If it weren’t so attractively performed in Annie Ryan’s production it would be unbearable. And some of the scenes, vivaciously played by a cast of six, identified in the programme text not by character name but, irritatingly, by A, B, C, etc.
This indicates how the play was evolved, ticking all those boxes and manufacturing the scenes between people: as A (Andrew Bennett), goes into meltdown in his pyjamas, at one point lying on a dinner table while his wife and guests pick at his bones.
Maybe it’s all an Irish metaphor, charting the muzzling of the Celtic Tiger, the demise of the Catholic Church. Or is it just a play about an unlucky bloke who gets depressed? The thing about depression in the theatre is that sometimes it’s catching.