Ian Coppinger

Since improv is so firmly rooted in the ‘now’, this is no time for history – and none of the background is mentioned, it’s straight into the sort of games that will be largely familiar to any casual improv-goer. A story is narrated, with each comic picking up the thread, hopefully seamlessly, when the MC points to them; a foreign expert requires a translator to explain their detailed lecture; a hairdresser scene is played out to various film and theatre styles…

The pace is varied, sometimes allowing for quickfire gags or sometimes longer form, such as improvising a whole playlet based around the life of one audience member.

Despite their collective experience, they do still come a cropper sometimes, which is, of course, part of the fun. Geordie Johns seems to be the main wildcard, going off on mad flights of fancy which are just as likely to crash and burn as lead anywhere hilarious. In contrast, Coppinger excels at the quick hit-and-run gag, keeping the punchline rate up. Meanwhile, none of these middle-aged men maintain the dignity of the years, and still happily throw themselves into the bizarre scenarios.

The weakest member of the team is the audience. In a room far from being even half-full, the suggestions are sluggish and sometimes ill-advised. ‘Auschwitz’ probably isn’t the location the performers were seeing for their knockabout final sketch, the ‘mind fuck’ in which everyone’s voice is provided by another member of the team – a game that’s hard to describe and even harder to pull off, although they just about ride the chaos to its conclusion.

All five performers pour plenty of energy into the scenes, but by definition they can only use what they are given, and they’re not given that much tonight. It’s a shame as their track record proves are better than this.