The writing’s on the wall for lowly folk still silly enough to consider themselves “creatives”
This article is taken from the April 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.
Lest we forget
The sight of Stephen Fry and pals rallying against the perils of AI was a sure sign the writing’s on the wall for more lowly folk still silly enough to consider themselves “creatives” in 2025.
Should they be unable to cash in on the timely demises of baby boomer relations or prove too hopeless for the Amazon workhouse, it shan’t be long before these tragic figures are crying out for humanitarian aid across the war zones of North London.
We can only hope the country’s kind-hearted and more affluent step up to the task, accepting such “freelancers” with the same flag-flying compassion that once compelled them to publicly open their doors to Ukrainians.
Close encounters
Ageing matinée idol Jude Law meets with criticism after requesting admirers resist groping his person, presumably unless discreetly directed to do so. Such restraint at fan events results in Mr Law duly posing for photographs to the tune of £150.
One would have imagined this workable arrangement earning more approval in the enlightened 2020s, not least when compared to murkier alternatives. During my own youthful appearances on the fan convention circuit, courtesy of small but pleasing roles in certain British sci-fi shows (!), leading players’ reckless insistence on regularly enjoying the closest of proximities with fair maiden devotees caused all manner of logistical chaos.
Whilst detractors revel in the sorry fate of Doctor Who, vampiric showrunner Russell T. Davies’ patient attempts to engage with these embittered individuals now appear conveniently forgotten. Finding time to throw a bone to unfashionable heterosexuals invested in the programme, Russell had generously made it clear from the outset that efforts would be made, in part, to still somehow accommodate this difficult, minority section of the fanbase. Not a word of thanks since!
Weeks since the onstage dizzy spell/cardiac arrest just outside Northampton, this normally industrious trouper has been acutely aware of countless professional opportunities passing him by during enforced recuperation.
Irked to find the Actors’ Benevolent Fund proving less than supportive, despite repeated irate communications on my part, I eventually announced (with resentful cooperation of the backstabbing nephew) that I’d be heading for WC2 to tackle this administrative fiasco in person.
Having suggested we pop by the The Coal Hole for a brief stiffening of resolve beforehand, one now concedes subsequent events when remonstrating with the Benevolent Fund’s resident jobsworth — not least “leaping out of the wheelchair” to make the chap see sense — didn’t count amongst my finest performances.
Heartfelt gratitude to Kate Winslet who, having fought against her fate for years, humbly wishes it to be known she’ll shortly be making her directorial debut … for nothing less than the good of all womankind.
Oui, oui, IOU
Financial matters have hardly been improved by mean-spirited communications from across the Channel.
Having secured what was previously imagined to be generous bankrolling from French Riviera temptress/widow Monique for the touring one-man stage retrospective Only The Liars Remain (“a remarkable exposé of theatrical betrayal spanning 1971 to the present”), suddenly I find her calling in the debt!
Despite my being forced to abandon this gruelling endeavour after keeling over during only the third performance in January — leaving SEVENTEEN doubtless lucrative provincial dates cancelled as a result — this once carefree girl, with whom I spent the most impromptu and delightful of summers last year, now crudely writes it’s time to “honorer tes obligations” regarding repayment.
Naturally, I know this in reality to be the grisly intervention of the two dead-eyed Generation X offspring/beneficiaries, now pulling strings at my (considerable) expense, and whose Gallic loathing for yours truly was all too evident from the get-go!
Accepting all newspaper offers, long-serving sexpot Britt Ekland castigates “woke!” types deeming the sight of her derrière in 1973’s The Wicker Man now worthy of a trigger warning. Pesky film historians only have to spoil matters by later clarifying said buttocks technically belonged to a “Glaswegian stripper” of the day, drafted in after Britt, then at the height of powers, refused to play ball.
Surely unnecessary to rob Ms Ekland of her greatest ever acting moment?
En garde, ladies
Presently de rigueur to cast menopausal actresses romping about on-screen with handsome bucks young enough to be their offspring (not to mention having creaking female hacks salivating over the poor lads), supporters doubtless consider this a “levelling of the playing field” following decades of the chestnut-dyed boulevardier, seducing damsels a fraction his vintage.
Though the present state of affairs must be politely endured before it passes, one imagines market forces will soon enough be demanding our finest veteran swordsmen (Messrs Law/West/Sewell et al) get back in the saddle to reclaim cradle-snatching bragging rights.
For all the so-called “controversy” meeting the news that crusading diva Cynthia Erivo has bagged the lead role of Jesus on stage this summer, let us instead focus on the positives: the form book strongly suggests the levels of trademark humility about to be displayed by this particular showbiz Messiah shall be a joy to behold!
I gather long-time foe Mr Berkoff is reduced to going about flogging his own DVDs like a sinister market trader. Trumpeting his laughable attempt at a modern-day “bargain” — four for £40! — the old fool claims: “Not many left.”
Is he sure?
Reliably tipped off in advance that the misfiring agent was secretly planning to stand aside and take a grandly-billed “career break”, one felt compelled to strike first and fire the woman before allowing her the satisfaction.
Regular readers will be aware the day was a long time coming courtesy, amongst many other things, of that botched handling of the Midsomer Murders contract; ongoing failure to get me off The Archers’ “blacklist”, and general surliness towards a player duty-bound to expose her blatant favouritism towards rival client Sylvester McCoy.
After spending a delightful afternoon composing at length one’s grievances via email, before preparing to deliciously bring down the guillotine, her ruddy name popped up on screen, confirming she was — “with great sadness” — letting me go!
Bravo Jim Bergerac, aka resting player John Nettles, for publicly delivering his seal of approval regarding the Jersey show’s “reboot”. Knowing John as I do, the courage and willpower it would have taken to control near-overflowing levels of private loathing cannot be under-estimated.
