It's always wise to carry a little notebook when reviewing a play. Partly for taking insightful notes which can later be used to write a thoughtful and informed piece of journalism. Mostly, of course, to look suave and professional. The desire to write meticulous notes only kicks in when the play is so irritating as to provoke the need for something - anything - else to do. Unfortunately Yo, My Man fits into this scribbling category. When one of the breathy opening lines is “I feel... alive”, the notebook gets whipped out pretty sharpish. If you’re looking for an explanation for the title, you’ll struggle to find it here - a common theme for the entire play.

The blurb for Yo, My Man reveals more about the play than the play itself: never a promising sign. A character, apparently called Beethoven, sleeps on a bench, waiting (for nothing? for Godot? I have no idea) with his wife’s ashes. A collection of bizarre characters meet in this spot, and we are subjected to some very odd exchanges, ranging from the woes of a failed Bostonian gambler to an anti-Semitic floozy with sore feet.  My biggest problem with this play is the complete lack of energy conveyed by the cast: after some painful dialogue, reminiscent of the dullest of stoned conversations, Kathryn Griffiths’ entrance provides much needed relief.  But even she seems to deflate soon after arrival, as if suddenly realising the play she has stumbled into. Most lines are delivered with all the emotion of the deflated rubber ball which the characters insist on flinging around stage.  As for the script itself: if you’re going to emulate Beckett, you do need your Godot. Without one, it is difficult to care about any of the characters, or their anticipation. Time is left to puzzle at the weird set, odd lighting decisions, misleading costumes, my little notebook. The performances of Adam Mcnally and Hannah Laurence veer towards the comedic at times, but that, and the brevity of the play, can't redeem this bewildering production.