...is a wonderful, hilarious, filthy, sweet, sexy monster. If it's true that David Eldridge has the hopes of a generation of playwrights riding on his shoulders (or at least, their hopes of having a show on in the Olivier) then he's done us all proud. Or put another way he's bust the lock on a Pandora's box - if of a sudden the Olivier becomes the unlikely home of new writing then for some it's surely going to be a space too far. But Eldridge and his confrere/director Rufus Norris have filled the place not just with thirty or so actors but with laughs (huge waves thereof) and dances and love, with sharply and compassionately drawn characters, with proper, dirty British drama. For instance, the opening - no, I won't spoil it for you. Suffice to say today I downloaded Relax by Frankie Goes To Hollywood (my vinyl single is long lost) and listening to it simultaneously conjured memories of my own teenagehood, and the thrilling first scene of DE's brilliant play.
Twenty minutes in, a silver-haired old Colonel and Mrs Bufton-Tufton type of couple bustled their way out of their stalls seats and berated the usher - bloody disgrace!
It felt like the start of something. I hope so.