Dear England – Review – Bradford Alhambra Theatre

By Sue Dean, February 2026

At the Bradford Alhambra, Dear England arrives with a team sheet with no weak links and a bench that could start for most productions. The stage is rarely allowed to breathe. More than 20 performers surge, split, regroup, then flood back in, turning scenes into moving crowds. It makes the evening feel loaded like a stadium – big, busy, and unapologetically loud with bodies. It looks great, and it matters.

Costumes do a lot of the storytelling, quietly and efficiently. England shirts change as the years roll on, and the audience clock it instantly, that soft, involuntary recognition: that one, that era, that hope. The effect is oddly tender. A parade of fabrics that have soaked up so much national projection.

Then the lights go to work. They are not just functional here; they are editorial. Big moments get their own weather system, with lighting that heightens the drama. And above it all, a video wall: impressive, but I found it a looming distraction that is nearly impossible not to watch. From the start, it sets the tone with a brilliant piece of stagecraft – twin towers of Wembley rising from the stage, monumental and slightly surreal. It is a reminder that football is architecture as much as sport, and that Wembley, for better or worse, is a kind of national altar.

“Every emotion”

The ensemble deserves a medal of its own. They do not simply “play” the England squad; they inhabit them with unnerving accuracy. The gait, the cadence, the tiny mannerisms that make certain players recognisable before a name is even said. It should not work this well, but it really does.

Among the familiarity, two performances keep catching my eye. Harry Kane (Oscar Gough) becomes the emotional hinge, stealing the show through glorious overthinking and self-doubt, the striker as philosopher-king of second-guessing. Close behind comes Jordan Pickford (Jack Maddison), bouncy, very funny, a live wire of adrenaline and nerves, bringing just enough comic lift to stop the piece from drowning in its own tension.

At the centre, David Sturzaker’s Gareth Southgate anchors the whole enterprise with a performance as controlled as it is exposed. The wardrobe, movement and voice is spot on. He is hardly ever off the stage, and the production leans into that: the manager as permanent witness. He moves through every emotion, starting where the story insists it must start, that infamous penalty miss in 96, the moment that never fully stops echoing. Sturzaker’s Southgate carries it like an old bruise pressed at exactly the wrong time.

The soundtrack stitches the evening together with football favourites that do a lot of heavy lifting, smoothing transitions and revving the room when it needs it. One anthem, though, is conspicuous by its absence: “Three Lions”. Perhaps it is too expensive. Perhaps it is too inevitable. Either way, the gap becomes its own little talking point, like leaving a star player on the bench and insisting it’s just tactics.

“Roar becomes a hush”

Act Two kicks off with “We’re gonna score one more than you” and then, abruptly, lockdown. A mood swing most people remember in their bones. The show is smart enough not to overplay it; the mere pivot is enough. Suddenly, the roar becomes a hush, and the Alhambra feels the air change.

The set movement is clever throughout, sliding and shifting with a kind of practiced inevitability, as if the stage itself has learned the rhythms of a tournament. Add the script’s momentum and the cast’s precision, and it becomes a winning combination. Unlike the England team, history reminds everyone, it tends to convert its chances.

Still, Dear England is not flawless. The second half does feel long, the dramatic shape stretching a touch thin. And the second lost final can feel like a repeat of the first, which of course it is. That is the point. But points can still be tiring, even when they are true.

In the end, the Alhambra crowd seems to leave with a mix of good and bad memories, and the satisfied hum of a proper night out. Even non-football fans – of which I am one – are likely to get behind this one. It plays less like a sports recap and more like a national diary, written in floodlights.

‘Dear England’ is at Bradford Alhambra until 21st February
images: Marc Brenner