Declaration of disinterest: I am not Grumpy Old Women's target audience. I'm not a woman. My age, according to the show's criteria, qualifies me only for the gestation period of grumpiness. And I find gender stereotypes so tedious, I could fart/snore/leave my toenail clippings lying around in dismay at Jenny Eclair and Judith Holder's cliche-toting script. My only connection with the show is that, like its three hosts (contrary to their billing), I am only mildly grumpy, and therefore susceptible to the event's generous spirit. The jokes are about as adventurous as an M&S two-piece, but as a summons to not-quite-over-the-hill solidarity, the evening has its redeeming features.
The conceit is that Team Grumpy – Eclair, Susie Blake and Wendi Peters – is here to put ailing Britain to rights. On a colourful kitchen set, they grouch about cellulite, housework and "blokes" – all slobs, apparently. There are familiar, reliably queasy routines about old-age sex, which one must never interrupt by asking: "Did you remember to put the bins out?" At points, just to call this stuff observational comedy would be optimistic. Sometimes, it's just observation – isn't spilling beetroot juice on your new blouse terrible?
The best moments are when Eclair (the only comedian of the trio) cuts loose, as in her breathless rant about bad manners. Blake, too, whose lurid menopause monologue is a highlight, is attuned to the silliness of the enterprise. As for Peters, a spring chicken at 42, she telegraphs every line as if presenting children's TV. I could live without the regressive women-do-this, men-do-that worldview. And the grumpiness conceit is tenuous in the extreme. But when they're rallying their target audience to grow old disgracefully, these ladies d'un certain age exert a certain charm.
