Back in the mid-1990s, Toby Young was a well-connected London journalist. Then he landed a job on Vanity Fair and thought that New York was his for the taking. New York took him and spat out the pips; Young promptly turned the experience into a bestselling book about failure, casting himself as a self-deprecating Englishman up against a city and culture obsessed with wealth and celebrity. Mostly, though, it was poor Toby moaning about how he couldn't get into the best parties or get laid, and showing off his English superiority over all those shallow New Yorkers.
Eighteen months ago, a one-man stage version of the book surfaced at Soho Theatre, with Jack Davenport lending some sympathy to the Young character. At the time, I commented that Young's shamelessness was such that he didn't seem to mind that he had cast himself in a reptilian light, and in that respect he was like Neil Hamilton. I suggested that he might end up in panto. Regrettably, the panto season has come early this year: Young, whose last stage appearance was 21 years ago as a spear-carrier in an undergraduate production, here takes to the stage to make a spectacle of himself.
The curious thing about this is that Young's day job is as theatre critic of the Spectator. You would think he might have developed some respect for the job that actors do. Clearly not. But then, neither does he appear to have picked up any tips on acting along the way. He speaks in a nasal whine and is devoid of comic timing - thus ruining his own jokes, some of which are smart and snappy. And he jabs the lines at the audience so emphatically, it's as if he was trying to stab us into submission. I fear he may have started a trend. Please look out for my Lady Macbeth coming very soon to a theatre near you.
· Until January 15. Box office: 020-7836 3334.
