Stage Fright.

 I saw "Inside No. 9: Stage Fright", at The New Theatre, Oxford. What follows contains mild spoilers about the first half but becomes increasingly vague for reasons that will become increasingly clear. 

It opens with an extended skit about theatre etiquette. Actually, it opens with an incredibly loud bang, which set the jittery audience up for an evening of jump scares, trompe l'oeil, deconstruction of theatrical business, "I'll stay here while you go off and do a quick change etc". There were reinvestigations of previous ideas, as well as the setting up of various brand new, if reliably hokey plot strands, including one about a famous actress "dying in this very theatre". 

This very theatre. 

But soon we're into "Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room", which is done largely straight, in which slight differences to Reese's voice and attack jar only because I have seen this episode so many times I'm both word and timbre perfect. Besides, it's live. It's different. You don't want it to be the same, especially when you're watching two performers who have been working together, telepathically, for forty years. They'll need to keep it fresh for them, while still delivering for twats like me in the audience: grey hair, specs, black tee shirt. Tonight, in Oxford, we are legion. 

I'd have been happy with an artful interweaving of pre-existing stories. That's what I was expecting. "Bernie" drifts into a skit that riffs on "A Quiet Night In" and, amazingly, the Barry Bags sketches from The League of Gentlemen. Susan and I tried to work out what we'd be seeing in the second half. A two hander, obviously. "The Riddle of the Sphinx", perhaps. Though there's a good ensemble cast, so perhaps "The Bill" or "Sardines". 

I'm getting ahead of myself, though. Each show of the tour has a special guest. Susan and I tried to work out who it would be in Oxford. Xander Armstrong off Pointless and Granny's Christmas list, perhaps? Or Adam Buxton? He narrates a guided tour round the Ashmolean, so he's no stranger to the town. Gaz Coombes? Amelia Fletcher, singer, guitarist, economist, teenage crush*? The ghost of Morse? 

It wasn't any of them. The night before it was Will Young (er, yay?) The night after, Kevin Bishop (er...) But our night, and for one night only, we got BASIL FUCKING BRUSH. Now, for my younger readers...I'm kidding, no one young would ever read this. Why would they? There's nothing for them here. Oh, what the hell. Basil Brush is a posh fox in an Inverness cape and spotty bow tie, somewhere between Patrick Moore and Robin Day, but far more pleasant than both. And I'm not telling you who those men are as you have no need to know. Basil's catchphrase is "Boom Boom", which he says after telling a joke, which he often does, especially tonight, cracking up both Reese and Steve. He is brilliant. I have never shouted the word "Crackerjack" so many times in one night, and I don't say that lightly. With the best will in the world, er, Will, what are you going to do? Sing "I think I better leave right now" and act on it? You bloody better had. 

Part two started, and here's where things start to get foggy. Not because I was drunk but because I'll spare you the spoilers. You'd really want to see this. It exceeded all my expectations. The second half is almost completely new, a whole new episode of Inside No 9, set in a Grand Guignol theatre. I was in heaven. I won't go into it any further, but if I tell you it got better and better, everything was paid off, everything tied up and, while there was really only one to end it, even that was heightened, poignant, detailed, and staggeringly clever. They do so much more than they have to. It's inspiringly un-lazy. It's the most joyous time I've ever spent in the theatre, my grin was sliding ever closer to lockjaw, as the show continued to dazzle me with twists, turns, and falling sandbags. It was remarkably perfect. And I don't think I could have asked for more than that. 

There. Alone amongst the fandom, I was absolutely fucking delighted. That's not what modern fans are supposed to do, but I thought it was brilliant. No notes, lads. 

*She's an OBE. You can go off people.