Pritchard-McLean’s show is perfectly constructed, and at times deeply moving to the point where some audience members were near tears, yet the pathos is undercut by true belly laughs – but don’t trust me, read the reviews.

[…] Desmond Richardson, whose smooth integration of pyrotechnical razzle-dazzle and sure acting might well have pleased Mr. Butler.

This species is different from the preceding taraxacums.

… For there is death in the sound of it, and a glamorous fatality, like silver pennons downrushing at sunset, or a dying fall of horns along the road to Roncevaux.