This article is taken from the August-September 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £25.
Ozempic games
Having done one’s level best to champion the cause of the obese theatrical, this formerly well-nourished character actor brings the curtain down on a regularly exasperating allegiance stretching back 35 years.
Amidst the fashionable clamour for “colour/gender/age-blind” castings across the land, corpulent comrades singularly failed to play the persecuted minority card to anything like the same effect — despite repeated urgings from those of us in the know.
After recently resolving to cut such listless folk adrift by splashing out on weight-loss jabs presently all the rage in the showbiz trade (also prompted by alarming evidence I was suddenly portlier than old foe and fellow Ozempic beneficiary Christopher Biggins), I and other thespians abandoning gluttony for this new and exciting professional journey must leave nagging doubts behind.
As of now, it’s every (ex-fat) man for himself!
Heil fellow well met
Awkwardly failing in his bid to have them rolling in the aisles with slapstick “Nazi salutes” during a TV panel show, celebrity vampire Mr Walliams was of course attempting to embrace a once-surefire light entertainment tradition from childhood.
Whilst British predecessors could expect to goose step about on solid showbiz ground (some of the silly sausages having once fought against the real thing), the now-struggling comedy Nazi genre hardly benefits from this officially sinister fellow’s intervention in 2025.
Suffice it to say, this British telly veteran was outraged to learn he’s amongst the fast-growing number of stars whose voice and image is being bogusly recreated online to financially exploit lonely and vulnerable fans. I’ve naturally instructed the lawyer to address this appalling injustice in all haste — ensuring the real version receives his rightful share of the profits!
After deciding to give her French Riviera residence a wide berth following regrettable scenes last August, one threw caution to the wind when inviting Monique to experience the challenging joys of the English summer!
Drawing a line under unseemly allegations of financial impropriety levelled at yours truly by her middle-aged Gallic offspring, we embarked on the impromptu road trip hours after an emotionally charged reunion at King’s Cross station.
Whilst journeying with this continental firecracker naturally comes with flashpoints — opposition to Test Match Special and her foolish insistence on queuing to “Meet Nigel Havers” at the Cirencester summer fête amongst them — Merrie England has generally smiled upon us.
Creaking Cavalier Mr Everett takes exception to the presence of puritanical intimacy coordinators during sex scenes, cattily announcing: “It’s a very easy job — you do three weeks training and then you can tell everybody what to do on a film!” Those familiar with the old tart’s heyday concur intimacy training for poor Rupert comes 48 years too late …
One finds himself being childishly “blanked” for the second time in so many years by old co-star Robert Powell — this time during a chance encounter in Joe Allen’s. I shan’t be attempting to “mend fences” again!
On a hot streak
Landing what he describes as a “leading role” in the West End after minor Netflix acting success these past two years, the cocksure nephew sweetly considers it a professional triumph to be spending his summer toiling about on a boiling London stage.
This proud and supportive uncle can only discreetly wait in the wings, praying all the while the lad’s blatant lack of formal theatrical training doesn’t count against him in the way it surely should …
Muddling through
Having belatedly parted company back in March with the cold-hearted millennial supposedly handling one’s affairs, faith in her vastly more experienced successor (who wasted no time snapping me up) initially seemed justified.
Amongst the last surviving London agents of the “old school”, his endlessly upbeat assessments concerning my future prospects proved refreshing to say the least.
And though alarm bells began to ring during a subsequently dissatisfying debut on the high seas — second billing to a cruise ship “entertainer” now in police custody — I resolved to persevere with the well-meaning codger, all too aware boats were already burnt elsewhere.
Subsequent meetings have, alas, failed to settle nerves — with it becoming alarmingly apparent the foggy-headed fellow regularly muddles me with (at least) three other telly actors of similar vintage! Considerably older than he appeared to initially suggest and beholden to a mistress/secretary whose administrative skills fell down the stairs circa 1995, one wonders just who this blunderer thought he was signing?
In case they ever question their present lot in life, Dame Emma Thompson wishes to cheerfully reassure the capital’s sex workers they remain crucial to the mental wellbeing of West Hampstead.
Cajoled by the visiting French lady companion into forking out heaven knows what to see Ms Zegler’s Evita at the London Palladium, I shared the fury of fellow middle-class audience members the moment the girl swanned off to the venue’s exterior balcony, belting out the show’s best number to assembled hoi polloi on Argyll Street! Long fleeced by our West End hosts, it appears we loyal theatregoers must now also subsidise freeloading riff-raff outside.
Banished to separate lodgings in Primrose Hill by the third spouse — a striking German actress of volatile inclination — Dundonian A-lister Brian Cox bravely makes light of unconventional domestic arrangements to the press. One shudders to imagine the number of fresh-faced swordsmen presently circling without poor Brian guarding Frau Cox’s doors …
More rolls, please
Apropos the opening item on weight-loss jabs, yours truly must now concede foolish vanity got the better of him!
With the grim reality having become apparent in subsequent weeks — namely the sheer number of hollow-faced ageing actors trampling over each for slimline supporting roles — this once Falstaffian player soon found himself hankering for the camaraderie of old, where backstabbing amongst rotund rivals was an altogether less relentless/energetic affair.
Considering mortality rates amongst my previous number also outdo anything these lycra-clad poseurs are capable of, one belatedly realises the reliable flow of unglamorous screen roles available to surviving portly players isn’t the unwelcome typecasting imagined.
Presently lunching with gusto for the sake of resurrecting the career, rest assured I shall return, anything but fighting fit, this autumn!
