There is a strong case to be made against Lionel Bart's Oliver! It takes one of Dickens's greatest and most gripping novels, an indignant howl of protest against man's inhumanity to man, and turns it into a cracking night of tuneful entertainment.

Bah, humbug! If that were the case would your face break into a huge grin of pleasure when in the opening number dozens of supposedly half-starved workhouse children take to the stage? No, you would feel pity and horror. But because they are superbly choreographed, look so sweet and are singing Bart's witty and splendidly catchy Food Glorious Food one experiences only pleasure. It's a travesty of Dickens. It's absolutely fantastic showbiz.

And once you have bought into Bart's shameless sentimentality, you remember that Dickens could be shamelessly sentimental too on occasion, and settle down to wallow in a superbly melodic musical that presses all the emotional buttons while seeming especially apt and uplifting in hard times. How we all long for a kindly Mr. Brownlow to rescue us from the credit crunch just as he rescues Oliver from Fagin.