Lily Allen

LILY Allen took to social media this week to defend her biggest-ever headline tour. West End Girl, that unflinching account of marital breakdown, has proven an unquestionably acclaimed hit. Raw and theatrical, interspersed with monologues and phone call asides, the album has been crying out for the stage since it unexpectedly dropped on Spotify last October.

But the show has divided opinion. Allen appears on stage for just over an hour. She doesn’t talk to the audience. The support act is a string section, covering her Greatest Hits. No live band for her own set. It’s what the show has “always been advertised as”, Allen posted on Monday.

Some of these choices will upset some fans of old, make no mistake. But it is nothing short of fantastic, a cathartic work which does exactly what it should.

We all know the old bangers, they’re ours. Lyrics flash above the sextet, who reimagine The Fear, LDN, Smile and F*** You in front of sultry velvet curtains. But we don’t need the prompts – we’re word perfect already, and belt them all in surprisingly fine voice.

Then, frenzied mirror lights pulsate, ushering the main event. Allen slips on stage with a slight smile. It’s an understated affair. She delivers her opener straight, the set is pared back, she’s a lone figure on a vast stage. Even as energy reverberates in Rumin­ating, that fourth wall remains intact.

Homely, Golden Hollywood fluff floats into view – a bed, chaise lounge, umpteen chandeliers – to remind us that this is a hybrid-stage show. Intentionally or not, Allen interacts with these various dressings in uneasy fashion, going through the motions as she sings wistfully of her husband’s fading intimacy.

It’s incredibly effective, painting a heartbreaking image of sudden isolation. She is tone perfect, but looks genuinely distraught in Relapse, which becomes a haunting watch.

Pussy Palace allows for more fun, as Allen discovers sex toys and dildos of increasing size and ridiculousness in her husband’s New York apartment.

She goes through his fridge and inexplicably pulls out a World Cup… Fear not, boyfriends dragged along to the gig on the night of an England game; the short set time meant we caught most of the match afterwards.

The theatrics continue to build. Allen finds herself enveloped in a giant receipt for 4chan Stan, plastered with items her husband has bought for other women.

She ends up on a giant cake, and a chandelier crashes to the floor. It’s devastating and camp – just what the doctor ordered.

But the show ends just as it began; simply. The fluff disappears, Allen is alone and reflective. “You’re a mess, I’m a bitch,” she rues. And then she slips away, and those mirror lights flicker into darkness. No encore, none of those 2009 hits. This is her story, warts and all.