To paraphrase the debonair Denis Norden: it’ll be all-white on the night. At least it is for the Scotsman, Englishman and “Irish-ish” man who find themselves in a white void as the butt of playwright Dan Freeman’s titular joke. White drapes, white carpet, white table, white chairs. Into which, in white, one by one they waltz.

First to conquer, as ever, the Englishman (a droll John Bett) who sets up the Waiting For Godot-lite premise with a deflated “Nothing!” followed by a rolling rumination of “Why? Why? Why?” The tragedy of which he punctures with the first of many pinched pinch/punch-lines: “Why am I monologuing?”

Next, the “Irish-ish” man (a spirited Sylvester McCoy) who chides the cynic for having a loud sense of his own entitlement before imploring him to ruminate about life’s greatest riddle: “Are we in a joke? Or not?”

And last – and by all means least in the eyes of the dismissive Sassenach – the cod-Scotsman (a child-like Robert Picardo) whose inability to grasp the mechanics of a joke are batted away with a brutal put-down: “a black hole who absorbs reason”.

With nothing to do and nowhere to go and no one to lead the way, the three blind mice while away their day through play. A bus stop, a bar, an office, a plane. Same shit, different day. Namely, does life have meaning? And if so, what? To quote Bob Dylan: the answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.

Under the directorship of Tony Cownie, it’s delightfully silly and relentlessly so. Skirting on the edge of seriousness like a clown with a gun. But is it loaded? And if so, with what? Alas, more water than bullets.

Still, the conveyor belt of verbal and physical set-pieces repeatedly tickle the funny bone. And the chemistry between and charisma of the performers is highly infectious. Alright on the night, indeed.

Peter Callaghan
Latest posts by Peter Callaghan (see all)