Connie Wotsit (I knew her name last time I wrote about her, but it's late...) from How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria assures us that though she uses a backing track, she is not miming. She is merely singing along with another voice.

I'm at a loss as to what difference this makes. Surely either you are performing live or you're not. Or, looking at it from a doctor's perspective, you're either healing or you're not. What possible good can it do audiences or Wotsit herself to have her up there giving a performance which is not up to scratch?

It brings up a whole load of questions though, biggest of all being why anyone should care at all as long as the effect is convincing. People on stage pretending to be something they're not is pretty standard. But it's amazing what sensitive radar we have for deception. Although we effectively contract with all sorts of people that they should draw the wool over our eyes constantly - actors, pop stars, celebrities, politicians - we get dreadfully upset when we find out we've been deceived beyond the contracted amount. See Milli Vanilli and, for that matter, Tony Blair.

I should imagine that this, rather than the extent of Connie's live contribution, is what has offended whichever poor blighters Connie obviously feels the need to appease. Opera houses know that if a singer needs support, the audience should be told - and their applause will be no smaller. But the attempt to get away with something smacks a little of contempt for the audience. Not Connie's fault, of course, but that of those for whom she is a human gold mine. As she plods on with her patched-up tonsils, expressing love for the common herd and minting it for the bosses, the People's Maria rather reminds me of Boxer, the Stakhanovite horse from Animal Farm. Knacker's yard within a year? I'd bet so. I'm glad she held out for a bigger deal at the start.

My friend and fellow critic Brian Logan mentioned to me last night at Taming of the Shrew that it was almost obligatory when reviewing the show to express reservations about its unsavoury gender politics. I swore that I wouldn’t mention the issue, but ended up doing so thanks to an incident on the way home.

On the tube, I was party to an argument between two lovers about to alight at Liverpool St. The man was telling the woman that he wanted her to run for the train for once in her life, because the cab fare would be prohibitive. She, in return, told him that there was no way she was acceding to this simple request. He called her several horrible things. She called him worse. At no point did they raise their voices, and I don’t think I was wrong in supposing they were rather excited by the whole little argument. When they reached Liverpool St, the man grabbed his partner and forced her from the train amid shrieks and giggles, and the two of them ran off down the platform.

It was impossible not to be reminded of the scene in Shrew where, en route to Padua, Petruchio refuses to travel onwards until Kate declares that the sun is the moon. Here was a silly, nose-cutting display of arbitrary power, the final resolution of which brings the lovers noticeably closer together. Kate goes on, at Petruchio’s word, to pretend she thinks old man Vincentio is a pretty, young maid, to the hilarity of both. By playing at these power games, the couple create a sense of adventure and uniqueness within their own relationship that makes them a unit against the outside world.

Of course, saying Shakespeare knew how couples work will not excuse the play in feminists’ eyes – for there’s no doubt that the power games in Shrew are very much one way. But that is an element of fantasy. Significantly, in the other two marriages in the play, it is the women who are in charge. Part of the whole joke in Shrew is that it is usually the woman who ‘tames’ the man. The play’s prologue – in which a set of lords pretend to a drunk man that he has been mad for years and that he is in fact a noble – gives us the hint that Shakespeare is dealing here with role reversal.

So that’s my stance on Shrew. I should add however, that it’s a fantasy I rather enjoy. Fictional media, ever since lad culture rose and fell, has been deeply feminised, founded on the principle that a man being nasty to a woman is sexist and a woman being unpleasant to a man is empowerment, and the comic cliché of clever, controlling women and dopey, sex-obsessed men is everywhere. It’s cathartic to see a show in which the tables are briefly turned.

Should there be more shows in which men psychologically torture women into subservience? Or the other way round? Let us know your views.

No fewer than four Tempests in the London area at the moment: Thomas Ades’ version at the ROH, and three by Bill Shakespeare (count them: RSC at the Novello, Northern Broadsides at Greenwich and another at the Queen’s Theatre Hornchurch).

This happens every now and again: a particular Shakespeare being all over the place. Henry’s IV and V seemed everywhere around Britain and America when war-fever was at its height. Still, I wondered for a while why this strange play seems so current. Then I realised that we are an island ruled by a man whom power and resentment have turned monstrous, but with the safe option of imminent retirement up ahead – problem solved.

Not, I should stress, that I’ve seen all these productions. I took my midget composer friend along at the weekend to see the Ades opera (review from Ms Maddocks here). If the point of this opera running in conjunction with the Barbeekan’s Ades festival was to provoke interest, my lord has it worked. The ROH was packed. Also, the crowd didn’t seem to go wild at the end, which suggested newcomers rather than old fans.

The reaction is about right. I liked the music rather a lot, even relishing the atmospherics of the long drama-free sections, but was annoyed by other things. Cynthia Siedon’s Ariel is wonderful. Painted luminious green she pops about the stage piping high-pitch gymnastic patterns, a lysergic Queen of the Night. But Meredith Oakes’ silly rhyming libretto was no fun. The youthful-looking Simon Keenlyside was charismatic as ever, but just seemed wrong to me as Prospero. Concert-specialist Ian Bostridge as Caliban sang yearning well, but provided no comedy and at all times looked like he wanted his tailcoat back. Composer friend was spellbound though. Maybe I should have just closed my eyes and listened – for once the English was clear enough that I could.

Official confirmation today that there will be a Take That musical coming to the West End after a UK tour this summer. Current Squeeze is delighted and is practising screaming as I type. I was ambivalent until one of my numerous contacts offered to email me the plot synopsis for Act I, and it looks a humdinger:

A young tramp says a prayer to himself by a drum-fire under a bridge in Manchester. He is on his last legs – life has chewed him up and spat him out. As he mourns his past life, the fire in the bin goes out. This is the last straw for the itinerant – he screams to the night sky, ‘Won’t someone relight my fire!?’ (SONG).

From out the shadows a figure on four wheels emerges. This is Harry Harp, a famously ruthless music promoter, who recently broke his spine in a freak yachting accident. Would the tramp like to borrow his gloves. The tramp doesn’t know – he’s got long hands – will Harry’s glove be deep enough? (SONG)

Harry has a plan – if the tramp will give Harry his spine for a year, Harry will see to it that the now paralysed tramp will live out the time in comfort. It’s an illegal operation, so it will have to be done at night, if the tramp’s free. Of course he’s free, says the tramp, all he normally does at night is prey upon old ladies. (SONG)

Harry is pleased. He asks the tramp his name. ‘Babe’ says the tramp. (SONG)

A few months later, aged boy band LOVE U have just finished another lacklustre set – one driving rocker, a four-part harmony version of Yesterday, and about a Million Love Songs (SONG). They all agree that it’s not the same since Barry left. Suddenly, in walks Harry Harp. He thinks there’s something about LOVE U he could sell. There’s only one thing, says Harry, he’s going to change their name a little to NEED U. A little? - say the lads - that changes everything! No, says Harry, everything changes but ‘U’. (SONG)

Harry asks one of the lads his name. It is ‘Shaw’. (SONG) The lads ask Harry how long it will take before they're famous. A year? - asks one. No – says Harry. A month – asks another. No – says Harry. A day – asks a third. No, says Harry, they’re all wrong. In fact, it only takes a minute (SONG AND MAJOR DANCE NUMBER).

One year later, Harry is organising the boys' first gig at a Northern seaside resort with local representatives. The band are arriving in a huge ship: he’s just worried their cove won’t be deep enough for it (SONG). One of the locals asks a propos of nothing if the ship could be magic (SONG). Harry says it isn’t. The boys turn up to talk to Harry. They are worried that their entire marketing strategy has been thought up by Harry’s pet dove. Harry insists it is a very profound thinker, but how deep can a bird be? (SONG)

Harry tells them not to worry – the show is going to be a huge success. The boys do a great gig, but halfway through the lights go out. A spot picks out a lone figure in a wheelchair. It is Babe. He wants his spine back. Harry laughs at him. He will never return Babe’s spine. He wants Babe's back for good (SONG).

But Babe has a surprise for Harry too. He used to be in the band LOVE U. His name isn’t really Babe. His name is Barry. Barry Neverforget!!! (SONG)… END OF ACT I

In the wake of ‘How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria’ and the 'High School Musical' phenomenon in America, Musicool, on Sunday afternoons, is Channel 4’s attempt to turn the world of musicals into TV gold. Being Channel 4 of course, they have to do it with a bit more swagger. The idea is to take a selection of hip young musicians and have them devise and perform a musical for one-off performance at a West End theatre.

It seems that the boys and girls are going to have to devise the music, sing and dance – and they are going to have a director, a musical director and a choreographer to help them. I watched the (pretty tedious) first episode, and it was unclear what form the eventual musical is going to take. The only clue came from Musical Director Mike Dixon who took Jay Z’s reworking of ‘It’s A Hard Knock Life’ as an example of the sort of thing they were looking for.

Is this just a ludicrous gimmick? Almost certainly. Director Fiona Laird talks a lot in the first episode about young people from differing musical backgrounds, learning experiences, journeys, creating something special and modern etc. In keeping with these Reithian principles, the first announced participant is a cricket-breeding death metal singer from Theydon Bois. Judging by his audition tape, he’s going to have to ditch his principles sharpish if his cover of ‘I Feel Pretty’ isn’t going to sound exactly the same as his original work ‘Grooaargh’.

The rest of the crew are a collection of RnB divas with better hip control than vocal control, MCs, and some rappers who similarly seem better at the attitude than the actual rhyming. I can't believe that lovers of urban music are going to be seduced by this. And whatever the inclusive boundary-crossing spiel about this programme, the very presence of that nasty, divisive word ‘cool’ in the title is a sign of what this show is about – at its core is the belief that musicals are 'sad'. At its centre is the decision among TV execs that any collection of talentless, conforming youngsters with the right postures are intrinsically more interesting to today’s youth than, say, the hordes of highly trained 20 year olds pouring from Mountview and the ArtsEds. I'm not sure - given the popularity of the far less urban shows mentioned above - that is even right.

And the show is certainly not about musical theatre. Because one thing you can’t help but notice in the initial line-up is the lack of any writer to provide a narrative. Even if one pops up to fix a story into place towards the end, this programme will be sending the wrong message out to ‘the kids’ that somehow musical theatre is all beats and hot moves, an extension of the music video. It's not - it is, like most theatre, about having a story to tell and constructing it rigorously. If musicals are really hot on TV now, surely there are more constructive ways of exploiting them.

Well done to Billie Piper last night in Treats. I wasn’t quite so keen on the play as Big Boss, but there’s no doubt that when Piper’s moment came at the close she nailed it with some thrillingly believable emoting. It took the evening to a whole new level.

But the question I went away asking is: what is happening to her voice? On-stage last night she was vocalising an upper-class drawl of an affectedness that could get on the nerves, with some phrases languidly floated in a way that Leslie Philips would have found a trifle arch. She spoke like that on Top Gear the other night too.

I seem to recall from interviews I’ve seen in the past that Billie hadn’t quite the salt of the earth accent of Rose from Doctor Who. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t speak like this – frankly almost no one does. And indeed at the moments of high emotion her voice did seem to return to something more normal.

The question is what has effected this change? Is it part of her character, and is Billie a Method type? Has hanging with the well-heeled Foxes induced it? More importantly, is this accent going to hang around. People have been arguing for some time that Billie is going to be something special. Not until last night did I suspect it would be the new Celia Imrie.

Lots of illness in the West End at the moment, and lord knows, I sympathise. I've been waking up in the mornings with an awful pain in my sinuses and an itchy palate. Meanwhile, Billie Piper's been taking time off from Treats and Colin Haigh has been taking over from Richard Griffiths in Equus. Worse for that play, reports are that Daniel Radcliffe's genitals have pulled out due to artistic differences, and will be represented for the rest of the run by Bobby Davro standing stage right in spherical shoes. It's theatrically daring, and I'm sure the ladies will be just as happy.

So what is to be done when a star pulls out? Our news team have suggested you write in with your opinions as to whether we should get our money back if a star doesn't show. Do. Do. This is a complicated question, and I am in two minds.

On the one hand, theatre is good because it's a living thing, full of surprises, likely to change from one day to the next, and it's wholly against that spirit to insist that you have come along specifically to see one star person and one person only. That goes particularly these days, when starpower rarely means any special acting ability.

On the other hand, the West End is always in danger of being over-run by what I'm going to call 'red dwarfs' - rubbish, destructive stars. These are stars who, while making the play sell better, in all likelihood worsen its potential quality. Not just quality, but longevity, because once producers think a play depends on its star, they get scared when the star goes away. It's rumoured, for example, that the Royal Court production of The Seagull won't be transferring to the West End because Kristin Scott Thomas won't move with it. KST isn't that rubbish as stars go, but she's had the worst reviews of anyone in the cast, and maybe that has affected her decison. So a production which the critics have hailed to the rooftops and which has been sold out from day one may never reach a wider audience. Rubbish.

So maybe we should discourage the crap star phenomenon, because, grotesquely unhealthy thesps like the beloved Griffiths aside, it's the TV people: the ex-soap lot, the talent show crowd, who seem most unable to cope with the demands of long stage runs. Make producers factor that in to their costs, and perhaps we'll get fewer plays sold on silly star-power. Then maybe, without anybody feeding them star-spangled crap, the theatregoing public will learn not to like the taste so much, and turn to more nutritious fare.

Or maybe then 'serious' theatre would die in the West End. As I said, I'm in two minds. 

I'm afraid the title has little to do with the content. I liked the pun. I'm home after my night's toil, safely holed up with a nutritious cheese and a tomato sandwich (carbs; protein; anti-oxidants; seeds) and a small bottle of Nigerian Guinness (iron; bubbles; slight dizzy spells). I've been getting my computer and microphone to work so that I can enter the ENO's Singing challenge. You sing along with arias from La Boheme (mezzo and baritone - nothing beyond mortals), and the best singers get a plush box to watch that disease-ridden tune-fest. I know - technology is a wonder.

ENO seems full of initiative at the moment (Why have I not noticed this before? Have I not looked? Or are they worried about that big funding axe that still looms large?) They're doing this clever e-thing, and a week on Monday they've invited me and other groovy youngsters to their Sky bar to celebrate the launch of the Playstation 3. A bit strange that one - , but who knows maybe in years to come the sight of young men blasting hell-spawn and humming Vesti la giubba will be familar.

There are however two initiatives for which ENO should be lauded to the heavens. First is their Access All Arias scheme, which allows anyone under 30 to get in to the opera for ludicrously cheap prices - it's a great idea, and the age range is perfect. Previous 'young people' initiatives in the capital: most specifically the National's, have focused on those in their early twenties, ignoring the fact that until their late twenties many of the potentially large cultural spenders in the capital: the lawyers, bankers and so forth, are working their tits off to secure their future careers, and only start seeking mature cultural habits once that's done. Also the range includes me - big tick.

The second great thing is the attractive posters the ENO have been putting up this last year or so, and specifically the new one for this La Boheme. It features two bits of totty, one of each gender, the like of which you're unlikely to ever see on an operatic stage. I mean, I know we go on about my darling Anna's 'film star good looks', but really we mean 'TV star good looks' or possibly 'Kenco advert good looks'. The singing adds an awful lot. Thus, if the girl in this advert were to sing a decent Mi chiamano Mimi I think I'd explode.

The adverts are a tremendous distraction to those of us who like to mix our high art tastes with more venal desires. 'Cor,' my friend remarked to me on the Tube escalator today, 'I wouldn't mind color-ing her turas'.

'Quite,' I replied. 'I wouldn't kick her out of bed for dying of consumption.'

'Exactly, she can warm my man-in-'er any day, if you know what I mean.'

I wasn't quite sure I did, not having the translitteration to help me, but by this point we'd glided on to the poster of Tony Hadley, so I let it drop.

Having little better to do last night, I popped along to watch the new Alistair Beaton at Hampstead. I was surprised and delighted to find myself sitting next to m'colleague, Fiona Mountford. This happens pretty rarely, my presence at the theatre generally being defined by her absence.

Anyhoo, we got chatting about a show we'd both seen the previous week, and I remarked that it was a 'curate's egg' of a production, with which she agreed. It was only as I rode the tube home that it occurred to me that I'm not wholly sure what 'curate's egg' refers to.

It means that something is both good and bad, doesn't it? Yes, but it's subtler than that. See below. Although note that non-ironic people won't understand.

"The origin of the phrase, the George du Maurier cartoon - "True Humility", printed in the magazine Punch, 9th November 1895, gives fuller insight into its meaning, which relies to some extent on an appreciation of irony.

TRUE HUMILITY.

Right Reverend Host. "Im afraid youve got a bad Egg, Mr. Jones!"
The Curate. "Oh no, my Lord, I assure you! Parts of it are excellect!""

This was copied from the internet, and would be very funny were it not for the fact I don't understand what 'excellect' means. So curate's egg, far from meaning something which is good and bad, actually means something which is unbearable but we find the good in. This is a better meaning, because if 'a curate's egg' really meant something that was both a bit good and a bit bad, then everything could be a curate's egg. People being lazy, over time the phrase would come to replace every noun in the English language, and people would go around saying things like:

'Put the curate's egg on the curate's egg, would you?'

Or even, if pronouns too became extinct:

'Put the curate's egg on the curate's egg, would curate's egg?'

All this would probably serve very well in times of peace and leisure, but in wartime or in commercial negotiations, such linguistic indolence would be a recipe for disaster.

I am currently writing a review for tomorrow’s paper, and I’ve got stuck on what word I want to use at a particular point, so I’ve turned to a thesaurus. Safe to say, as with every time I turn to a thesaurus, there isn’t a suggestion that works or comes anywhere near working. It’s like that with a dictionary too. I only ever use it when I think I’ve got the meaning of a word wrong, and all it ever does in that situation is confirm my ignorance.

Thesauri and dictionaries are often called ‘a writer’s tools’. Over the past few days, what with moving house, I’ve had a rare experience of real tools – only on flatpacks, but still. What struck me as great about, say, a hammer or a pair of pliers was that they did exactly what I wanted them to do. In fact, I'll say it straight - I can’t think of anything better for banging a nail into place than a hammer. When I lift a hammer, it doesn’t, like a thesaurus, provide me with several different bad options for what I might do with the nail. When I open a pair of pliers because I can’t grip something with my hands, they don’t just reaffirm, as a dictionary would, that I can’t grip it with my hands – they do it for me.

Which goes to show that a carpenter’s tools are better than a writer’s tools by miles. And I think the disparity is unfair. Meanwhile, I think I’m just going to use the word ‘navel-gazing’. Or is that two words.

PS It suddenly occurs to me that maybe a dictionary and thesaurus are never referred to as ‘a writer’s tools’ and I have imagined the term. But can either the dictionary or the thesaurus confirm or deny that for me. Can they heck… Drodding useless.

Hurrah! My internet's working again, and I can talk about Tuesday night's press night of Equus. You may recall, if any of you out there have read me that long, that back in October I offended a lot of Harry Potter fans by suggesting that Radcliffe's casting was cynical. I also expressed a low opinion of Radcliffe's acting talent. Scores of people wrote in to abuse me for this, and I went along on Tuesday simultaneously hopeful of a good night and worried that in that case I was going to have to 'fess up to wholly misunderestimating the lad.

So by the end, though pretty bored by the production, I was at least feeling smug. For while Radcliffe hadn't fallen over, and was giving his all, he hadn't he shown a glimmer of star charisma, dynamicism or range. 'Like hearing someone play Middle C over and over again' was one friend's summary, and yes, it was one-note. You know his angry, confused 'don't mention my parents' expression from the films? - the tetchy voice gets louder and softer, but that's it.

It badly affects the play, because Richard Griffith's Martin Dysart is meant to be profoundly affected by Radcliffe's Strang. The boy's vibrant pagan psychosis - his sexually charged worship for horses - is meant to speak to Dysart of a greater way of living, of the soul free and abandoned. Griffiths is left trying to be impressed by a pleasant, if slightly mardy, middle-class kid with a wavering Estuary accent. (But good abs - that I will admit.) So the whole show seems a fuss about nothing, unless you're there to see the leads get their kit off.

So it was with surprise I read the serious reviews next morning. Big Boss and Benedict Nightingale of The Times seem broadly in agreement that Radcliffe gives a performance that is fine but for a lack of a spark, which I suppose is my view through rosy specs. But Charlie Spencer of the Telegraph goes cock-a-hoop over Radcliffe and Michael Billington of the Guardian seems to think he's the best thing in it.

It's at times like this, that I become convinced other critics inhabit a parallel West End to me. I think I see them at press nights, in fact they are only visible to me through dimensional portals - windows in the space/time continuum sort of thing. It seems far-fetched, but when you have eliminated the impossible, what is left must be the truth...