The National’s new comedy by April De Angelis is a clever and amusing attempt to deliver that most elusive artefact, the state-of-the-nation play. It’s easy to pan this production because the plot lacks surprises and the script is overly indebted to Abigail’s Party. The two lead characters are formulaic creations who reflect political polarities: left vs right, Remain against Leave. Kerry Jackson is a stroppy Essex blonde who loves Thatcher, despises foreigners and supports Brexit. She takes a shine to an overeducated wine snob, Stephen, who rides a bike and lectures in philosophy.

Kerry’s new bistro in Walthamstow needs customers and she begs Stephen to post a favourable review in the local free sheet. In return she agrees to hire his mopey daughter as a waitress. Romance blossoms and the Kerry/Stephen affair transcends the boundaries of class and political allegiance. Other characters drift in and out. There’s an incontinent tramp who likes high-brow literature and a corpulent ex-copper who fancies his chances with Kerry.

The dialogue is witty, the characters are sympathetic (despite being stereotypical), and Fay Ripley plays Kerry with an inviting energy. It’s rare to find a play at the National that draws hoots of laughter from the crowd. An extra delight on press night was supplied by the pews of stony-faced critics who seemed appalled that a blonde Essex trollop was being allowed to spew her far-right filth in their carbon-neutral faces. They wore a collective grimace as if they were watching an adaptation of Pride and Prejudice in which Mrs Bennet says, ‘No problem.’

The National Theatre also seems to dislike this show and to mistrust its ability to win an audience. Its marketing gurus have created a YouTube advert in which Ripley and the author talk about Kerry as if she were a social deviant who deserves their pity. ‘She’s someone you don’t like but someone you kind of love,’ says Ripley. De Angelis describes her as ‘aggravating’ and ‘infuriating’. ‘Sometimes you want to slightly call the police,’ adds Ripley, apparently suggesting that prison is the best remedy for Brexiteers. During rehearsals, Ripley felt that Kerry didn’t swear enough and she asked for ‘more F-words’. Her wish was granted. ‘I was thrilled,’ says Ripley. This advert is likely to kill off interest at the box office. But the jitters of the NT should be ignored. This is a funny, warm and likeable comedy full of decent gags. That the NT considers it problematic tells us where the real problem lies.

One Woman Show is a monologue that began on the fringe and has reached a smallish West End venue. The writer performer, Liz Kingsman, starts the show by announcing that the performance is being filmed. Cameras and technicians on-stage persuade us that the theatre is being used as a TV studio – but it obviously isn’t. And the pretence adds a layer of contrivance to a piece that would work better as a straightforward confessional about the chaotic life of a footloose female yuppie. Liz works in London at a charity that preserves wetlands for birds. When a sexy new man arrives at the office she falls instantly in love. They pop out for a lunchtime drink which lasts all afternoon and later they sneak back into their workplace for sex. The fling continues until she’s caught on CCTV.

The plot then takes a zany twist and she finds herself single again, and humiliated. Buried in this brilliantly acted show is a tragic truth about the life of the modern urban woman. Sex is available whenever she wants it but her real goal, romantic fulfilment, is elusive. At one point she laments: ‘I’ve been single for… almost an entire day.’ She has no idea who to trust in a world of instant dating. A scientist chats her up by advertising his credentials as a birdlife expert whose next mission to Africa is imminent. She asks him when he’s getting back. ‘When does anyone get back from Africa?’ he shrugs pretentiously. Later, she discovers that he works part-time in a charity gift shop.

The writing is full of surreal, off-beat flourishes. She relaxes with her flatmate on a Sunday evening, ‘eating tinned bread and watching old episodes of the news’. Woody Allen included gags like that in the brilliant short stories he wrote in the 1960s. Kingsman takes a pop at feminist theatre-makers by echoing their pleas for help. ‘We need more plays by women,’ she wheedles earnestly. ‘Right now it’s just this and The Mousetrap.’ Excellent point. A woman created the world’s longest-running play more than 70 years ago. Kingsman is currently giving ten performances a week and the box office appears to be humming. A wise investor should offer her a break and hire a stand-in to revive the show elsewhere when the present run ends. This could be around for as long as the woes it articulates persist.