Brighton Fringe: An Austrian And Someone From Slough
Live Review
Brighton The Temple

Britain’s vibrant stand-up scene is a veritable United Nations of comedy – and now, representing Austria, we have Alice Frick.

Her nationality requires her to make jokes about basement horrors and Arnold Schwarzenegger – although that’s not the only part of her set where cliché reigns. Lazy gags about Catholic priests and porn-film dialogue are other staples, and her writing often goes not further than confusing AA, the breakdown service, with AA the dependency help group. Charitably, you could stress that this is in her second language.

Her propensity for cheesy gags cheapens a routine that’s already largely stuck in the bargain-basement titters of sex-shop novelties. If, for example, her struggles with alcohol are true – and there are a couple of anecdotes to suggest they might be – she should let the comedy emerge naturally, rather than swamping the stories with crass punchlines.

In her favour, though, is a lot of faux-innoncent charm. She plays the naïve foreigner expertly, letting her cute accent and wide-eyed winsomeness cover make tough topics merely cheeky. As with so many acts, when she talks about her genuine experiences rather than merely the low-hanging fruit she thinks is expected of her, the routine is all the more enjoyable. Oh, and the hard-to-see cartoons add nothing, too.

While Frick’s geographical origins are less inherently interesting than she might hope, that’s also true of her flatmate, and partner in this two-hander, Cecilia Delatori – who is not only from Slough, but lives in Leytonstone and went to university in Wolverhampton, so it sounds like she’s single-handedly researching the next edition of Crap Towns.

She’s both a musical comedian and a poet – and although she gently mocks the self-indulgent stereotypes that both those descriptions entail, it’s not 100 per cent convincing that the woolly hat and outsized spectacles she dons are entirely ironic.

Delatori presents and affable but largely bland collection of slightly witty acoustic numbers and whimsical sub-Heglian verse about ex boyfriends, the grim places she’s lived in and men who have sex with trees. Some of the rhymes are nifty, but she otherwise never really surprises.

The jauntiest number is left till the end, when she reminds Frick of the rules of their shared house – instantly translated into German for the avoidance of doubt – making the only moment the two strands of this lightweight show intertwine.