It always used to be said that boarding school prepares you for every hardship. Whether that includes prison in one of the most impenitent dictatorships in Africa is not a question that was put to Simon Mann in last night’s edition of Storyville. Mann, still incarcerated when the BBC caught up with him, was awaiting a pardon from President Teodoro Obiang, the very potentate he had attempted to topple five years earlier. Never mind that they like to keep a battery and electrodes handy for interrogations, Mann wasn’t about to slag off the great man’s excellent hospitality.

In a pirate television (pirate television!) broadcast from 1992, a large group of Russian youths in flat top haircuts and leather jackets discuss Depeche Mode's appeal. “It's romantic style,” suggests one with absolute assurance, “it's music for the lonely.” It is just one touching, funny moment in a film packed with them, but it also sums up what The Posters Came From The Walls is about. This “music for the lonely” by a band of awkward blokes from Basildon has brought this group of young people together, as it has all the legions of devoted lovers of the band that we see throughout the 58 minutes.

At first glance, verbatim theatre is a total bore. This form of drama, which collects the words spoken by real individuals and puts them into the mouths of actors, has been a central plank of the rebirth of political theatre since 9/11, but its pleasures tend to be cerebral rather than visceral, moral rather than physical. Attending a verbatim theatre event - such as Out Of Joint's latest show, Mixed Up North - usually makes you feel good as a citizen rather than as a person. You feel worthy, but don’t usually have much fun.

If you’d invested a thousand dollars with Warren Buffett in 1965, your stake would have grown to more than than five million bucks today. If the UK had followed one of Buffett’s golden rules of investment – Don’t Get Into Debt – our clapped-out rust-bucket of a nation might now feel like a very different place. Buffett's take on debt is that "if you're smart you don't need it, and if you're dumb you've got no business using it," which Gordon Brown should have etched on the inside of his glass eye.

On the other hand, if everybody copied Warren Buffett’s diet, which consists of T-bone steaks, cherry Cokes, chocolate sundaes and peanuts – apparently he’s “uncomfortable with most vegetables” - most of them would already be dead or not feeling very well.

Evan Davis’s film about Buffett, the so-called Oracle of Omaha, was a gently quizzical piece of work about the man who slugs it out every year with his good friend Bill Gates for the title of Richest Man in the World. But somehow you felt – and the wry smile on Davis’s face suggested that he felt it too - that giant chunks of the jigsaw were missing from a story that seemed to suggest that you could become the wealthiest person on the planet by following a few commonsense rules and being polite to everybody. Though come to think of it, maybe not many have tried it.

Davis opened with scenes from the AGM of Buffett’s Berkshire Hathaway operation, his holding company which controls assets worth $267bn. Every year thousands of investors descend on Buffett’s home town of Omaha, Nebraska, and crowd into a local sports arena to see a film about the company’s performance and ask questions from the floor. The mood rarely turns ugly since Berkshire Hathaway has been returning annual profits of more than 20 per cent for decades. Then they go and eat steaks and burgers, and maybe get to hear Warren play his ukulele with a Country & Western band.

Nobody speaks of ill of Buffett, except the people who got sacked by his hired hard man Harry Bottle after Buffett bought a Nebraska steel mill during the Sixties. Warren asset-stripped the company and sold the profitable bits, but apparently hated being unpopular so much that he vowed never to behave like a cartoon Wall Street capitalist again. Nowadays, all anybody will say about him is that he's a regular guy, he made them incredibly rich, he's the world's greatest investor, and they love him to bits. He gave $31bn to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation (Buffett and Gates pictured right) and believes that bankers don't deserve gigantic bonuses, so he's pretty well indemnified against accusations of rapacious fat-catism.

The closest anyone got to explaining how Warren accomplished all this was to say that "it was simple, but not easy." Apparently he read a couple of influential books at an early age, a thing called The Intelligent Investor and Dale Carnegie's How To Win Friends And Influence People, and he developed a knack for spotting undervalued shares and buying them for a pittance. Later he took to buying entire companies, often homely mom-and-pop operations in which he detected underlying value. His down-home charm and delightfully unthreatening manner often helped him to pay well under the odds. He also likes buying insurance companies, which offer large cash floats he can invest in other companies.

He once declared that derivatives, those dangerously unstable betting instruments that almost destroyed the global financial system, were "weapons of financial mass destruction", but Davis unearthed the intriguing news that Buffett now regularly trades in them, profitably of course. Since another of his golden rules is that you should only deal in things you can understand, that means folksy, homespun ol' Warren is not only a very smart bunny, but also an exceedingly dark horse.

Is John Prescott’s post-political TV career a form of atonement, a retirement gift to his lovely wife Pauline and a chance for her to share centre-stage in place of the diary secretary? Whatever the reason, Pauline Prescott has taken to the limelight like an MP to expenses, benignly batting her mascara-crusted eyelashes as the couple take another of their Jag-chauffeured tours, a faintly ludicrous Old Labour twist on King George VI and Queen Elizabeth visiting East End Blitz victims.

This review cannot start without a confession. More of a disclaimer, in fact. What you are about to read will not by any reasonable definition pass as a balanced critical response. I began my time at Oxford University in exactly the same week as Boris Johnson and indeed Toby Young, one of the makers of When Boris Met Dave. As a student, I knew or met half the talking heads who took part. As a journalist I know or have met most of the others. They all, to a man (and woman), sound like Prince Charles. So was it any good, this playful account of the birth of the modern Tory party in the cauldron of Oxford in the 1980s? Hard to tell when you’re watching through your fingers.

David Hare is one of the giants of contemporary British theatre. His skill is to be the Balzacian social secretary who records the mood of the day. So his recent work has examined the state of the nation in a poetic rather than a literal way, and the result has usually been emotionally powerful and resonant.

Playwright Joe Orton's untimely death has often threatened to eclipse his life. On 9 August 1967, he was murdered by his lover, Kenneth Halliwell, who then committed suicide. Although Orton had completed the first draft of his masterpiece, What the Butler Saw, he'd never got around to writing a play called Prick Up Your Ears, whose naughty, innuendo-heavy title had been suggested by Halliwell. But the title lived on. First as John Lahr's 1978 biography, then as Stephen Frears's 1987 film and now as Simon Bent's new play.