Odd thing nostalgia. It seems to attack equally those who genuinely can recollect the not-quite-distant past and those who have only heard about it. That the period encircling the first world war attracts interest is not surprising - the end of a world with a line of continuity back to the Renaissance, the onslaught of a twentieth century which at times seems to condense all the world's past on to one frenetic generation; what I find more deniable is the present emphasis on war years of the Forties.

"Happy as a Sandbag” is a compilation by Ken Lee of words, music, dances, lives and attitudes from the war years: it reached the Ambassadors on September 10 in a production by Philip Hedley (who is well acquainted with the piece, having directed four out of the eight earlier versions). There is a cast of ten - four girls and six boys – a simple set in what might be described as late-Thirties palais de dance style and bright costumes in patriotic red, white and blue, this is the work of David Fisher, who had also coaxed his cast into remarkably accurate hairdressing of both the frizzy and glossy varieties.

One is struck by the good humour of nearly all the songs. They may be attacking the Nazi leadership or mocking the war effort generally, but there is no savagery, no naked hate, none of the passion that one finds in protest songs about the Vietnam conflict for example. The second world war, if for nothing else, seems to be distinguishable as the last conflict when the upper lip was curved into a grin as well as being stiff. There is no sense that the grin could ever rigify into that of a death's head. The spoken words are of much the same sense as well as a feeling that this is quite fun. That the wartime alphabet, begins at Auschwitz, Be1sen has no place in this compilation, although I found the genuine audience reaction that booed Hitler at the opening half of  the second half interesting in the circumstances.

What then do you get for your £2.80 worth of nostalgia? The sort of good ensemb1e work which one associates with the better regional theatres but less often with the non-subsidised West End, chirpy or smoochy tunes supported by some good singing which is mercifully unamplified, the chance to win a Woolton pie in a raffle (now, there's nutritional value for you), dialogue from films like “In Which We Serve" and plays like "Flare Path", a bit of Montgomery,  more of Churchill and still more of “ITMA”. Roy Macready does a good Max Miller sketch and Patricia Adams sets feet skimming across the polished stage for “Zoot Suit”, Lesley Duff, Geraldine Wright and Yvonne Edgell ripple away in thirds as the Andrews Sisters, Martin Duncan and Julian Hough tilt elegantly at the Germans as the Western Brothers, Robert Mclntosh speaks Churchill’s great speeches with an illusion of perfection which fades as the lighting brightens, Dariene Johnson postures prettily in make-do-and-mend wartime fashions, Trevor Jones drawls something like Alan Ladd and David Ashton sings with stylish fervour. Nigel Hess, Alan Poston and Fred Senior sound as dance trios ought to sound. You could almost imagine that you were back in the days when bombs came down from the Luftwaffe and were not left in carrier bags on doorsteps, and when sitting up in the "gods" cost 6d and not £1.50.