Adam Ramet

Sufficiently up its own arse as to provide ample distraction away from the risible dialogue sounding like a 9 year old had done it over half-term. The audience are podgy 20 and 30 year olds of the kind that derive emotional comfort on a Saturday night with a microwave meal in the sputtering glow of a cheap TK Max scented candle watching YouTube videos of washing machines going through a full cycle. The cast have faux accents unevenly gabbling seamlessly from yokel into pidgen Punjabi. No voice on stage ever makes it below middle-C. The choreography has that lost-opportunity tameness indicative of some fat-faced 40-something having beaten its edges soft with a Health and Safety clipboard. Yeah, it's "magical". But some folk say the same in describing their personal hobby of self-abuse through celery insertion.