In a League of their own

On sale in the foyer, you could choose between I Can/I Can't T-shirts, or ones that read, My Nipples are like Bullets.

As the publicity had said, this was a local show for local people, ie the clientele that frequented this multi-award winning comedy drama's various outings on Radio 4 and then BBC2.

Now the three performers and writer Jeremy Dyson had returned to the London stage, though this was a far cry from the Canal Café Theatre in Little Venice, where many of the prototypes for this show were sketched.

They have since become stellar, TV gold dust. For many in the audience - including a couple from Walthamstow who had gone to the trouble of dressing as their favourite characters - this was little short of a pilgrimage.

In the first half, Mark Gattis, Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith dug up the old sketches they had reheated in the second TV series, to great effect. Were it not for the high production values and slick blackouts, the feeble punchlines would have fizzled out. But for the adoring audience, its hints of menace, humiliation, repression and a gay version of Brief Encounter were just a delicious hint of pleasures to come.

Act two saw the action move to Royston Vasey, the village created by the League in which their characters lie entombed. Tubbs and Edward the local shop owners died and went to heaven, as many of the fans must have felt they had done too. Pauline the restart officer was shot mid-lecture, the dark cave still brought back dark memories, Herr Lipp, the German, produced a sausage from his trousers and Hilary Briss, the butcher, performed a version of Sondheim's Sweeney Todd.

Death and menace lurked everywhere. For the faithful, the lengthy scene changes were abuzz with anticipation, and though some energy had been lost by the time Tubbs and Edward encountered the immortal in the final scene, every character was met with full-throated delight.

To be blunt, I can't stand their winsome, fag-hag antics, and it still feels like callow drama students striking poses and recreating their audition pieces to me, but you don't win the Golden Rose of Montreux Comedy Award, or build a huge and devoted TV audience on sheer hype, and I am happy that all those years of grind have paid off.

I wish them a long and happy run, which, judging from last night's media scrum and satisfied post-show buzz, it looks likely to be.

The League Of Gentlemen