On the same day that “Big Bad John” Bercow received a round of applause in the House of Commons for rebuking whom Eddie Mair famously called “a nasty piece of work” ‒ Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson (Piffle for short) referred to Emily Thornberry by her husband’s name, provoking a charge of “sexism” from the chair ‒ his counterparts in James Graham’s smash hit This House (which earned an Olivier nomination for its director Jeremy Herrin) were in similarly boisterous form on what was the opening night of the Edinburgh leg of the play’s first UK tour.

The year is 1974, but you’d be forgiven for thinking that it was the current parliamentary session for the political landscape bares a striking resemblance to Theresa Dismay’s turbulent reign at the head of what one of the 23-strong cast (which includes four musicians) calls a bunch of “vindictive fucking bastards” who view cities in the North such as Manchester not as what the artist formerly known as Gideon called a “Powerhouse” but “God awful” dumps in need of a “good clean” or a “good fire” ‒ they really don’t mind which.

The “Red Commies” fare no better, mind you: squabbling like a dart team over whose turn it is to buy the next round rather than developing policy and enacting legislation. And the arrival of a “token girl” forces their “trouble up mill” whips to rebuke their members in the same forceful way as Bercow slapped down Boris: “She’s a woman, Wallace, not an invalid.” But their endgame is similar to their rivals in that the pursuit and retention of power is much more important than what to do with it when you have it. The “odds and sods” in the SNP and the other so-called minor parties, mere bargaining chips to be wined and dined to ensure that “the bastards” don’t win.

A brace of snap elections follows ‒ the first by “a majority of minus 33”, the second by an actual majority of 3 ‒ and though they hold out for much longer than the predicted four weeks, their time in office is blighted with one disaster after another including a slew of sudden deaths, MPs crossing the floor, the inability to pass legislation or form a workable coalition, leadership challenges, scandal, strikes and the small matter of a grocer’s daughter from Grantham whose promise to bring harmony where there is discord emerges from the cold sea of conservatism like the ominous fin of Jaws. As one MP remarks: “This isn’t a Parliament. It’s a fucking purgatory.”

Before an enormous projection of a clock face of Big Ben which sits in judgement like an all-seeing Masonic eye, and against the backdrop of an expansive oak-panelled set at each side of which are seated audience members on the green benches of the Commons, the action is fast and furious and highly cartoonish ‒ a cross between Yes, Prime Minister and Carry On Campaigning ‒ which is fine to hook the audience and provoke titters (there are few belly laughs), but as the play stretches to its testing running time of two hours and fifty minutes, everything gets a bit samey.

Added to which, the sheer size of the Festival stage creates a barrier between the audience and the action: the former forced to watch from afar, unmoved, unlike the fortunate souls perched onstage who are encouraged to take part and rewarded with an interval drink at the functioning Strangers’ Bar. Sure, the performances to a man, woman and musician are strong and funny and immensely watchable, but the much-lauded production never stirred the emotions, rarely provoked thought, and though well received and prescient failed to bring the house down.

Peter Callaghan
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