Wine was guzzled and everyone at the party after the show was in a mischievous mood. But staggering from group to group (two glasses had done for me), I heard the same questions cropping up over and over again: "Where are they?" "Why isn't one of them here?"

Feelgood, Alistair Beaton's portrayal of the backstage antics surrounding the PM's speech at a new Labour party conference, has just opened in the West End. On the opening night, the seats were filled by an odd mix of political hacks and actors who were famous in the Seventies, and the party afterwards was brimming with recognisable faces and voices. But when I searched the fag-filled balcony for a press aide, a policy adviser or a Millbank wannabe to tease, I didn't spot a single one. This, believe me, is very unusual at a West End premiere these days - especially when chuckling at such a scathing send-up could provide this government with a much-needed opportunity to convince us that it possesses any sense of humour whatsoever. Spitting Image had Tory leaders tripping over each other to praise their cruel imitators, but perhaps, like Pauline Prescott's hair, Feelgood is deemed too dangerous a joke for ministers to take lightly.

Nigel Planer, who plays a bumbling Charlie Falconer character, was disappointed that the new Labour big boys were ignoring the play. "Well," he said, like a fashion designer who had discovered that Princess Anne was to wear the dress he created for Princess Diana, "Chris Smith came to Hampstead when it was on there." We agreed, though, that Chris Smith doesn't really count as a major player.

Watching the play for the second time gave me a chance to audience-watch. On my right, Wendy Craig dug into an ice cream and giggled at jokes about room service. On my left, the actor Robert Powell, formerly known as "Jesus of Nazareth", looked faintly bored. I spotted Andrew Marr, the BBC's political main man. He was desperately trying not to laugh, in case he revealed too much about either his humour or his own point of view. The poor man had such a difficult time not giggling that he looked exhausted by the time he snuck out before the curtain call.

I was laughing like a drain until the accuracy of the set caused me to have an unpleasant flashback. The hotel suite on stage is designed to mirror the Prime Minister's office at party conference. The mixture of chintz and high tech took me back to Blackpool several years ago where, just hours before the PM's big speech, I wandered nonchalantly into his office for a break. Assistants buzzed here and there, Alastair Campbell growled instructions and, in a room to the side, urgent last-minute rewrites were under way. Uptight doesn't come close to describing the atmosphere: it was like being in a horror movie, where the slightest creaking hinge could make you leap from your seat and shriek with the tension. I poured a coffee and sat down at the computer. Then Tony Blair and Ali C entered the room. I stared at the computer screen and shivered as an icy silence fell. I wanted desperately to flee, but found myself rooted (with terror) to the chair, hands gripping the keyboard. They didn't want me there and I didn't want to be around them while they were under such crushing pressure. Like a child, I convinced myself that if I didn't turn round and look at them, they wouldn't see me. After several moments, they started muttering and words such as "education" and "equal opportunities" drifted over. I typed the letters "fffgggghhhhiiikkkk" and tried not to breathe too loudly. Then they were gone.

I grabbed my bag and fled back into a corridor where average human beings went about their lives free from the pressures of world politics. For a full hour, I felt like those who have had a near-death experience: colours seemed more vibrant, life more joyful, and even Blackpool became a place of wonder. A bit of perspective and a laugh at their own bizarre way of life would do Tony Blair and his entourage the world of good.

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