Fair play to Spectator theatre critic Lloyd Evans for practising what he preaches, but his latest play, a lightweight tennis comedy, scores few points.

It's a tongue-in-cheek romcom, in which rich, neurotic, tenth-rate Brit hopeful Madeleine (Rachel Pickup) frees herself of superstition, guilt and the loser mentality under the influence of East End thug-savant bodyguard Cedric (Sam Spruell). Actually, 'under the influence' is right, as our girl gets plastered the day before her last, miraculous chance at Wimbledon and - even when not covertly yearning for Ced's evening burger 'n' fags, or his body - shows a cavalier attitude to training, and to turning up on time on court.

Fair enough: one doesn't demand locker-room realism of an airy comedy. The problem is that Mad 'n' Ced never convince as characters. They're just dummies with a few class-conscious characteristics, on which Evans scribbles tart but unconnected observations. These include the thesis that Brits never win Wimbledon because we cherish failure, and the not-entirely original idea that sports stars debase their talents by taking endorsements and colluding with the tabloid media.

Admittedly, Cedric comes out with a scarily impressive pre-interval speech suggesting that wilful, violent criminality is the apotheosis of free choice, a triumph over the cowardly conscience. But this cues up a plot-twist almost as improbable as Madeleine's grooming of a nascent stalker, because his existence proves she's 'made it.'

The pretty but alarmingly thin Pickup and the pugnacious Spruell do the best they can with these awkwardly contrived characters. Director Tamara Harvey keeps the pace up but can't disguise the flimsiness of the whole thing.

I bet Evans, with his hack's hat on, imagined all the tennis puns reviewers would lob at him. I've tried to refrain, but must conclude by saying: nice try, good effort, but ultimately not up to scratch. Which is pretty much what we say each year about the Brits at Wimbledon.

Until 26 July (0870 890 0149).