Recent events have proved a boon to Alistair Beaton. His latest satirical drama Fracked! now contains several lines that set it in a day-after-tomorrow, post-Brexit Britain where Boris Johnson has just resigned as Foreign Secretary because he and the rest of the world can’t take each other seriously. Perhaps more worryingly, on the press night the line “This is England – we don’t do human rights any more” drew approving applause.

The hydraulic-fracturing method of extracting shale gas is a topical enough subject for drama, both in general and particularly in an area like Chichester where future exploration is possible. And Beaton has a record of success as a satirist. Feelgood (2001) took the mickey out of Blairite spin culture, Follow My Leader (2004) out of the politics of the second Gulf War, and King Of Hearts (2007) out of speculation about the royal succession. But here’s the thing: none of them really bit their subject at all sharply. Beaton’s successful commercially, and very good at sounding up-to-the-minute, but not actually in terms of doing what satire’s meant to do – hurt.

Fracked! follows the same pattern. The story – an energy company engage a PR outfit to manipulate public and political opinion over a fracking contract near a small village; an elderly resident and her even more cautious husband are gradually converted to the idea of taking direct action in protest – flows as smoothly as refined oil, especially with a director as experienced as Richard Wilson and lead actors like Anne Reid and James Bolam. But what drives the comedy is not the events but a series of cut-out stereotype characters.

The head of the energy company is an old-fashioned chap who objects to the foul language of the chief PR flack (hence the subtitle); he, in turn, is oily and unscrupulous, and generally the kind of character that Oliver Chris (Green Wing, Bluestone 42) can play without breaking sweat. Meanwhile husband Jack (Bolam), reluctant to be drawn into such conflict, is slowly won round not just by his wife’s growing conviction but by yer standard implausible-buddy relationship with Sam, a young, New Agey activist who insists on meditating and hugging everyone; Jack’s ultimate compliment is to permit Sam to call him “dude”.

Now, taking a hot topic and giving it a lukewarm school-dinner-nostalgia treatment is all very well. However, it ends up doing the opposite of what you expect of satire: by posing as critical but never actually drawing blood, it ends up reinforcing its apparent target. Without a genuine challenge, all kinds of nonsense gets to be taken seriously. Eh, Boris?

Written for The Lady.