This article is taken from the October 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £25.
Flogged to death by everyone from downmarket vicars and quiz show hosts, to Radio 2 DJs, the fifth best James Bond and (our ever-present!) Mr Gatiss, “cosy crime” rules the day.
Seemingly amongst the few working television actors over 75 currently not signed up to some forgettable murder mystery or other doing the rounds, one hopes to live along enough to see this now cynical genre bumped off in the night.
Pirate of the Caribbean
Whilst the world of cruise ship entertainment was traditionally the domain of the middle-ranking theatrical, perhaps tastefully trading on a single prominent telly role of note, certain big guns are intent on blowing us out of the water.
Having myself been relegated to the Norwegian fjords in coming weeks, where one shall regale baby boomers with an array of age-appropriate anecdotes, I hear this November’s prized Caribbean voyage goes to Hugh ruddy Bonneville!
Quite why this most starry of fellows suddenly feels the urge to take to the high seas at the expense of more modest players remains anyone’s guess — though following carefree Hugh’s parting of ways with poor Mrs Bonneville, perhaps it’s prudent to lock up the dancing girls.
Keen to garner sympathy from pretty-boy Mediterraneans with silly claims he was “fired” by dastardly Netflix (in reality a minor guest role), Mr Everett finds himself in a tight spot when such nonsense makes international headlines. Blaming “shaky Italian”, the old fool lamely clarifies: “I would like to confirm that I was never fired … it all got a little lost in translation.”
Indeed!
Forced to concede one’s summer with Monique had reached its end when two middle-aged offspring swooped on Leigh-on-Sea intent on finally escorting her back across the Channel, the grisly duo’s Gallic loathing towards yours truly remained not even remotely disguised.
Having first been subjected to their preposterous allegations of financial impropriety at the old girl’s palatial Côte d’Azur residence 12 months ago — since, I’d hoped, all thoroughly explained! — it’s patently clear any chance of détente in these Anglo-French hostilities is for the birds.
Regardless of such “obstacles” before us, it defiantly remains my every intention to make this lonely industrialist’s widow the fourth Madame/Mrs Coates before the year’s out, should she finally succumb to repeated declarations on the matter. Life, at this late stage of the game, is surely for the living — not least the undiluted joy that comes with horrifying inheritance-sucking vampires presently standing in one’s way!
Having again feared for the elderly agent’s faculties when he excitedly telephoned with news of an audition for telly’s Play For Today — a mere 40 years after the BBC show’s end — I was eventually reassured to learn of the planned revival on Channel 5!
Though briefly chuffed to secure what seemed a small but pleasing role in said “reboot”, subsequent news that the budget only stretched to having poor old Nigel Havers leading the cast indicated lean times ahead.
Silly old boot
Overindulged by fawning admirers during his heyday, I hear Mr Irons’ on-set absurdities (talking at length to inanimate objects/turning up in thigh-high boots and suchlike) renders him a figure of mounting mockery amongst juvenile co-stars, unappreciative of Jeremy’s once revered approach to the craft. Mercifully, the unhinged fellow remains blissfully unaware he’s reduced to such a figure of fun …
As the curtain comes down on another open-air theatre season, my departure from such an unglamorous occupation, courtesy of treacherous co-stars in 2023, must now count as a blessing. Though some of the aforementioned cling to a belief theirs is the fate of the true travelling player down the ages, an unwittingly tragic performance by the bedraggled backstabbers — recently witnessed in the Shropshire drizzle — buoyed the spirits of this audience member no end!
Casually pulling the plug on the autumn stage tour — naturally without word of apology to any of the venues involved — Dundonian blusterer Mr Cox declares: “It had a title which I hate, called It’s All About Me. I’m glad I’ve postponed it.”
Judging by Brian’s consistently graceless behaviour since encountering late-career fame, plenty consider the ill-fated title entirely apt.
Though initially willing to give up the Sunday morning and be part of a “star-studded” line-up at the Newport sci-fi convention — in honour of my wide-ranging involvement in said TV genre between 1973 and 1985 — this veteran trouper did not expect insufficient billing/advertising to leave him virtually unrecognisable to anyone attending!
In light of such an embarrassing fiasco, I’ve presently every intention of informing very same “organisers” where they can stick Llangollen on the 21st …
Never tiring of fashionably reminding media folk she’s still battling all manner of ageism and sexism at her expense, hats off to Helen Mirren for maintaining such an illustrious career regardless.
Should anyone wish to locate precisely where these sinister enemies lie, rest assured that’s only for Dame Helen to know!
The sight of partners in crime Bonneville and Fellowes publicly persisting with claims late star Dame Maggie “didn’t mean” what she said when declaring Downton unwatchable tosh (as they flog another movie spin-off), counts as showbiz PR at its shabbiest. Suffice to say, neither dared cast such doubt on Maggie’s crystal clear assessment when the formidable old bird was still on her perch.
Three Bronx cheers
Triumphantly informed by the headstrong nephew that he and the agent are jetting off to the Americas following modest West End success over the summer, his kindly uncle/theatrical mentor feels compelled to disguise reservations.
Having seen my own briefly admired Broadway endeavours torpedoed by the ghastly Mr Barnes, writing in the New York Times in 1976, I’m of course all too aware of the blood sport awaiting stateside, not least for one so evidently ill-prepared as my cocksure protégé!
Regardless of true feelings, grimaces must be turned into painted-on smiles whilst enduring the lad’s pre-flight babbling — secure in the knowledge I shall be dutifully lurking at Terminal 5 come the day he returns, tail surely between legs.
STOP PRESS: following the earlier item indicating reservations towards endless “cosy crime” dramas, news of a sudden casting opportunity prompts one to clarify this enduring format also has its merits!
