This article is taken from the April 2023 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

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Keen to uphold at least one centuries-old tradition, English audiences stand accused of being increasingly inebriated of late in London’s playhouses. Cue inevitable condemnation from the Puritan hierarchy, declaring such drunkenness beyond the pale. Though judging by the self-righteous drivel many of these establishments offer in 2023, is it any wonder unfortunate punters are knocking it back to dull the pain?

With mumbling youths on stages up and down the land now meeting with mounting criticism, myself and a collection of fellow seasoned troupers recently found ourselves reflecting on where it had all gone wrong.

After several hours of impassioned debate and recrimination in The French (no problem with “projection” that night!), a consensus was reached that any leading actor/actress under the age of 48 simply lacked the kind of vocal armoury we’d all been so very blessed with.

News Mr Cleese is planning a revival of his classic sitcom after 45 years predictably met with cynical noises from the media mob, demanding to know why he was ruining the show’s legacy all these decades on? Dreary hacks fail to grasp the intricacies of a comic genius — not least one struggling to make ends meet ever since ex-wife number three did him over in the divorce courts.

Having been quietly assured the role of a care home resident in The Archers looked “in the bag”, matters took a shabby turn when I belatedly discovered they’d in fact gone for the more “starry” option of creaking comedian Jasper Carrott. Hardly the first pitchfork in the back from the murky Archers folk, of course. One’s brief but largely acclaimed performance in 1989 left certain green-eyed show regulars resorting to everything in their power to have me exiled from Ambridge.

Alas, poor Emma

Sympathies to Emma Thompson, no less, who now fashionably claims mental pressures on the Oscars promotional trail left her “quite seriously ill, before and during” her two Academy Award triumphs in the 1990s. 

A credit to the trademark professionalism of our beloved Dame, who, I’m reliably assured, courageously managed to give every impression she was greatly enjoying the attention at the time.

Battling with former bbc comrade Ms Maitlis to cash in on memories of Prince Andrew’s Newsnight disaster, fellow blonde bombshell Ms McAlister struck first with ice maiden Gillian Anderson’s casting as Emily in her upcoming Netflix movie.

At the time of writing, one remains intrigued to see whether the actual Emily Maitlis, involved in plans for another Randy Andy/Minxy Maitlis drama, raises the stakes with a rival A-list casting of her own? Much like those countless Princess Dianas gracing our screens, surely a case of the more Emilys the merrier!

And so to bed …

Ancient show pony McKellen reminds us of his advancing years with a befuddled attack on the presence of intimacy coordinators. Naturally, yours truly prefers to align himself with these often misunderstood and maligned individuals, now so diligently guiding our modern-day stars through officially harrowing love scenes. 

Indeed, with my own acting opportunities proving notably sparse of late, the sceptical agent has been informed this now forward-looking septuagenarian wishes to “retrain” as an intimacy coordinator forthwith — after concluding they’re the only ones in this enlightened business guaranteed regular work in the coming years. 

When the misfiring representative dared to cast doubt on my “suitability” for such a sensitive twenty-first-century role, I indignantly reminded her I’d been no stranger to the hazards of disastrously directed bedroom scenes. Disturbing memories soon turned to Su Pollard circa 1995 …

On recently reading that our industrious censors were taking the late Roald Dahl to task over (among other things) his unflattering depictions of the obese, I found myself struggling to recall whenever the latter had truly bothered to fight their own battles?

Having myself been in the “plus-size performer” ranks for many a year, one couldn’t help concluding that we fat folk remain predictably lacking in the old “get up and go” compared to other disgruntled sections of society.

I see Jeremy Irons has been telling a newspaper journalist he’s ready for retirement, grandly declaring he’s “done it all”. Anyone with any real experience of this attention-seeking dandy will concur it’s all poppycock, of course! 

Just imagine!

Suddenly finding myself forced to accompany an elderly cousin to Brandreth’s recent 75th birthday bash at the London Palladium (thank you again to her blatantly hungover middle-aged son for pulling out at the eleventh hour!) I arrived at this Sunday afternoon extravaganza braced for the very worst.

Naturally, The Brandreth was soon delighting fans with his customary collection of tall tales — many present too decrepit to realise they’d paid to hear exactly the same old rubbish numerous times before. Having long given up the will, one’s morale was suddenly raised by the appearance of “surprise guest” Joan Collins — delivering a spoken word rendition of John Lennon’s Imagine.

By the time dear Joanie was earnestly declaring, “imagine no possessions, I wonder if you can?” my unbridled shrieks of joy were being deemed unseemly by humourless audience members in row J.

Belatedly discovering the country’s theatres are in a spot of bother, Brian Blessed unhelpfully enters the fray, roaring: “The Government makes me sick!” Our Prime Minister should be reminded Number 10 predecessors placated Brian by simply tickling him under the chin and requesting he bellow out that silly catchphrase from Flash Gordon.

The Peter principle

Esteemed thirsty scribe Mr Ackroyd cheerily imagines a return to “spontaneous, ancient roots” for the average working thespian.

After romantically suggesting many of us humble players are content to be poorly remunerated due to the “frisson” of it all, the great man enthuses: “Perhaps the English actor will remount the pageant wagon and rattle off for the provinces. Or it may be that he will find both new and ancient spaces in the crumbling tenement, or the stone circle, or the disused village pavilion. Come what may, he will once more need his knapsack.”

Might just a gun to the head suffice?