The autumn brochures are tumbling in. And already there is bags to look forward to. O’Neill at the Old Vic with Eve Best and Kevin Spacey. Ben Jonson and Tony Kushner at the National. Mamet and Ibsen at the Donmar. New plays by Terry Johnson and Caryl Churchill at the Royal Court. Spamalot and Cabaret in the West End. Outside London there’s also plenty to whet the appetite. Hare and Brenton’s Pravda in Chichester. Kneehigh and Cardboard Citizens doing Shakespeare in Stratford. Webster in Leeds and Pinter in Sheffield, Nottingham and Bristol.

One name, however, is almost entirely missing from the autumn lists: George Bernard Shaw. Almost alone in the British theatre, Sam Walters at the Orange Tree in Richmond is marking the 150th anniversary of Shaw’s birth by staging Major Barbara and a season of two triple-bills. Elsewhere, however, there is silence, as if Shaw had never been. Even if I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: the British theatre seems to me insane in ignoring one of the few geniuses it ever harboured in its midst.

We all know the arguments against Shaw. That his characters are mouthpieces for his ideas. That he is thunderingly didactic. That he is all intellect and no emotion. But these stock responses fall by the wayside when you actually encounter the plays. One recent Sunday I happened to catch an excellent Mrs Warren’s Profession on Radio Three. The final scene, in which the brothel-managing Mrs Warren pleads for her daughter’s love, is as heart-stopping as anything you could wish. And, even if there is something cold-hearted about Vivie’s rejection of her mother, Shaw - who was writing out of bitter personal experience - makes you aware of the sense of loss.

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