I would have come for the intro music of Kenneth Watton’s Bedtime Chat Show. Yet with its players’ louche nightwear and nonchalant expressions, I predicted an ironic, slick production. It was nothing at all like that. In fact this show created a hectic, yet surprisingly cohesive, world, which toyed with existing traditions.

I feel that English humour these days comprises of an Englishman trying to get through his day and coming up against his own absurdities. He makes toast and beholds a miniature banquet. He clears out the attic and imagines that his wife’s clothes are dancing.

This show took that trope to new extremes. Kenneth is representative of this tradition: he wants ever-present shelves, wears an extra dressing gown and ogles at female singers. Yet Kenneth’s homeliness becomes ever more intricate. When Kenneth needs a spoon, a woman shuffles in from the place she has clearly been kept, spoons cello taped to her, distorting her face. His effeminate hobbies occupy a genuinely funny and integrated part of a larger plot structure. The beginning old-world-esque war scene was deeply conventional and irritatingly screaming. Yet Kenneth’s later memories of the war, full of Zulus and pedalos, hover far above the expected. Their absurdity undoes the initial trope.

Yet this play not only expands comic tradition; it also tries to turn the spotlight on it. The cosy, grinning figure of Kenneth, supposed to eek out the humour of his guests, is proved, under the spotlight of his own show, threadbare. Thus the slightly corny coming-together song, a Kenneth hallmark, is forgiven: it is Kenneth’s redemption. Literally his redemption. He is offered very real (to astounded and enthusiastic gasps from the audience) euthanasia. He almost accepts: one comic mode is almost replaced by a new, nihilistic one; yet all are reconciled.

Having said that, some of the means by which Kenneth is undone appear a touch hackneyed. The mock-serious philosopher of despair, who almost conquers him, is annoying. His counterpart, the very serious but stupidly happy philosopher, was quite monotone to begin with and both had the same ‘down-to-earth’ accent, from which the latter slipped, heralding their new plain-speaking humour. They both had some very funny lines though, and the stupid philosopher came into his own when only snatches of his calm, yet insane, logic could be heard.

These figures also contributed to the rich variety of tones the play developed. Although it is hard to see why ‘Siami’ the pop star is funny, her slow banter grounds the production in its original frame (a talk-show). Most importantly, though, her singing was really good and she sparkled surreally before the microphone and neutralises some of the more shouty moments.

The beginning was dialogue-based and the plodding chat-show introductions gave room, and left energy for, the climax. When Kenneth’s past is revealed in the form of a living, severed head, I was genuinely delighted. This moment tied up multiple jokes and references; it even explained, to a tantalisingly limited extend, why paper seals were being handed out and what was going on in the dark world of the vegetable market, undercurrents of which could be seen from the beginning. Although the play had weak moments, it held together, and these served to widen the range of responses and, ultimately display contenting comical genres. These genres are all satisfied. Kenneth, for all his big smile, is allowed to live on in song, the witty, ruthless journalist gets a hellish story, Siami gets a smutty picture and, as we exit under the glare of the severed head, we realise, in a final dreamlike twist, that what is soft underfoot is, in fact, crushed peas.