LUKE JONES reviews Vardy v Rooney: The Wagatha Christie Trial

Vardy v Rooney: The Wagatha Christie Trial (Ambassadors Theatre, London)

Verdict: Court drama with added sniggers 

Rating: **** 

Squatting next to the home of Agatha Christie’s hoary old crime caper, this rival proudly bills itself as ‘The Scousetrap’.

Every baffling twist and expletive from last year’s smash hit Rebekah Vardy libel trial is recreated (‘Witless For The Prosecution’, would have been my slogan). 

Liv Hennessy has skilfully adapted the court transcripts down to their bitchiest; and director Lisa Spirling unfurls the result like the snappiest reality TV.

You’ll recall the plot. Alpha-WAG Coleen outs upstart Vardy as the source of leaks from her personal Instagram account to The Sun, following an almost unbelievable ruse involving fake posts. But Vardy sues.

WAGs at war: Lucy May Barker as Vardy and (right) Laura Dos Santos as Rooney 

Liv Hennessy has skilfully adapted the court transcripts down to their bitchiest; and director Lisa Spirling unfurls the result like the snappiest reality TV

It’s hardly The Comedy Of Errors — although judging by the remarkably young crowd the night I went, Bard-botherers could maybe do with some selfies as a plot device, instead of yet another blasted shipwreck. 

We meet in the trashiest looking High Court for this verbatim rehash. On a white-striped lawn with clear plastic chairs, a pair of commentators (Halema Hussain and Nathan McMullen) nicely dribble us through the action, nodding ‘Yes, Jeff’ to one another. 

The two angry women at the centre are great fun. Lucy May Barker as Vardy, proudly tottering through the scene — all poise and no clue — is a comedic visual marvel. 

Her voice crashes from chastised, defiant politeness in the dock, to honking Botox-straining fury in dramatised WhatsApps.

Laura Dos Santos makes a fine Coleen, but her playful Merseyside accent does a lot of the work. 

It being word-for-word text, you hardly get Lady Macbeth’s ‘un-sex me here’, but she makes a strop over new pyjamas seem vital. 

The first sight of our Merseyside Poirot — puffer coat on, leopard skin notepad in hand — had the house suppressing sniggers.

I could have done with some more fictional shenanigans beyond the court. The characters are almost held back by the truth. Act Two sags a little, despite the arrival of Our Wayne (McMullen again, this time with a voice like a Beatle on helium).

To Kill A Mockingbird’s place on the curriculum is safe. But come for solid titters in the promised ’90 minutes play plus injury time’.

I could have done with some more fictional shenanigans beyond the court, writes Luke Jones