On TV

Chopratown (BBC1)

NOT so much Bad Girls as Mad Girls. The women-behind-bars drama isn't exactly known for subtlety or good taste and the totally bonkers Christmas Special was as barking as a pack of starving dogs. And I don't just mean the inmates' pantomime Snow Black - very politically correct - in which someone asked, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who has the biggest stash of all?".

I'm sorry we didn't get to see more of the production but inmates and guards had other things to consider, like being trapped inside by a blizzard, gale-force winds and power failure.

We knew the weather was going to be bad as soon as Michael Fish was glimpsed on the TV assuring viewers that a big winter storm wasn't on the way. Someone should have locked him up and thrown away the key years ago.

All is not well on G-wing at Larkhall. The Costa Cons are sucking the alcohol out of oranges in their Christmas hamper, Julie Johnston keeps seeing the ghost of nasty screw Jim Fenner, and Governor Joy Masterton is insisting that guards wear fancy dress for the carol service. "It's Christmas so we're all going to enjoy ourselves," she says, wanting to live up to her name and spread Joy around the prison.

A new arrival is given the usual, warm Larkhall welcome by tough gal Natalie Buxton. "Come on bitch, where's your stuff?," she inquires. The answer isn't quite what she expects. "I'm Miranda, I'm Satan's daughter," says her new cellmate.

Christy the chaplain suspects something is wrong. "I can sense something evil and unnatural on G-wing," she says. You don't have to be a woman of the cloth to recognise that - after all the place is crawling with killers, drug addicts and dealers, and child abusers. She decides to carry out an exorcism. Permission is granted by Governor Joy, with the warning, "not too heavy on the theatrics". Alas, she ends up stabbed with a crucifix in the showers in a scene that played as an homage (or rip-off) to Psycho, down to blood swirling down the plughole.

It all ended happily enough - or at least as happy as any drama involving devil worship, stabbing, attempted suicide, rats, Fenner clanking around like the Ghost of Christmas Past and a dwarf called Noncy.

The maddest thing about Chopratown was a subplot about a stolen cow. "All I've got to do is find a gay cow who thinks he's a pig," said Sanjeev Bhasker's private eye Vik Chopra.

This pilot episode tried hard to be quirky and different but ended up being the same old detective comedy drama. Only the setting, the multi-ethnic East End, differentiated it from any other private eye series. The main case involved Chopra ensuring that a baker took his medicine and didn't eat his own products. Alas, it didn't turn out to be the piece of cake that he expected.

Judy And Me, Harrogate Theatre Studio

AFTER two Stephen Sondheim songbook shows, Harrogate Theatre's dinner theatre production offers something a little bit different this year. The format's the same - champagne reception, two-course meal and entertainment - but this time the show isn't produced in-house but imported, via the Edinburgh Festival, Paris and Holland.

Judy And Me features French singer-dancer Isabelle Georges and Dutch songwriter-performer Frederick Steenbrink in a tribute to Judy Garland. It's less ambitious than previous years but provides a splendid accompaniment to the meal (my chicken was very nice, in case you were wondering).

A piano for him and a few costumes for her are virtually all the pair require to recall the magic of Garland. The idea is that Georges was inspired to perform after seeing Judy Garland as a child. The show takes us through Judy's often troubled life and career - child performer, MGM star, marriage to a gay man, pill-popping and heavy drinking - through the songs she made famous. Wisely, Over The Rainbow is saved for the big, emotional finale.

Adding on a selection of songs, including Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, may be festive but seems redundant. The overall effect is more cabaret than stage musical but Georges displays considerable vocal power and does a mean tap dance without attempting to slavishly imitate Garland. Steenbrink mostly confines himself to narrating the story and accompanying Georges on the piano but, given the chance, proves himself a strong singer too.

* Runs until January 7. Tickets (01423) 502116.

Steve Pratt

The Pogues, Metro Radio Arena, Newcastle

A DRINK-soaked crowd's enthusiasm for the craic reached fever pitch when singer Shane McGowan and The Pogues came on stage. The energised accordion-fuelled Irish punk rock whipped the crowd up even further and they swarmed like bees near a honey pot trying to get closer to their drunken idol, who staggered about the stage, slurring the lyrics while shouting into his mike.

Nobody could have had a clue what he was on about but the point of The Pogues is not about deciphering the words but appreciating the sheer energy of the band of talented musicians, fronted by the enigmatic McGowan who seems to defy medical science simply by still being alive.

His act is a simple one based on the image of a good bawdy sing-along in an Irish boozer and it works very well. There is no song with a gentle Gaelic lilt; they are rocky, fast paced and even the tin whistle carries with it an air of menace. McGowan punctuated songs, like the raucous version of Irish Rover, with blood-curdling screams, his voice raw from smoking, drinking and singing.

Of course, at the end there was the classic Fairytale in New York, and as the frontman waltzed with the lady playing the part of the late Kirsty MacColl, snow fell on the crowd who were singing along to every word. A live version of the best festive song ever? It must be Christmas.

Gavin Haver