Pandemonium. Soho Theatre.

Forged and blessed by the immortals Zeus, Achilles, and Jehovah, Orbis Rex declares, as the “lifeforce” that is his blond wig descends from the heavens, “I am a god”.  Rex is of course Boris Johnson writ large. BoJo as a heavenly visitation come to bestow his blessings upon a grateful Albion might cause even arch-devotee Nadine Dorries to choke on her muffin and Earl Grey. But satire legend Armando Iannucci certainly has a lot of fun with the idea in the delicious, and much anticipated, 80-minute mashup of restoration comedy, Shakespeare and Milton’s Paradise Lost that is Pandemonium. This is, Rex tells us, “my tale, bred from history stock”.

Rex’s (Paul Chahidi) main task, aside from servicing “a new maiden from time to time” and looking after his own best interests is simply to bestow the benefit of his heroic wisdom upon a grateful nation. In said task he is assisted, if assisted is the right word, by the Machiavellian figure of Ritches Sooner (aka Pixie or the Rich Meister) who has his own eyes fixed firmly on national leadership. “Oh, that his too, too solid flesh would melt” Sooner hisses, sotto voce, of Rex. In respect of his boss’s leadership capability, he judges “nothing can come of nothing”.

Also making an appearance are Michael Go (so-named because he never leaves) and Dominant Wrath, clad in boxing gloves and elegantly described as a “day-long shout on legs”.  Less Trust, dressed as a fairy godmother and known for her ability to diminish confidence with every word she speaks, shows up too. Asking her to explain her economic ideas is like “asking a pebble to go on Mastermind” concludes Dom Cummings, who one cannot help feeling gets off rather too lightly from Iannucci’s venomous barbs.

“A pestilence draws near” in the form of a “great fat viral hen”. Matt Hemlock (Amalia Vitale) emerges from a slimy green swamp, a creature of the bog in charge of health. Desperately in need of friends and with a tendency to speak his own stage directions (“now I lean forward” and “now I get dressed”) Hemlock hands out cash to anyone posh called Nick or Steve, much to the chagrin of scientific advisors Patrick Balance and Christ But Witty.

Convinced of his godlike powers (and in a nod to Beowulf) Rex rides out to slay the monster virus. A dreamlike sequence sees him imprisoned, questioning, and then reaffirming his own immortal status. While “lockdown looked upon Albion and lay a drape of night across its green”, in government people party like there is no tomorrow. The arrows of Pfizer and Astra Zeneca finally slay the beast and there is retribution on the way in the form of Cressida Dick Joke and Sue Grave. Rex must persuade them both that he truly is a god or face eternal banishment to the burning fires of hell.

Iannucci’s point is the pandemic saw heroic actions aplenty from the nation, but few and far between from the inhabitants of Downing Street. Far from being a god, Rex was “defecated out of time’s backside”: the wrong man at the wrong time in the wrong place. It is familiar stuff, here given great cathartic effect by an immensely witty script, much of it delivered in rhyming verse, that bristles with righteous fury. There is plenty here to for Iannucci’s ardent fan base to enjoy and a recognition too that for some the wounds of covid loss are still open. It is a very funny play indeed, but serious and respectful to those who served and those who suffered.

The challenge Chahidi faces in playing Boris Johnson is that the man himself is already a walking talking exercise in self-parody. The bumbling, shambolic, shapeshifter we see is the work of the actor Boris Johnson playing the character Boris Johnson. Any other actor will struggle to carry off the same effect. Good as he is Chahidi never quite captures the man’s charismatic malevolence. The play itself risks reinforcing the idea BoJo remains, larger-than-life, central to national consciousness. The ending, an exercise in wish-fulfilment, is therapeutic in its way although a reminder that real life is an unfinished story.

Amalia Vitale is brilliant as the slimy Hemlock. Natasha Jayetileke is fantastic too as the coup-mongering Suella Bovverboy and as Ritches Sooner, who wears braces and ill-fitting trousers to virtue-signal he is truly a man of the people.  “This accursed turd, this sceptic isle” of Albion is revealed to brutal effect in Pandemonium. So toxic is Rex’s presence that at the end of the show the stagehand removes his discarded blond wig from the set with a litter-picker. Caustic, vital theatre: little wonder the run is sold-out.

Writer: Armando Iannucci

Director: Patrick Marber