Barrymore's disdain

What does Michael Barrymore think he's up to? He's booked the theatre and sold the tickets but seems to have forgotten to put on a show.

Instead, he fills 90-odd minutes - 90 very odd minutes - by listlessly goofing around, telling some moth-ridden gags and working the crowd with a tetchiness that verges on contempt.

'I don't know why I love you, but I do,' he sings as his opener. But Barrymore's way of showing love is to try to do down everyone around him.

A fan with a protuberant cackle is hauled on stage to be mauled while he serenades her. 'You're a nutter,' she giggles. 'Yes, I've done eight rehabs, love, I do know,' he fires back without warmth. He tries to embarrass his two bouncers - at length - in cod-Shakespearean.

Worst of all, he crudely upstages singer Suzanne Prentice, then makes her sing into the phallic microphone he's shoved down the pink leotard he's donned. Comedy, or bullying? You decide.

Barrymore is capable of so much more than this. He can sing a bit, and he has presence. But his hubris at staging a show with no substance is matched by his apparent disdain for those who've paid to see him do so. Which is less than loveable.