This article is taken from the November 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £25.
All change over at the Actors’ Benevolent Fund, drearily “rebranded” the Actors’ Trust. After years of civil war in the ranks (who could forget sinister plans to bump off Penelope Keith!), long-serving troupers bracing themselves for the final curtain naively dared to hope the formerly known ABF might still provide financial perks so shamelessly enjoyed by deceased predecessors.
Alas, our new fresh-faced regime must of course focus on “mental wellbeing” and suchlike — doubtless about to be exploited by all and sundry, whilst proving the final nail in the coffin for we more stoically-minded members over 75, simply angling for a walk-in shower by next spring.
Licking wounds since the disastrous Lear in London and New York, Sir Ken plans a timely retreat to his old Stratford stamping ground.
With the great man back for the first time in over 30 years for two productions in 2026, those romantic tales of yore, recounting boy Branagh, bindle on stick, trekking auspiciously across the badlands of Berkshire to his spiritual Warwickshire home, must again be dutifully bashed out by newspaper hacks when called upon.
We surviving Stratfordian players, forced to endure PR-canny Ken’s version of “events” the very first time around (supporting his debut Henry V in 1984), can wearily concur he never tires of retelling such hogwash.
Having voiced such disgust for the British press, whose newspapers he officially makes a rule of so steadfastly avoiding, how gracious of Mr Idle to still find time to speak to almost every single one of them whilst flogging the (so-so!) stage show …
Recently encouraged by an impetuous agent to chase fame and fortune in Tinseltown following minor Netflix/West End “success”, the nephew finally deigns to call from California with news of developments.
Suffice it to say, one was subjected to all manner of impenetrable gobbledygook, complete with a preposterous transatlantic accent acquired in the space of five weeks — none of which indicated anything resembling the prospect of gainful employment at the end of it.
Though of course keen to officially support the lad’s dreams, having myself suffered the treachery of US show folk in 1976, his kindly uncle/benefactor quietly takes solace in the belief this nonsense should be over by Christmas.
Oil on troubled waters?
Grim tidings over at the Royal Shakespeare Company, where a “challenging” financial environment leaves more than half of the 835 full-time staff being “invited” to jump ship before compulsory redundancies commence.
One wonders how challenging matters might have been had the RSC not succumbed to the howling mob — fronted by Sir Mark Rylance, no less — when turning backs on regular barrels of unfashionable cash from a British oil giant, weeks before the plague struck in 2020.
Having long demanded ethically-acceptable alternatives (to date, seemingly unspecified), surely only a matter of time before Sir Mark and pals come riding to the rescue?
Anxious to be northern in old age, Ian McKellen champions budget-friendly lodgings for “disadvantaged working-class playwrights of talent” chancing their luck in the capital.
Whilst said scheme will reportedly benefit 47 of the aforementioned, such criteria in our enlightened trade reassuringly proves next-to-no obstacle for resourceful middle-class wolves in humble sheep’s clothing.
Blinkered critics may cry “shallow vanity project”, but Madame Izzard assures us his one-woman Prince of Denmark is the most authentic since the Bard’s day — and certainly a far cry from all those hit Hamlets wrongly deemed triumphs by stilted/conventional folk down the centuries that followed.
Thank you, Eddie!
When one’s ship comes in
Despite initially regarding the Norwegian Fjords as something of a demotion in the highly political world of cruise ship entertainment — not least after Bonneville ruthlessly bagged the Caribbean at others’ expense — I must count the recent voyage as an unqualified triumph!
The pleasing billing as “showbiz insider” met with a particularly appreciative Middle England audience of similar vintage, fascinated to learn, amongst many other things, of Gyles Brandreth’s psychotic dark side.
Such were the nightly bonds formed whilst “rolling back the years” with these merriest of shipmates (only two fellow baby boomers requiring urgent medical attention on the 11-day voyage), that one felt a profound sense of deflation on finally arriving back at 21st-century Southampton.
Out with the begging bowl over at Berkshire “dinner theatre” the Mill at Sonning, in need of a swift bundle, at the time of writing, to keep things afloat.
Whilst entertaining rosy-cheeked diners in so intimate a setting proves challenging enough for the luckless actors in question, the decision to place bellowing loon Mr Blessed front and centre of proceedings in recent years was recklessness at its worst.
Ignoring obligatory shrieks of “historic inaccuracy!” from media dullards, the De Coates lineage demanded one looked forward to watching Norman forebears triumph once more over the Saxon rabble, courtesy of the BBC.
Alas, on finally reaching the English south coast, having endured our two protagonists and supporting cast across eight episodes, this by now dispirited Normandy loyalist found himself struggling to care which pretty boy king prevailed.
Aged rep misstep
Fears the elderly agent had seen better days were confirmed when the old fool, attending a recent memorial service, tumbled down the steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields, flattening a frail Anthony Andrews into the bargain.
Since hospitalised, my representative’s affairs have been temporarily “managed” by the loopy secretary/mistress back at the office, ensuring only chaos reigns. Understandably perturbed to discover previously advanced talk of one’s “guest role” in Channel 5 reboot All Creatures Great and Small had been lost in the fog, I resolved to pay the patient himself a visit, intent on merely clarifying the lie of the land.
Despite bearing all manner of gifts, including his latest copies of the Stage and Playboy magazine, polite-but-persistent inquiries on the matter (leaning all the whilst into his one good ear) met with only miserable groans throughout — eventually prompting the intervention of some burly jobsworth, hysterically accusing yours truly of “physical harassment”!
A Statement Regarding Mr Russell T Davies
Whilst silly bigots/obsessives persist in reminding us he crash-landed the Tardis through the roof of Broadcasting House during a “calamitous” second tenure at the helm, Russell now cheerfully clarifies his “heart” was never in poor old Doctor Who in the first place — seeing as he had far better things to be doing with his time.
Nothing more to see back there!
