Just like the Carry On films and institutionalised sodomy, Gilbert and Sullivan exemplify a treasured, quintessentially ‘English’ entertainment. And just like sodomy, bloody good fun it is, too. Sullivan’s pastiching of overwrought opera mixed with Gilbert’s elaborate wordplay can be a real treat. It’s a shame that this didn’t always soar to the heights its creators often reached.

In part, this fulfills a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s a queer sub-genre, the Cambridge University G&S Society, and a queer sub-genre of people it attracts, too. So we have singers who can’t act, and singers who can’t dance, but very few cast members who can’t sing. The deficiencies of this form of natural selection were at times obviously glaring, from mechanical sailors to a gimpy bosun to a sub-panto villain who looked a lot like the Predator without conveying any menace.

Fortunately, the quality of the music almost made up for it. Admittedly, I’d question the diction of many of the singers: mellifluous as all the voices were, they did reduce many words to their constituent vowels, and occasionally render an intrinsically flimsy plot positively Kafkaesque. But the orchestra was simply outstanding, adding appropriate oomph in all the right places. Given some very proficient leads and a robust chorus, it was impossible to deny the quality of the sounds splashing all over the audience, like a clutch of healthy sea-men.

My reluctance to endorse this more warmly stems from a sense of disappointment – disappointment that more was not done with the 1920s setting, or with the abundant opportunities for scurrilous naval humour (I just practised a little above, to show how irresistible it is). Most of all, it was disappointing that few on stage seemed to enjoy it as much as the thoroughly silly Matthew Thorne, who brought a deeply appropriate decadence to his role. If more followed his lead, it’d be lovely; instead, we have a G&S show I can’t imagine anyone ever going to. What, never? Well, hardly ever.