Sometimes, you have to worry about the sanity of theatre folk. How anyone thought it was a bright idea to stage this lamentable excuse for a musical for a two-month West End run and charge punters £29.50 for the privilege is quite beyond me.

It might have been in with a fraction more of a shout if the 75-minute script didn¿t sound as though it was written in haste some time after the dress rehearsal.

The plot, such as it is, revolves around a wannabe Casanova called, thrillingly, Bob. We first encounter him writhing about in torment wearing only boxer shorts and talking about Madness (it belatedly transpires that he means the personification of an abstract noun, not Suggs and his nutty boys). Such anguish bears absolutely no relation to what follows, which is a women-juggling 'farce' so pitiful it makes Boeing Boeing look like Ibsen.

There are two plot points in Romy Padovano's work that gave me particular trouble.

First, to get to know his targets, likes and dislikes, Bob (Samuel Oatley) befriends them by engaging in the least convincing bit of cross-dressing since Dad¿s Army.

None of the five fluff heads notices that, despite the fact she looks like Christopher Biggins, 'Sue' is, in fact, a man.

Secondly, Gem has sex with 'Sue', but neither before, during nor after does she notice that 'Sue' is, in fact, a man. Comedy? Careers in psychoanalysis have been built on less.

The songs may be instantly forgettable but that doesn't mean they're going to give up without a fight. The actors, miked to within an inch of their lives, bellow out every number as if mistaking decibels for depth. The argument, presumably, is that this is just a bit of fun. The problem is that it really isn¿t.

Until 24 Aug: 0844 847 1608.