THEY slithered out of the mist as if from nowhere, this stockings and suspender belts clad zombie swarm, acres of pallid flesh quivering like blancmange in the light of a Malvern moon.

Meanwhile, onstage another group of similarly dressed individuals vied for attention. Ah… I’ve got it. They must be the official Rocky horrors -the others are presumably members of the audience dressed for the part.

Yes indeed, there were some truly gruesome sights filing into the Festival Theatre on this balmy – not to say barmy – evening in May.

But it was such a pity that so many appeared ill at ease in their costumes. Never mind, boys will be ghouls and vice versa, or so the song says.

Now, the big question is this. How much fantasy gear can one stomach in a single evening?

Many of us will be aware of the effect certain items of apparel can have on the feeble male brain, but Richard O’Brien’s 1973 creation demands that everyone gets into an ambiguous gender groove.

The trouble is that once you strip away all the sexy togs – ooh, missus – all you are left with is a rock ‘n’ roll Carry On film. The emperor’s new suspender belt, basically.

Mind you, some can carry it off well. Kay Murphy as Magenta is a colossus, a veritable Boudicca of burlesque. But Rocky (Dominic Andersen) never appears all that comfortable in his Bet Lynch-style fake leopard skin briefs and looks distinctly queasy when he finally changes into the obligatory stockings and sussies.

Only narrator Steve Punt remains a basque-free zone, faithfully supported by the planted ‘hecklers’ who ultimately give the game away by coming up with far too intelligent barracking for what appears to be a mainly Much Marcle audience.

That said, there are still some amusing interludes. But with a complete absence of memorable tunes, the Rocky Horror Show remains an acquired taste, frozen in its 1970s tabloid ‘sex shock’ permafrost. It runs until Saturday (May 14).