Lloyd Evans

Lloyd Evans

Lloyd Evans is The Spectator's sketch-writer and theatre critic

Starmer looked scared of Badenoch at PMQs

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At PMQs this week, Sir Keir Starmer got a proper grilling for a change. Kemi Badenoch used smarter tactics: short questions sharply focused; half-truths instantly rebutted. The Tory leader abandoned her normal habit of covering the entire spectrum of Labour’s shortcomings. She focused on their worst error: economic stagnation caused by the tax-grab Budget. Why, she asked, is the Chancellor holding ‘an emergency budget next week?’ A near fib from Starmer. She’d caught him out Sir Keir gave her a formulaic reply, crowing about his glorious achievements. ‘Record investment... three interest rate cuts...wages going up faster than prices.’ Kemi dismissed this as balderdash.

A treat for nostalgic wrinklies: Punk Off!, at the Dominion Theatre, reviewed

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Punk rock, packaged, parcelled, and boxed up as a treat for nostalgic wrinklies. That’s the deal with Punk Off!, a touring show that recently completed a lap of the country at the Dominion Theatre. Most of the audience were there to recall their rebellious heyday. ‘It’s about to get really, really loud,’ announced the compère, Kevin Kennedy, as the four-piece band hammered out ‘Sheena Is A Punk Rocker’ ‘and ‘If the Kids Are United’. Both hits sounded eerily unfamiliar. Why? Those raucous, pulsing rhythms can’t be turned into elevator jingles or a background drone at a shopping mall – so we rarely hear them. Just as well. Kennedy rattled through the major turning points in the movement’s history.

Is Kemi Badenoch getting better at PMQs?

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If Kemi Badenoch has a plan, she’s keeping it hidden. At PMQs she used her scattergun approach to complain about unemployment, farming, winter fuel payments, council tax, increases in NI, business closures, food-aid for underfed kids and the murder of David Amess. Eventually, she reached the chancellor’s awkward ‘spring statement’ which would have made a much better starting point. There was no shape to her performance, no dramatic climax, no electrifying revelation to dominate the afternoon news. And she’s low on energy. Does she even need six questions? She should sell half of them to the SNP who are adept at concealing illicit financial deals from the auditors.  Her best moment came when she mentioned the stinking dunes of refuse gathering in Labour-run Birmingham.

Let men do the housework!

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Why are women still allowed to do housework? The question used to bother me during the years of my marriage when housework became a running sore between us. Perhaps the friction was inevitable. I was born in revolutionary times, the 1960s, and my mother taught me and my siblings to cook, clean and wash up for ourselves. We turned out as independent, self-sufficient adults. I would never ask a woman to make me a cup of coffee any more than I’d ask a bumblebee to build me a lighthouse. And doing jobs around the house suits my life as a writer. During the day I take frequent mini-breaks and do chores while my mind empties itself of clutter and my batteries recharge. Then I return to my laptop, renewed and refreshed. It’s like meditation – but with concrete results. Clean carpets.

Brian Cox’s Bach has to be heading for Broadway

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The Score is a fine example of meat-and-potatoes theatre. Simple plotting, big characters, terrific speeches and a happy ending. The protagonist, J.S. Bach, receives a mysterious summons from Frederick the Great of Prussia. The long first act takes us through Bach’s professional woes and his physical infirmities. His weak vision is being treated by an English oculist, John Taylor, who tours Europe in a scarlet coach decorated with eyes. For unexplained reasons, Taylor decides to taste Bach’s urine, which is excessively sugary – a symptom of diabetes. When Bach reaches Frederick’s court in Potsdam he finds the atmosphere oppressive and alienating. Enter Voltaire. ‘Prussia is not a state in possession of an army,’ he says in a comedy French accent.

My brush with a rabid monkey

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India A crowded bus station. A lady monkey with a baby clinging to its neck sidled past me, eyeing the banana I was eating. I barely noticed them. A moment later, claws dug into my back. A skeletal hand darted forward to grab my banana. The baby monkey was on my shoulder. I leapt up and shrugged vigorously but it climbed on to my head, so I twisted sharply this way and that to unseat the little nuisance. I felt a painful scratch on my neck. The furry bundle leapt off me and scampered away. I’d been bitten. A few bored locals gathered around to see if the kerfuffle was worth getting overexcited about. A samosa seller helpfully dabbed my neck with a rag soaked in oil from his smoking cauldron. I thanked him diplomatically for this pointless gesture. The crowd retreated.

PMQs was a façade

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A bit of a stitch-up at PMQs, or so it seemed. The ‘opposition’ leader, Kemi Badenoch, ignored her duty to voters and spent ten minutes feeding softball questions to Sir Keir Starmer about President Zelensky. At issue was Donald Trump’s decision on Monday to withdraw military aid from Ukraine. Kemi meekly asked Sir Keir if he might help. ‘What is he doing to rebuild their relationship after a challenging week?’ Sir Keir can do nothing, obviously. Trump has lost patience with the leader of an impoverished, war-sick country whose eastern fringes are occupied by a hostile superpower. Britain has no influence either way. But Sir Keir wants to pose as a crucial member of an imaginary triumvirate that can redraw the map of Eastern Europe.

How Armando Iannucci lost his edge

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The BBC celebrated one of its own on Monday night. Armando Iannucci was treated to a fawning retrospective by Alan Yentob, and it opened with a crass piece of TV trickery. ‘Armando Iannucci is not an easy man to pin down,’ said Yentob, as if his quarry were a master criminal or an international terrorist. ‘For ten years, I’ve been trying to talk to one of Britain’s greatest comic talents.’ Iannucci, in his heyday, would have enjoyed dissecting this sort of bombastic hyperbole. This week, he connived in the hoax. Yentob ran through Iannucci’s CV. He was raised by affluent Glaswegians (plenty of colour photographs suggesting a comfortable income), and after studying at Oxford he moved to BBC radio.

Shakespeare as cruise-ship entertainment: Jamie Lloyd’s Much Ado About Nothing reviewed

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Nicholas Hytner’s Richard II is a high-calibre version of a fascinating story. A king reluctantly yields his crown to a usurper who wants his violent revolt to seem like a peaceful transfer of authority. This delicate, complex narrative is presented as a boardroom power struggle in corporate Britain. Snappy suits for the dukes and princes. Commando uniforms when they take to the battlefield. Jonathan Bailey (Richard) starts as a swaggering, coke-snorting yuppie who dreams of extending his realm overseas with someone’s else money. Disaster strikes, the crown slips. Calamity sharpens his awareness and he becomes a lyrical philosopher who laments the bewitchments and pitfalls of power.

We saw the real Keir Starmer at PMQs – and it was ugly

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Strange atmosphere at PMQs. Our MPs seemed to believe that the Commons debate was a vital briefing session for Sir Keir Starmer as he prepares to meet President Trump in Washington. Everyone advised the PM how to handle himself. But it's far too late. Sir Keir has already grovelled to his new master by pledging to buy bombs and bullets instead of spending cash on failed states overseas.  Kemi Badenoch, the Tory leader, joked that Sir Keir had slashed the aid budget on her personal recommendation. ‘I’m glad he accepted my advice. It’s the fastest response I’ve ever had from the Prime Minister.’ Sir Keir answered with facetious gallantry. ‘I’m sorry to let her down but she didn’t figure in my thinking at all.

Tedious and threadbare: Unicorn, at the Garrick Theatre, reviewed

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Unicorn, Mike Bartlett’s new play, involves some characters in chairs discussing a sexual threesome. That’s the entire show. Polly (Nicola Walker) is a drunken crosspatch who wants to spice up her loveless marriage to Dr Nick (Stephen Mangan) by bringing a blonde lesbian into the bedroom. Nick, a dithering twerp, doesn’t care if it happens or not and he lets his gobby wife talk him into it. She’s desperate for a bit of girl-on-girl action because she detests straight men (apart from Nick) and she dated women before she got married. It’s not clear why Nick puts up with this charmless windbag who treats him like a naughty spaniel and pouts angrily whenever he speaks. Polly tracks down a gormless poetry student, Kate, and persuades her to join their triangular orgy.

If you have two hours to spare, spend it anywhere but here: The Years reviewed

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The Years is a monologue spoken by a handful of actresses, some young, some old enough to carry bus passes. They stand in black costumes on a white stage explaining to us the significance of memory, history and feelings. Then the story begins. The narrator is a precocious chatterbox born in France during the war who has no aim in life other than sensual gratification. She’s not a human being, just a cluster of nerves, like a taste bud, that registers nice or nasty, sweet or bitter. And that’s it. She has no morality. She doesn’t develop personally because her nature isn’t capable of emotional growth. Yet the audience is expected to admire everything she says about her experiences. Sex is her obsession. As a teen, she brings herself to orgasm on the corner of a table.

Kemi is starting to sound like Sir Keir

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Kemi Badenoch has made PMQs her own. Her own what? Her own select committee. That’s how she runs it. She asks long rambling questions that exhibit her knowledge of the subject. Then she hands over to Sir Keir who rambles back at her, taking his time, feeling no pressure to answer. Not much drama or excitement at all. Kemi, with her beautiful manners and perfectly modulated English, has the air of a head girl investigating a fire at the hockey pavilion. Sir Keir answers with glib and defensive evasions that are often delivered in exasperated tones. His preening vanity is plain for all to see and yet Kemi can’t burst his bubble.  Today she asked about his beleaguered attorney general. He just huffed and puffed back at her.

Stylish facsimile of Carol Reed’s film: Oliver!, at the Gielgud Theatre, reviewed

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Oliver! directed by Matthew Bourne is billed as a ‘fully reconceived’ version of Lionel Bart’s musical. Very little seems to have been reconceived. This stylish and dynamic show develops like an unblemished copy of Carol Reed’s film. Fair enough. Punters want comfort, not novelty when they go to see a 65-year-old musical. Billy Jenkins, as the Artful Dodger, captures every heart in the auditorium. But of course he does. It’s no slur on Jenkins to point out that the ‘Dodger’ is one of the greatest acting gigs in all musical theatre. Has it ever been done badly? The Oliver I saw, Raphael Korniets (one of three sharing the role), is a slender youngster with a huge singing voice.

Kemi finally has a good PMQs

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Genuinely, a historic day at PMQs. The plates are shifting. Labour whips spotted that Nigel Farage’s name was on the order paper so they got a house-trained pipsqueak, John Slinger, to give Sir Keir Starmer a chance to launch a pre-emptive strike. Slinger was called first and he asked about Farage’s remark that Reform is ‘open to anything’ on the NHS. Sir Keir took his cue and declared that the NHS will always be ‘free at the point of use’, falsely suggesting that Reform plans to scrap this principle. Then Farage was called. His question was salty but unremarkable. He asked Sir Keir to explain to an RAF veteran why the winter fuel allowance has been scrapped while money is available to subsidise the surrender of the Chagos Islands.

An excellent sixth-form drama project: Santi & Naz, at Soho Theatre, reviewed 

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Santi & Naz is a drama set in the Punjab in 1947 that uses an ancient and thrilling storyline about domestic violence. The main characters are a pair of young lesbians who plot to kill Naz’s bridegroom, Nadim, on the eve of the wedding. They discuss stabbing or poisoning him and eventually they decide to drown him in the village lake. This is a strange play. It wants to teach us about Indian society in the 1940s while assuming we’re experts There are many motives for this murder. Santi and Naz hate men. They detest the custom of marriage which forces women to endure painful sexual couplings. And Santi fears that Naz will be unsafe in her marital home because ‘Muslim husbands beat their wives’.

Starmer can’t keep blaming the Tories

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Great stuff from Kemi Badenoch at PMQs. She was entertaining, tricky, probing, unpredictable. If she keeps this up she may attract more Tory members to the chamber on Wednesdays. Many seem to find other things to do. She began by calling Sir Keir a liar: ‘Speaking about the employment bill last week he misled the house. He was not on top of his own bill.’ Up popped the Speaker. ‘We can’t accuse the Prime Minister of misleading the house.’ That got everyone’s attention. Kemi should try it each week That got everyone’s attention. Kemi should try it each week. She rephrased her question and started to go through the bill in detail. She quoted paragraphs, subclauses, numbers in brackets. She knew the fiddly bits in the margins that nobody looks at.

The Traitors finale was a cruel spectacle

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Blame Covid. That’s the origin of the BBC’s hit game-show, The Traitors. Workplaces are still deserted as people sit in their kitchens tapping away at their laptops but they crave the drama of office politics. This show lays on conspiracies and intrigues galore. The setting is a quaint old Scottish castle where a random group of players compete to win a pile of cash. Each contestant is ordered to tell the truth but a small number are given permission to cheat. These roles are assigned in secret, which fosters an atmosphere of fraud and mistrust. It’s a paradise for crooks and cut-throats. The castle is sprawling with side-parlours and shadowy drawing rooms where conspiracies can be hatched and strategies discussed as the contestants try to identify the ‘traitors’ among them.

Pious bilge: Kyoto, at @sohoplace, reviewed

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The West End’s new political show, Kyoto, can’t be classed as a drama. A drama involves a main character engaged in a transformative personal journey. This is a secretarial round-up of various environmental summits, or ‘Cop’ meetings, held during the late 1980s and 1990s. If you remove the private jets, a Cop summit is a sort of parish council seminar about the probable weather during the summer fête. The material is extremely dull and yet it’s possible to turn dross into a gripping story if you hire a dramatist. So Big Oil has been torching the planet for 66 years and yet the West End hasn’t been burned to ashes The authors, Joe Robertson and Joe Murphy, aren’t up to the job and their script is a blank list of speeches and events read out by soulless busybodies.

PMQs was a particularly dozy affair

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The Commons was half asleep at PMQs. Trump’s re-election has severely damaged Sir Keir Starmer’s authority. Last summer, he unwisely allowed his Labour colleagues to campaign for the worst presidential candidate in American history. When Kamala lost, so did the Labour leader who now has zero influence over the US. He couldn’t even bring himself to say ‘Trump’ today, let alone to acknowledge his inauguration on Monday.  Kemi Badenoch might have gloated over Sir Keir’s American gamble but she ignored it entirely. And she failed to bring up the Southport triple-killer. As if obeying the Labour whips, she asked about education, and she claimed that Tory reforms had propelled Britain’s kids to the top of the international league tables.