Flatley Will Get You Nowhere
The Cromer Pier Show 2026 - The Pavilion Theatre, Cromer Pier- Guest Review by Dr Terror
I enjoyed this 125th anniversary year pier show so much that I nearly spontaneously combusted - but it was also very useful. You see, I haven't seen so much as a second of Lord of the Dance or any of Michael Flatley's Riverdance spectaculars, and now that the exceptional dancers in this production have given me a five minute summary, I don't have to. Thanks, everyone!
The last show I saw that did this was also a celebration: Andrew Lloyd-Webber's 50th birthday bash at the Albert Hall, so long ago that...well, Andrew Lloyd-Webber was only fifty. This was a star-studded affair: Elaine Paige took part in a brisk run-through of the three songs you know from Cats; Antonio Banderas performed the same service for Phantom of the Opera, thereby usefully ensuring that no one had to work with Michael Crawford (in the theatre world, this can be a deal-breaker); Glenn Close presided over the two songs you've heard of from Sunset Boulevard and a bunch of people doing stunts on roller skates did the honours for the equivalent half a song from Starlight Express.
Naturally, you don't get that kind of star power in Cromer, the archetypal beach resort on the north Norfolk coast, so friendly and instantly reassuring Doctor Who's Brigadier once mistook the landscape of an alien planet for it (in The Three Doctors. Do keep up). However, this show was so big-hearted, so instantly, overwhelmingly lovable, that it didn't need it.
It DID have young comedian Jack Gleadow, whose claim to be the third Chuckle Brother is entirely plausible, lead vocalists Fern Duffy and James Hammond, dangerous speciality act Jamie and Charlie, whose aerial displays came with a warning, who balance chainsaws on their noses as seals once did beach balls and who then put these same noses to the grindstone quite literally, amid a shower of sparks. The guest superstar at this point in the run (there will be others) was Myra DuBois, the 'siren from South Yorkshire', equal parts Danny La Rue and Barry Humphries.
The dancers are astoundingly good. If I had to single just one out, I'd plump for Lewis Thompson, but they're all great. And the material? Shame on those who see this kind of thing as unsophisticated fare! Sample joke: 'Donald Trump, Keir Starmer and Nigel Farage are washed up on a desert island. Who survives?' (Pause.) 'Us.'
But best of all, they give you the heart and soul of an entertainment phenomenon in as short a time as possible (Mamma Mia went just over the six minute mark, if my stopwatch was accurate) so you never have to watch the longer version.
This was particularly appreciated with a routine based on The Traitors, which well-meaning idiots keep recommending to me. It was a dance routine without words so didn't really offer much comment on the show, but captured its ludicrous cod-gothic stylings spendidly. It's a programme watched by those who consider themselves a little too sophisticated for I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here but it's still prolefeed (Orwell's priceless word for what those in power put on t'box to stop the masses rioting). If you want proof of this statement, I need only remind you that the BAFTA 'people's award' for the best moment in television most recently went to Alan Carr tearfully winning Celebrity Traitors. Anyone who voted for it has subsequently been coerced onto a special spaceship whose captain has been given firm instructions to set the controls for the heart of the sun.
No, even without the assistance of the wonderful gang in Cromer, and not having seen a millisecond of The Traitors, I know that its TRUE star was season two winner Harry Clark, a Catholic ex-squaddie from Slough who later took part in a BBC Easter special where he somewhat improbably and with equal charm and hilarity attempted to get an audience with the Pope. THAT was the best telly moment of the year...and, if you disagree, you should be forced to watch Michael Flatley's entire oeuvre from start to finish.