The gleam behind the glasses gives Jenny Eclair the appearance of some kind of bad fairy bent on creating as much mischief and mayhem as she can. Agile and outrageous, she is the stirrer and mixer of everything that is funny about women. The show is simply uproarious.
It is big, brash and colourful, riding on a wave of warmth and empathy from the almost exclusively female audience. A velvet-clad Dille Keane is the posh one of this wicked sisterhood. She has a delicious line in hauteur and upper-class disdain as she advances downstage with a menace designed to have customer services managers cowering beneath their desks. Her comic timing is superb and she can hush the theatre in expectation of the punch line.
Eclair is the most physical as she capers around the stage or lies down in hilarious demonstration of the perils of nipple behaviour during a massage. Linda Robson plays the rough stuff, railing against the world from the enveloping folds of her dreadful winceyette nightie. The women bewail everything from the need for bras that would fit Peggy Mount to the terrible realisation that they are hooked on gadgets from the Lakeland catalogue.
They contend that Trinny and Susannah are gay men in drag and conclude that every woman needs a Keith with a shed. The second half is smarter, ruder and more outrageous, with a glorious moment when the audience is invited to join in a communal tut-tutting against crisp-rustlers and skinny girls in thongs. I am still chuckling today.
Production information can change over the run of the show.
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