A Christmas Chuckle - Royal Concert Hall

An early reminder of what Christmas is all about, though not among the Chuckles' best, I'm afraid.

A jam-packed house was absolutely thrilled to see the boys back in town – and with a brand new show.

But there was precious little of the skits we've come to love over the years.

This time there were more mini 'production numbers' with long legged dancers and singing to herald Christmas.

We marvelled at the magician (did he REALLY cut his assistant's head off?) and enjoyed a seasonal neon puppet show (much better than the usual post-interval offering, by the way).

And yet there was something missing. This show fell somewhere between a full-blown panto and a true Chuckle Brothers stage show, like the recent River Rother exploits.

Barry and Paul were superb, of course, with Paul as Ebeneezer learning from Gerroutofit's Christmases past, present and future that he really must learn to enjoy the festivities. No Slacking made a perfect dame and the supporting cast pulled their weight beautifully – even Stinky Walker, who, we were told at the end had become a father half way through the second half, although it didn't show!

There was lots of audience participation, even some kids asked up on stage, and a clever finale of "If I were not upon this stage" which showed off the team in the very best light.

Good fun nonetheless, and perhaps a curtain-raiser to the Chuckles' anniversary tour planned for next year? Let's hope for their more traditional fare.

Adolf Hitler, My Part in His Downfall - Theatre Royal

In the end there are no winners or losers, just the living and the dead.

Yet those who know anything at all about Spike Milligan would realise that although dead now, he was ultimately both a winner and a loser.

Putting the material of four volumes of his war memoirs on stage in this thought-provoking adaptation gives a living, breathing feeling of a conscript’s life in the services.

Putting Spike in the first person in the safe hands of Sholto Morgan (right) in his professional debut was a master stroke.

His Chaplin-esque versatility led the performers of Battery D as they endure life in North Africa, Italy and on to Berlin.

Thirty wonderful revue numbers combine with chilling insights into the horror of war, expertly interwoven such that each change of pace hits home – right between the eyes.

There are some great gags – mostly one-liners – brilliantly quick fire and each dropped into the commentary in exactly the right place to make every word count.

The warning on the cover of the programme was dead right: the performance does indeed contain barrack room humour. But when you’re covering real life like this you can’t avoid it, and it certainly doesn’t offend.

The programme itself was also a comedic master stroke. Not your usual Theatre Royal affair. More a newsprint pamphlet, helpfully inscribed “produced in complete conformity with the required War Office paper economy standards.

Very Spike. And like the officer said, “it’ll all be over by Christmas”. Sadly, no one could tell them which one.

Honeymoon hold-ups

Not many people get to book three honeymoons – but we did.
More than a year before our big day the church was booked, the reception was booked, the vicar was booked, and yes, the honeymoon was booked.
But that year the world was plagued with terrorism and civil disturbance – especially in the places we wanted to visit.

Picture this: Pharaohs and the sphinx, pyramids and camels. It all sounded like the perfect romantic dream.
A Nile cruise in mid-May, taking in the tombs of the ancients as well as a top-notch newlyweds suite and the best view that money could buy.
It was to be the holiday of a lifetime.
The nice people at Voyage Jules Verne were falling over themselves to make it special.
Then, in November, we heard about the tourists being massacred. Sixty people were killed by gunmen at a temple in an incident which halted the tourist trade for months.

It was time to visit the travel agent in search of another romantic break.
Picture this: Bali. The mystic east. Beaches, temples, wildlife and sunshine.
It all sounded like the perfect romantic dream.
It was the best time of the year for Indonesia and we managed to get the honeymoon suite at the very hotel we had our eye on in the brochure.
It was to be the holiday of a lifetime.
There was a little tension on the islands over the New Year period, but nothing to worry about.

We were married on May 9 on the sunniest day of the year. Our first dance was Have I Told You Lately That I Love You, followed by Perfect Day, which it was. Then a week to relax before flying out for ten days in the sun.

But midweek, news came through that riots were spreading across Jakarta, the capital, after a student was shot by police.
Buildings were set alight and shops were looted. It didn’t look good, but we sat tight at home.
The following day, two days before we were due to fly, the phone call from tour operator British Airways finally came. The Foreign Office had stopped all flights.

You can only imagine the anguish and tears. Our honeymoon cancelled: twice.

So it was time to visit the travel agent in search of another romantic break.
Picture this: Turkey. Land of the mosque, friendly locals, apple tea and ancient monuments.
Our stay in Kalkan was to be the holiday of a lifetime. And it was.
Thanks to the expertise of Intertravel in Nottingham, where the manager told us: “You’ll love this place.”

We did. We went back again and again.