A heartfelt and dizzyingly inventive show that could do with a bit more laser focus. 

We’ve all experienced it, but it doesn’t make it any easier: two idiots arrive late and decide the show is, in fact, all about them. Showing the artist no respect, they decide what the audience has paid to hear is:

1. Their own running commentary on the material, like some terrible DVD extra.
2. Their shouted-out unfunny asides, like Statler and Waldorf if they were genuine muppets.
3. Them talking loudly to each other whenever they lose interest in what is happening onstage.

“I nearly threw a pen at them”, admits the tech person at the end.

Webber, extremely sensibly, does not engage. But in a weird way, these men are an appropriate Greek Chorus for a show that is, at its heart, a treatise on toxic masculinity.

Armed with a box of old trinkets and poems from childhood, which forms the narrative backbone to the show, our comedian / opera singer / accomplished pop performer has built an hour around expectations, ego, and breaking free from the parallel shadow-self others wanted her to be.

Sitting somewhere between memoir and stand-up, Wannabe reveals a fascinatingly complex character still trying to figure out what success looks like if it doesn’t involve fame. 

This could easily be an alienating topic for a show, as on the face of it Webber is extremely successful at everything she has turned her hand to. But the vulnerability, self-awareness, and honesty draws us in – everyone here, save Statler and Waldorf, are on her side from the start, such is her charm and engaging nature.

The box of stuff is a Blue Peter time capsule of her past selves, containing everything from the banal to the profound. Terrible poems about her pet goldfish are contrasted with intentionally revealing teenage scribblings about relationships real and imagined – the heteronormative walls closing in, the expectations of what a woman could and should be already clear to see.

As a thirtysomething millennial, there’s a fascinating multimedia element to this show, as physical diaries and poems give way to cross-generational emojis and hilarious WhatsApp voice notes. 

There’s a bit of growing up online here, and one’s most awkward moments being maintained forever in perpetuity, but with Webber being old enough to understand and mine laughs from how bizarre this panopticon we’ve built for ourselves can turn out to be.

One moment, involving *literally* lip syncing to a voice note she unwittingly sent to an ex, is a perfect mixture of physical comedy and autobiographical cringe.

There are moments when it feels like Webber might be losing control, with repeated shouted out comments of a more well-meaning kind, but she never loses track, even when there are technical difficulties. There is extremely kind audience participation – always punching up – and whenever she shows off her incredible voice or pop dancing prowess, she has everyone in the palm of her hand.

The only criticism is this show could be slightly tighter: the transitions from the emotionally vulnerable interludes to the more knockabout stuff could be handled with even more care.

With a toxic dad, inveterate people pleasing, and two awful men at a posh wedding, the emotional heart reveals itself, drawing a cheery ramble through an interesting life into stark and devastating focus. 

We’re left with a welcome shout out for Palestine and trans rights, and much to ponder on the short, quiet walk home. 

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