Self-inflicted misery

This article is taken from the April 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £5.

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Super troupers

Whilst the spectacle of literary classics being “transformed” into one-lady West End shows remains all the rage — scandalously at the expense of supporting actors deemed surplus to requirements — the latest misfiring offering served up by Cynthia Erivo’s Dracula raises hopes this most needless of genres is on borrowed time.

Though Cynthia’s hardly the type to concern herself with such lowly matters, one concurs with the age-old view in London’s Theatreland that it’s we unsung troupers further down the billing who ensure our starriest of stars shine all the brighter!

Keep your Alans on

Long renowned for his courageous allegiance to favourable showbiz causes of the day, the recent sight of Mr Cumming, ex-OBE, caught up in the racist-shrieking brouhaha that was the 2026 BAFTAs, can only be considered a personal tragedy for the national treasure in question. 

Former co-stars of Alan’s, instead preferring to find crass hilarity in his predicament (alas, too many behind closed doors!) should take a good, hard look at themselves.

Striking a blow for the sisterhood after falling foul of grubby male theatre critics, Dame Kristin Scott Thomas refreshingly decrees it better for all concerned if only enlightened women review the more mediocre London productions going forward.

Following Mr Evans’ disgraceful character assassination at the expense of housewives’ favourite Hugh Bonneville in the Spectator — bizarrely suggesting Hugh isn’t amongst the finest actors in the land — friends and allies must rally to the cause.

As for the critic in question, known to casually brag of sordid transactions in Cambridge’s “rougher end” (long past its heyday), rest assured gentlemanly Hugh shan’t be taking any lectures from this scabrous fellow!

Regular readers will be aware one should now be reporting on upcoming nuptials between myself and the fourth Mrs Coates, a French Riviera widow of note with whom I’d spent two carefree summers these years past.

With the West Kensington tailor already performing minor miracles to revive the velvet three-piece for the day in question, Monique’s failure to surreptitiously arrive at St Pancras on Tuesday evening as arranged raised inevitable alarm bells. Despite having long outfoxed her middle-aged offspring, still intent on pursuing unproven allegations of financial wrongdoing, it was only natural to imagine these grisly foes had somehow prevailed at the eleventh hour. 

Alas, resulting investigations over subsequent days indicated altogether more alarming developments, centred instead around a wolfish Gallic “actor” of notorious renown, whose success in profiting from my enforced absence whilst prowling about the Côte d’Azur became all too apparent!

Learning this B-movie chancer, of similar vintage to myself, had so inveigled his way into the estranged fiancée’s affections, one wasted no time flying out to the scene of the crime, where these two traîtres were soon enough exposed. Demanding satisfaction at his earliest convenience, it was agreed he and I would resolve matters the following (late) morning, with this English Cavalier confident superior stage combat skills would carry the day.

Come the time of engagement, I can confirm honour was indeed satisfied whilst subjecting the smug rogue to all manner of Stratfordian flurries (suffering the merest of flesh wounds myself), before a young lad/police officer broke up exhaustive hostilities within 45 seconds. Triumphantly departing the scene, one assured the shamefaced former bride-to-be that “we’d always have Leigh-on-Sea”.

Decades since he first bagged Emerald Isle temptress Ms Cusack, Mr Irons had recently made fashionable celebrity noises about securing an Irish passport to boot. Since brought up to speed regarding adverse tax implications to follow, Jeremy now wishes to clarify his overriding sense of Englishness has fully recovered.

Rangers danger

Having initially struggled to “connect” with the blokey new agent since his late predecessor tumbled down the steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields, one’s spirited attempt to feign enthusiasm when he brought up the topic of association football causes me to be disastrously misidentified as a fellow “supporter” of Queens Park Rangers!

Quite how matters escalated remains something of a blur, though this old fraud’s seemingly appreciative noises/nodding regarding said West London club clearly set off a sorry wildfire of events now impossible to reverse. Painfully aware one’s precarious professional fate is currently in this strange man’s hands, I’ve since endured THREE Loftus Road productions alongside him and burly pals, attempting all the whilst to get up to speed with questionable show tunes enjoyed by one’s fellow “Hoops” on match days.

I’m assured this self-inflicted misery ends in May?

Never one to let an anniversary pass — this time the 100 years since Kenny Williams’ birth — Gyles Brandreth eagerly announces he and Mrs Brandreth hastened the viper’s demise after banishing him from their circle in 1988. With odd cove Gyles already determined to publicly claim credit for the deaths of Harry Secombe and Rod Hull, one wonders where this chilling body count ends?

Professing to have been incapable of referring to Larry Olivier as anything less than “sir” back in the day, delicate flower Derek Jacobi now wails: “He did in fact say, ‘Call me Larry.’ I said, ‘I’m sorry sir, I can’t!’”

Though only natural for we fresh-faced players to find ourselves awestruck in the great man’s presence at the time, it’s commonly agreed Derek’s distinctive brand of toadying was rarely surpassed.

Coogan’s greatest role

Watching the masterful Mr Coogan of late, one can only sit back and applaud such a pleasing return to form!

Presently to be seen portraying a wealthy Anglo-Irish celebrity (for comedic purposes also called “Steve”), reduced to making all manner of sanctimonious announcements to the press, I’m hardly alone in considering this his best character since Alan Partridge in the nineties.

As fans and critics alike celebrate the long-awaited success of a Games of Thrones spin-off, this trouper must take perverse pride in having instead appeared in the bloated franchise’s officially “worst” shows to date (bearded elder/tits and dragons/May, 2023).

You’re welcome!

All change for Olivia

With Olivia Colman, CBE, suddenly adamant she’s a “gay man”, rather than the Oscar-winning actress/happily wed mother-of-three with Mr Colman previously imagined, thoughts turn to how this grandest of fellows will insist on being addressed come the inevitable Windsor Castle upgrade. 

Should a dreary damehood be off the table as appears, dare we hope Sir Oliver shall suffice?