the next day, or anyone reliant on public transport or with a weak bladder must have felt. It’s a mark of great inconsideration to one’s audience to take your ego on a trip down memory lane for quite so long – a fact which Ken Dodd would be well advised to remember.

The show was called "Ken Dodd's Happiness Show" - or maybe I heard wrong. Perhaps it was actually "Ken Dodd's A Penis", which just about summed up my feelings as I staggered out of the theatre into the quietly sleeping streets of Blackpool after six hours of Hell. They say that Variety is dead - presumably it went to see this show and lost the will to live. I know I did.