Taking the Sheen off
Shiny old lies remain the very bedrock of our trade
This article is taken from the May 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £5.
Taking the Sheen off
Having insisted on recklessly pouring the celebrity fortune into all manner of Welsh causes since returning home, Port Talbot A-lister Michael Sheen suddenly finds himself relegated to the status of tawdry game show host to make ends meet!
Had Saint Michael been sensible enough to follow the well-trodden path of fellow Welsh acting greats — namely banging on about the land of their fathers from sun-soaked climes thousands of miles away — this disastrous state of affairs (weekdays, BBC Two) might easily have been avoided.
While par for the course for one’s homosexual comrades to fashionably protest whenever a versatile fellow outside the ranks dares to land a prominent gay role at their expense, the lack of noise greeting housewives’ favourite Mr Clunes’ casting as grisly Huw Edwards indicates a savviest of showbiz tribes maintaining selective levels of outrage.
Speaking as amongst Stratfordians banished by the modern-day RSC — 19 years and counting — sympathies to long-resident musicians finding themselves cut adrift in dreary 2026.
Though one shan’t pretend we favoured theatrical players of the RSC’s lost golden age found musical colleagues easy bedfellows (the chippiest at the best of times), both our enforced absence and now theirs proves indicative of deteriorating standards tragically on display.
Accustomed to unquestioning admiration from fawning interviewers, popular diva Richard E. Grant eagerly recounts poisonous fallings-out with everyone from his late mother and only brother, to, most recently, an ex-“best friend”.
Naturally, present media convention dictates that dear Richard (“Tricky Dicky” to less adoring co-stars) must be officially deemed blameless on all counts!
Though the midlife actress of note must persist in announcing to the press she’s battling to be “seen and heard” at this stage of the game, rest assured such steely-eyed beauties never had it so good!
Whilst my own veteran number, long past redemption, regularly find themselves confined to the fringes of telly/film sets across the land (career-ending anecdotes deemed a particular hazard) these frisky she-wolves, armed with experience and predatory A-games to boot, have no such concerns.
Those of us left hankering for carefree days of old — when devilish charm opened all manner of doors for the gentleman trouper on the road — need look only so far to see just who’s filled our shoes!
Pinch of salt path
Belated sympathies to Mrs Winn, continuing to make regrettable headlines ever since the bestselling “memoir”/movie was first exposed as a pile of old porkies by bloodthirsty hacks.
Whilst pesky facts still keep coming at this once-flourishing fantasist’s expense, let us never neglect to remember that shiny old lies remain the very bedrock of our own trade.
Should those heart-rending tales of woe, so regularly publicised by leading actors of the day, ever be subjected to the kind of ruthless investigation suffered by this sorry woman burning at the stake, there’d be endless trouble ahead.
News it’s time to “make tax digital” with HMRC has catastrophe written all over it. The inevitable financial nuance that comes with day-to-day expenses required by this jobbing London character actor of 56 years stands to be wholly misunderstood by grim cyber-ghouls of today!
Taking the high road
With Mr Cumming ungraciously replaced as Baftas host by an unfunny Welshman following disastrous events in February, let it be agreed this counts as but a rare mark on a glorious résumé he’s never tired reminding us of.
Naturally, our Bonnie Prince must dust himself down and return to the business of spreading his own special brand of joy — regardless of ungrateful Highlanders complaining he’s “ruined” the Pitlochry Festival Theatre since trotting into town with celebrity pals.
Apologies to delightfully loopy Su Pollard after I was obliged to decline a generous invitation to attend the presentation of her “lifetime achievement award” from the British Music Hall Society.
Though dear Su, at the time of writing, struggles to comprehend the gravity of one’s position, be assured history confirms it better for all concerned that I avoid being in the same room as Christopher Biggins and Jeffrey Holland.
Flavour of the month Mr Keoghan succumbs to an all-too-common compulsion to lament his present fate in the spotlight. Such is the much-publicised trauma, the poor lad loudly wonders whether he’ll ever be capable of appearing onscreen again (once he’s heroically contended with the next seven movies in the pipeline between now and 2028).
That unedifying spectacle of ghastly Miriam Margolyes bothering the Queen whilst professing undying devotion to His Majesty, reminds us such shameless levels of royal toadying, regularly displayed by “socialist” national treasures, remains largely unrivalled.
Show Business Shock
The Actors’ Benevolent Fund (drearily renamed “The Actors’ Trust”), startlingly reports, following “comprehensive” research, that there are folk in this crisis-hit trade fretting about the uncertainty of it all.
“The findings have been truly striking,” announces chairman Mr Macqueen. “A shocking confirmation,” adds trustee Mr Callow.
More on this when we have it …
While long-deceased Mr Monkhouse must now be declared beyond the pale — and a similarly dead Mr Milligan more trouble than he’s worth to boot — it’s confirmed modern-day BBC telly execs will do everything to ensure Sir Lenny Henry remains the timeless hero of comedy he has to be.
Argy-bargy on row D
Irked by the sight of trashy 21st-century types persisting in filming Ms Manville’s curtain calls with smartphones at the National — despite the great lady having angrily announced old-fashioned applause would suffice — this former co-star felt compelled to berate two gormless perpetrators in row D (stalls).
With scantily-clad Lesley admirably rolling back the years on the night, I dared to believe (post-three liberating G&Ts) that moral high ground was for the taking. Naturally, grim reality soon enough intervened in the form of the dead-eyed usher decreeing yours truly to be the “aggressive” villain of the piece!
With a planned wedding to the prospective fourth Mrs Coates at Chelsea Town Hall kiboshed following well-documented treachery over on the Côte d’Azur, “sympathies” since offered by certain theatrical comrades, originally due to attend said nuptials, proves worthy of note.
One merely has to glance into the eyes of such creaking freeloaders to see the only tragedy truly preoccupying them is the thought of not filling their boots at my expense on the day.
