What a fantastical feast of festive-tide flimflammery. A fruitsome fiesta of a fictional filibustering. Oh God, it’s tiring being Stephen Fry. Which is why it’s generally best to leave it to the professionals.
This year’s Old Vic Christmas campfest is penned by the floppy-fringed thesaurus himself, with Sandi Toksvig stepping in as the narrator. Indeed, it promises to bring so many national treasures under one roof they’ll probably need round-the-clock security and various laser beams to keep our assets secure.
The Old Vic press release pledges “a sparkling tale of magic, midnight and mischief, jam-packed with laughter, cross-dressing, singing, shoes, envy, dancing and cake,” the only way to get your fill of such pleasures outside the annual Tory party conference.
I won’t spoil the ending except to say there are wedding bells for a certain downtrodden step-sister and nothing but ignominy and embarrassment for her pumpkin. Tickets start from pound;10
Madeleine Brettingham
