Review – The Ladykillers, Gielgud Theatre

Best to sidestep this intro if you find it too distressing to discover (or have no interest in and why would you?) what goes on in a Whinger’s mystifying unconscious.

People who insist on relating their dreams are about as enthralling as those who share their travel nightmares. But occasionally a Whinger will seek to inflict a condensed version of a previous night’s fancies on the other in the interests of seeking insight, analysis or at least a dribble of interest.

The last one Phil bestowed on Andrew went thus: “I was re-recording my album in a hotel room and Sir Bob Geldof asked if he could come and watch. I couldn’t sing, I couldn’t remember the words and the reel-to-reel tape recorder got tangled up and was spewing out tape all over the room. Bob was very nice about it.” Mmmm.

An article in the programme for The Ladykillers reveals the QI origins of the classic 1955 Ealing comedy. William Rose came up with the idea “five criminals were living in a little house with a charming little old lady” in a dream, woke up, told the entire plot and concept to his wife and promptly fell back to sleep. His wife was so struck by the idea that she stayed awake all night and asked him if he could remember it in the morning. He remembered nothing but went on to write the original screenplay from her retelling. How easily The Ladykillers might never have existed.

The next time Andrew nods off in a theatre Phil intends to interrogate him post-slumber to see if he has come up with such a brilliant conceit. What are the chances? 

The Ladykillers now comes to the Gielgud Theatre with what can only be described by us as a dream cast in a version by Father Ted and The IT Crowd writer Graham Lineham. Expectations were absurdly high.

Review – Really Old, Like Forty Five, National Theatre.

The Whingers have been thinking of their retirement.

Not in the sense of contemplating sitting around watching Countdown (they’re already partial to that) or airing their plus fours on the golf courses of this land, nor even considering their first Saga cruise. No, they’re not at that stage quite yet, though obviously (assuming the ongoing ratings fracas doesn’t escalate) Phil is closer to that end of life than Andrew. And of course their future well-being is about as reliable as an Iraq Inquiry with hardly a pension-pot to piss in. No, they mean retiring from whinging as they’ve witnessed a widow of opportunity which could complete their own critics’ circle.