Theater’s a Con, and Only Fools Fall for It

Listen up, you sorry bastards, I’m way outta my depth here, but I figured I’d take a swing. The missus—yeah, Ms. Spider, queen of my personal hell—decided we needed a ‘night out,’ so she dragged my carcass to Only Fools and Horses: The Musical in that festering armpit called Birmingham. We rolled through my old Edgbaston stomping grounds, past Fiveways, and into the neon-choked heart of town. And you know what pisses me off most? Not a single cat-sized rat scuttling by, not one lousy bin bag flapping in the wind. Where’s the urban decay I was promised? Fucking media liars, selling me a dystopia that doesn’t deliver yet again. Anyway, here’s me trying to play theatre critic without vomiting on my own boots.

I’m slouched in a creaky seat at the Birmingham Hippodrome, surrounded by nostalgic rubes clapping like trained seals for Only Fools and Horses: The Musical. The air’s thick with the stench of overpriced lager and misplaced reverence, and I’m wondering who thought turning a perfectly good sitcom into a song-and-dance cash grab was a bright idea. Musicals are supposed to weave dialogue into songs like some alchemical sleight-of-hand, but here? The chatter’s the only thing worth a damn, and the tunes crash in like a drunk uncle at a funeral.

Only Fools and Horses—the BBC’s crown jewel of Peckham piss-taking—didn’t need jazz hands. John Sullivan, that Dickensian wizard of the cathode ray, spun Del Boy Trotter and his dodgy deals into comedy gold. His dialogue crackled with puns, malapropisms, and the kind of catchphrases that stick in your skull like shrapnel. So why the hell interrupt it with songs that feel like they were scraped off a pub jukebox? Every time a number starts, I’m itching to yell, “Get back to the funny, you tone-deaf bastards!”

Jim Sullivan—son of the late great—and Paul Whitehouse, who’s moonlighting as a pitch-perfect Grandad, raided the show’s seven series and 16 specials like vultures picking a carcass clean. They’ve stuffed this thing with the best gags: the wobbling chandelier, the bar flap pratfall—teased just enough to make the crowd squirm with anticipation. They even toss in a cheeky flash-forward to 2025 Peckham, where hipsters get fleeced on artisanal coffee and overpriced flats. It’s a love letter to Sullivan Sr.’s knack for making you laugh while the world screws you sideways.

But the score? Christ, it’s a crime scene. Twenty songs, eleven hacks behind ‘em, and half feel like they were written to pad the runtime. The old man’s theme tune—that mockney ode to ducking taxes and Thatcher’s dog-eat-dog—still slaps. Jim Sullivan and Whitehouse try their hand at originals, and I’ll give ‘em a nod for The Girl, a bittersweet Bart-esque ballad, and Bit of a Sort, which lets Del Boy swagger like the wide-boy Casanova he thinks he is. But then they shovel in Chas and Dave reruns and, sweet merciful fuck, Lovely Day by Bill Withers. It’s a banger, sure, but here it’s as out of place as a Rolex in Del’s suitcase. These tunes aren’t songs—they’re knock-off goods, and Trotter Independent Trading’s got better stock.

The cast’s stuck in a trap: do you ape the TV gods or try something new? Tom Bennett nails Del Boy’s jaunty desperation, channeling David Jason without slipping into karaoke. Peter Baker’s Trigger is so dim you’d swear Roger Lloyd Pack’s ghost is giggling in the wings. Dianne Pilkington, though, steals the show as Raquel—she takes a role that could’ve been a dated punchline and gives her spine, smarts, and a middle finger to the ‘80s pub chauvinism that hasn’t aged well. Respect.

This show’s got the best collection of vintage gags on a London stage right now, and it’ll probably rake in enough “lovely jubbly” to keep the lights on. But as a musical? Too many of these songs are plonkers—flat, pointless, and about as welcome as a tax audit. Sullivan’s sitcom deserved better than a half-arsed mixtape. Go for the laughs, stay for the nostalgia, but don’t expect the music to do anything but trip over its own feet. I’m outta here to find a bar that doesn’t make me sing for my pint.