Jerry Seinfeld - Live Review

Is any stand-up show worth £100. Thirteen years we’ve waited for Jerry Seinfeld, and the sky-high ticket price is still the inescapable talking point.

What the 18,000 or so people who poured into the O2 Arena experienced was, despite the limitations of the impersonal arena, some of the most exquisitely crafted observational stand-up you could hope to witness. Definitive proof that despite his fabulous wealth, Seinfeld has lost none of his common touch, unbeatable comic phrasing or forensic insight that made him the world’s number one stand-up.

Yet even such a superstar has his lulls; his take on relationships, especially, and fatherhood to an extent, bordered on the cliché, with the inevitable mentions of the impossible hypothetical questions his wife asks and the age she takes to get ready. It strikes chords of recognition, but seems old hat, overtaken by years of other comics, perhaps inspired by Seinfeld, overtaking him.

What he does do, however, that few can match, is garnish even these more pedestrian ideas with the most beautiful, witty analogies. When he artfully compares a man’s life cycle to that of a slowly deflating helium balloon, or describing the relationship game as an unfathomable version of chess, you can forgive the familiarity of the initial observations.

More incisive were his big-picture insights on the follies of modern society. If the idea of a comedian complaining about the etiquette of mobile phones and other modern communications makes your heart sink, then you haven’t seen Seinfeld’s sublime take on the much-covered subject, with funny sociological comments about the effect of email and Facebook; a beautifully exaggerated, and surprisingly physical, illustration of the power or impotence a phone can confer; or the searing take on the rudeness of BlackBerry addicts. Here, in this sublime extended routine, he gets to say what so many of us would want to say, and with the sort of impassioned eloquence to which there’s no comeback.

Seinfeld is, then, like you only better ; which is the key to the much-derided, but hard-to-conquer art of observational comedy. The first elusive trick is to take things we’ve all noticed or been irritated by and making them inventively hilarious. The second is to connect the dots we never quite did, and so illuminate our world anew. His routine about how houses are basically glorified garbage processing units is a clear demonstration of this.

From the very start, the youthful 57-year-old had the audience on side – not just because they are in the presence of celebrity, but with a routine describing exactly the motions and emotions of going to the show. It’s instant resonance, but backed with philosophy, telling us how we’ll go out and boast that we saw Seinfeld in an attempt to convince ourselves and others our lives don’t suck. He suggests that isn’t true, but your life will certainly be a little less sucky for having seen him.

There were countless highlights in the fluid, but themeless, hour and three-quarters he was on stage. Topics given the eloquently impatient Seinfeld treatment include weather forecasts, cremation, fat Americans, hapless suicide bombers, the phoney marketing language of ‘hydrating’ and Gatorade branding (OK, that’s one reference that didn’t quite make it through Customs). And when he talks drolly about loafers’ coffee-shop culture he suggests an alternative that’s essentially a caffeine-based version of his sitcom’s Soup Nazi.

It’s all delivered with the peerless comic timing and emphasis you might expect. There’s just enough stress in his voice to underline the points, and occasionally, just occasionally, does pull out the trademark exasperated ‘what’s the deal with..?’ whine to make a point.

Yet although the show was almost consistently funny, with Seinfeld displaying an artisan’s devotion to the craftsmanship of comedy, what it didn’t have the visceral, direct line to the soul that the most powerful stand-up performances have. That’s why it’s hard to justify the ticket price… though you might have been happy to shell out for the once-in-a-lifetime chance to see a superstar comic express smart ideas in such an artistic, efficient and evocative way.

Jason Manford - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

John Bishop - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Shappi Khorsandi - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Kevin Bridges - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Jon Richardson - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Rich Hall - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Jack Whitehall - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Andi Osho - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Micky Flanagan - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Sarah Millican - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Jason Byrne - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Jo Brand - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Dara O Briain - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Alan Carr - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Lee Evans - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Sean Lock - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Michael McIntyre - Live Review

This is comedy as an endurance event – the sort of night that would do Ken Dodd proud. It’s hard enough to build an atmosphere for stand-up in the vast O2, add the fact that the show, with interval, is three-and-a-half hours long, and comics have just a few short minutes to make their mark, and it’s not the most conducive of environments.

Still it’ll look good on telly – which means, idiot O2 punters, you don’t have to struggle to record it on your camera from an eighth of a mile away. And last year’s event raised around £800,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital, so let’s not be too churlish about what will be achieved. But, good work aside, this is no way to watch stand-up.

In fact, it’s a brutally tough way to judge a comic’s standing, with 21 the top names in the business almost going back to the days of Comedy Store’s gong show– impress or die, and do it quickly.

Closing the first half with a routine longer than most were allowed, Michael McIntyre was probably the biggest draw; and proved his worth with a typically assured observational set. Post-Britain’s Got Talent, he’s not pretending he’s one of us any more (‘I quite like being famous, it’s awesome!’) and has some entertaining yarns about being recognised that nonetheless have a self-deprecating edge. Chuck in some relatable anecdotes about his cheese-obsessed child and that trademark strut that keeps the cameramen on their toes, and you have a success.

Proof that quality will out came earlier on with Sean Lock, with probably the best material of the night, including some ultra-topical material about the new Icelandic volcano on a night when most acts, understandably, played it safe with their greatest hits. He’s evidence that you don’t need a supercharged performance to engage a venue this size if the jokes are strong enough.

On the flipside, Lee Evans, with another longer slot, won over the room midway through the first half with a combination of his fame and his energy. ‘What a big place,’ he gasped at the site of the room, slightly disingenuously since he’s a regular performer here. Some of his routines are so old hat they could be a metaphorical tricorne – getting stuck behind a caravan on a country road or the subtext when meeting a girlfriend’s parents for the first time. But there are some more inventive lines and in a short set his physicality is a welcome adrenaline shot.

Rewind to the start, and one of a couple of odd turns that didn’t quite belong: Ndubz – though their uninspired music was eventually interrupted by an Alan Carr stunt. We were given no such respite from he later interloper, Chris Moyles, who dressed as Freddie Mercury and engaged a reluctant audience in a bout of call and response. Pointless.

So on through the comics. Dara O Briain started strong with conversational but gaggy material about guilty pleasures and of being the daytime dad. Perhaps it was the child-related charity beneficiaries – or the fact that lots of comics at this level are of a certain age – but parenthood was to be a recurring theme of the night. It was good stuff, but the audience were cold (though not weary as they would later be) and being the first of so many means he’d be hard to recall by the end.

Mark Watson’s wonderfully unaffected demeanour proved engaging, and means that when punchlines such as ‘minge of steel’ come, they have extra impact for seeming so natural. More laughs of recognition came from Alan Carr with tales of the after-effects of drinking told with usual high camp.

Jo Brand received a more muted response, her grumpy demeanour perhaps over-familiar now, despite a tale of abduction that’s got quite an edge. But she was certainly a contrast to the following comedian, Lee Evans.

Hosting a few acts, Jonathan Ross made a decent fist of turning his obvious comic sensibilities into stand-up – which is not always an easy transition. His story about visiting Great Ormond Street was natural and entertaining, those of his beloved pet dogs interrupting his sexual congresses were more forced, but not without charm.

Deprived in this venue of his usual forte of messing with the audience, Jason Byrne initially struggled to make an impact with his battle of the sexes material – but a suggestion of a cheeky and childish bedroom game won them round, and he came good in the end.

Sandwiched between Sean Lock and Chris Moyles was the warm domesticity of Sarah Millican. A great opening line leads into a lazy gag or two about underwear carrying slogans, but then a story of her parents and a suicide pact was irresistibly charming.

Next up, Glasgow lad Kevin Bridges had some cheeky appeal – such as calling London home – but didn’t really sparkle after so many other acts, and no interval yet in sight. Routines about driving tests and learning Spanish just seemed a little too familiar.

Jon Richardson’s stint on Stand Up For The Week and as new team captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats makes it look like he’s being groomed as one of the comedy faces of Channel 4. But his main story of an odd local newspaper story never really took off. His comedy is better looking inward at his own OCD tendencies, but this came too late in this short set.

Finally the Michael McIntyre, and then that long-awaited interval. After which came Rich Hall, who protested: ‘I’ve been thrown to the wolves here.’ The show – obviously over-running - restarted far too quickly, and he had to perform to thousands of people streaming into the auditorium, and shuffling past others into their seat. If they missed any of his set, it was their loss, as he doled out some great lines – especially about Osama Bin Laden’s death and the ‘dignified burial at sea’ before performing a witty and surprisingly tender love ballad to a Ku Klux Klan member, backed by a full backing section.

Jack Dee might have been one of the more established stars of a show not short on familiar faces, but he seemed to phone in his routine about the health service. Taking those annual lists of accident statistics and sneering at the people who hurt themselves on swing bins or cruet set seems easy, and his deadpan slipped into lacklustre.

Rhod Gilbert reinvigorated things with a typical lively rant about his misadventures in retail. This time the thing he got annoyed trying to buy was a hoover – his sharp anti-bullshit rage spilling over to the ridiculous when it comes to the anthropomorphic Henry; but the audience go with him, just to see how it all turns out.

Micky Flanagan was another highlight of the night, with a rather bottom-centric set, but the cheerily matter-of-fact way he described his bout of Delhi belly proved a definite winner from this charismatic working-class everyman.

A lull started to kick in around now, which Andi Osho didn’t really have the material to overcome – charisma and likability proving not enough on their own as her ideas about the Olympics lacked killer lines, the odd nicely descriptive phrase not withstanding.

Her Stand Up For The Week co-star Jack Whitehall pulled things around. As always, much of his material didn’t stand out – though his take on the Midsomer Murders racism row is sharp – but it was delivered with real aplomb. Never was this more evident in his confession to ‘posh shame’ when he disguised his roots by talking like a youth from the ghetto. Such patois is probably the most hackneyed topic among modern comics, but he did his set piece with an impressive comic rhythm that guaranteed a round of applause.

Shappi Khorsandi didn’t have a good gig, with thousands of people falling largely silent during her set. The material, largely about being a single mum, was bitty, not building enough momentum to get us on board, while her punchlines were not strong enough for this not to matter. Her timing seemed off, too, as she rushed too quickly from one gag to the next.

Penultimately – yes, the acts still came – Jason Manford brought his winning ways to the stage, starting off with a knowing nod to his own infamy when he said of Andy Gray: ‘Imagine losing your job for something you did off air…’ His suggestion that all football officials be female was a cunning way into some old clichés, and actually gave them some new life. That and his instant affability.

A small but continuous stream of people left the show throughout John Bishop’s routine, which began after 11pm (the show had started at 7.30pm). And I’m not convinced he really gave them much to stay for. His chit-chat about parenthood was wordy and longwinded, with an obsession with the phrase ‘wank off a tramp’ the audience didn’t share. His style has always been such, but we all needed something punchy after so long a night, and he wasn’t the man to deliver that.

• The Channel 4 Comedy Gala airs on June 10 from 9pm.

Russell Howard - Live Review

If we’re going to continue with this irrational notion of stand-up in arenas, isn’t it about time they got the sound right? Even from great seats in London’s O2, Russell Howard’s voice was bouncing around the echoey walls, making him sound less like a top comic in one of Britain’s supposedly most prestigious venues and more like the bloke commentating on the tractor display at the North Somerset regional agricultural fair.

Still, it’s tribute to his performance that such infuriations were soon forgotten on the last night of his Right Here, Right Now Tour after a series of dates scattered across the entire year. Or at least they were once he’d got beyond the early, straightforward, comments on the likes of Come Dine With Me and Embarrassing Bodies that every other comedian seems to have a similar take on.

Howard really came into his own once he spoke of his own failings. Though his unassuming star quality gives him on-stage kudos, he’s happy to admit he’s nervous around women, clumsy and stupidly childish – and he has the funny anecdotes to back it up. The stories are unique to him, but of a type everyone can identify with. He is truly the People’s Plonker.

That boy-next-door charm has made him something of a BBC Three pin-up, where his Good News can attract up to 1.4million viewers for a single showing… many times more if you count reruns and iPlayer. Such mainstream youth success means has the sort of audience who cheer, without irony, at mention of Take Me Out, Twilight and Justin Bieber -– so he must walk the line between taking the mick and being too cynical. That’s mainly achieved with playful turns of phrase, with analogies such as Madonna’s veiny arm being ‘like the BFG’s penis’ or his punny suggestions for strip club names.

Not that cynical is a word readily associated with Howard. The whole show comprises reasons to be cheerful, which he conveys with an unaffected, infectious glee. Nor is it as soft and toothless as his overwhelmingly positive attitude might suggest – he can talk about Thai ping-pong sex clubs just as naturally as he anthropomorphises his dog into a cutesy cartoon.

But how many other comedians could, genuinely, have something as overwhelmingly upbeat as Russell’s List Of Joy, which he reads from a laptop while perched on a leather armchair on stage, while at another point he says: ‘This show’s basically a love letter to my family.’

His relationship with his brother is certainly fruitful. He mentions he once covered the £20,000 medical cost when his sibling’s appendix burst on an uninsured holiday – but the material that relationship has provided has surely repaid that debt many times over. As he regales us with tales of practical jokes and of no-holds-barred teasing over the Christmas dinner table, it is an obvious celebration of a close-knit family.

His full-on mate Spider, a friend since school where he demonstrated a prodigious gift for masturbation, similarly provides more than his fair share of anecdotes – again with his vigour for life lionised and mocked in equal portion.

Howard is animated on the O2 vast stage, though he does over-use a few tricks, such as comparing certain behaviour as to what ‘mental’ people would do, or by apparently slipping up over words and spinning off into a side routine. The technique of illustrating stories with a suitably comic picture has also been appropriated from Good News, and never more so that the tabloid story of ‘the Ninja From Norwich’ who is predictably incompetent, even though you’ve got to love him for trying.

The show ends with a Q&A, which is as messy as these things usually are, with Howard trying, unsuccessfully, to pick out possible seeds for humour from an arena full of people baying for him to show them his arse.

That he’s playing such spaces is an inescapable fact for a photogenic boy-next-door performing what could easily be pigeonholed as ‘safe’ material. Today’s comedy industry is always going to manufacture stars in this mould – but away from his natural, self-effacing charm, Howard has material that’s often sharper and much better-written than you might expect. Success couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

Russell Peters - Live Review

The best way to enjoy stand-up is always with a sound system that reverberates so perfectly out of sync so that after each sentence ends in one ear, you get a clear echo of the final word in the other, as if you’re sitting next to an obsessively irritating man.

But when you are the self-proclaimed biggest comedian in the world, you play the O2. Simple as. A Russell Peters gig is an event, and it needs a sense of scale – not to mention enough seats to accommodate his army of fans. He doesn’t have the media profile, certainly in the UK, of most arena-fillers, but he can certainly do the business, selling out two nights here.

Despite the size of the room, the affable Canadian plays it like an intimate club, chatting easily with the punters. Never has the ‘where are you from?’ banter been played out on such a global scale. He knows something about every nationality, raising stereotypes you never knew existed. What it is with the Ecuadorians and their massive heads? Think I’m joking? That, according to Peters, is a genuine national trait.

He’s a one-man Mind Your Language, for anyone old enough to remember the unenlightened Seventies race-based sitcom. But he doesn’t aim to be racist, but affectionately mocking, in much the way an English comic might mock thieving Scousers or Norfolk bumpkins. He’s well enough travelled to know what buttons to press and the targets of each good-natured jibe lap it up – perhaps just happy to hear jokes about their native Hungary, Phillipines or Trinidad in the same way some punters always cheer when their home town is mentioned.

But the broader the stereotypes, the lazier it gets; and Peters feels hackneyed when he’s on nationalities others cover. Nigerians are email spammers with inherently hilarious speech patterns, for instance. And whenever he mentions black men, it’s inevitably followed with a gag about the size of their dicks.

Rather too many of his jokes come from comedy misunderstandings of those crazy foreign accents, too, of Arabs who can’t say their Ps or the woman who pronounces ‘god’ as ‘gut’. You have to assume he’s particularly bad at communicating for him to be unable to decipher such trivial errors.

The lengthy – near two-hour – show isn’t all based on geographical differences, though that theme is never far away. He’s got a highly entertaining anecdote about going clubbing in Beirut, some rather ordinary material about rows within relationships, and relishes dropping the c-bomb with impunity, free from the North American aversion to the word. The strongest section is probably the one on Indians’ propensity to make up words based solely on onomatopoeia.

You don’t get to be ‘the world’s biggest comedian’ by being challenging – rude words aside – and the appeal of Peters is his easy geniality and his exaggeratedly comic facial expressions, projected on to the obligatory giant screens. Most of the material saunters along jovially, without making much of a lasting impact, though he displays a devastatingly quick wit with some of the banter, such as discovering a chap named Vi or the English couple planning a ‘fairly big’ wedding with 150 guests. ‘150?’ Peters shoots back. ‘In India, that’s a minibus full.’

There’s not much of substance to hold the interest for the full duration, but Peters is clearly filling an otherwise unmet need. As a comedian for a multicultural world, he serves an audience overlooked by many stand-ups, certainly white ones, who might fear accusations of racism. But being the butt of a joke is a sign of acceptance – we all take the piss out of our friends – and clearly Peters’ targets are gagging for it. You can’t argue with the box office.

Eddie Kadi - Live Review

For such an audacious gig from a relative unknown, Congolese comedian Eddie Kadi's well-publicised show at London’s O2 Arena is a pretty laid-back affair. With creditworthy ticket sales of 8,000 in a venue with a capacity of around 20,000, perhaps the 27-year-old comedian could relax in the knowledge that his event had already won plaudits for its publicity value alone, even breaking into the top five stories on the BBC News website on the day.

Kadi’s route to this arena gig was marked with sell-out stints at the Hackney Empire, Hammersmith Apollo and two nights at O2’s sister venue the IndigO2, a reminder of the pulling power of the stars of the black comedy circuit. ‘There are going to be a lot more Eddie Kadis,’ says veteran Felix Dexter – and on the evidence of how tonight was put together I think he's right.

This gig feels more like an indoor festival than a theatre show. It's essentially a very relaxed chat show with guests punctuating the stand-up. Among those guests are rapper Tinie Tempah, Diane Parish (Denise Johnson in EastEnders), saxophonist Yolanda Brown and a Dappy-less N-Dubz. While their talents are well known to wider audiences, the talents of Kadi are what must hold it together.

The opening sequence where Kadi wakes up to his stage set, meant to replicate his house (complete with house band), doesn’t bode well, being under-rehearsed and further blunted by poor sound. When Kadi emerges in one of the many outfits he will wear tonight (on this occasion a bright blue silky shirt and pink tie) he attempts to find his feet with a routine about the seduction techniques of the British man, the African man and the West Indian man. It’s a bit nervy and jumpy, but the physicality of the routine settles him enough for his subsequent segment about growing up in the Congo, including how vague his relatives were about their ages and their sanguine attitude towards the notion of pets, especially goats, which would often find their way into a cooking pot.

With some momentum gathered, Kadi brings on his first guest Eric Obuh, aka Nigerian rapper Vocal Slender, who made a BBC documentary Welcome to Lagos detailing the poverty in some parts of the capital. Kadi knows that we are here for comedy and while he lets his guest speak of his work, he is keen to not leave the laughs too far behind and tries to get his guest to teach us some ‘pidgin’ before reverting Slender back to English by saying ‘let those pidgins fly away’, a remark that wakes me up to Kadi's comic reflexes.

After a performance by Congolsese pop star Mohombi, Kadi emerges back out on stage in a gaudy tracksuit (with ‘Kadidas’ emblazoned across the back) and goes into a riff about going to the Job Centre, again quite a physical one that explores the posture adopted when walking in to sign on, and goes on to personify the type of cheap bread that you can only afford on the dole.

The Peridot dance troupe, featured on Britain's Got Talent, then do a stint that includes a dance-off with Mohombi's dancers, orchestrated by Kadi, after which the comedian works his celebrity audience a little. Hip-hop star Chipmunk, Tinchy Stryder and footballer-turned rapper-Kano all get asked some fairly anodyne questions and oblige with some anodyne responses.

Aware of the pressures of time, Kadi hurries on to his next sequence where he contests that he once had a promising career in music but various people kept nicking his tunes. The most coherent examples of this are In Tesco to the tune of Usher's Love In This Club and Passport to Tinie Tempah's Pass Out. Rather than bring Tempah on at this point the next guest is Diane Parish who gets time to have some surface chat with Kadi, get an appeal in for black leukemia charity ACLT, and re-enact a scene from EastEnders with Kadi, giving the comedian licence to over-act, a tendency that is mercifully more endearing than grating.

Saxophonist Yolanda Brown follows before Tinie Tempah’s rousing rendition of Pass Out, which he admitted he ‘stole’ from Kadi. The final guests are N-Dubz without Dappy which fits Kadi's ruse that he wants to become their newest member and replace him, re-working their hit Number One to Number Two.

Just before being overtaken by time, Kadi gets in a final routine about travelling on Air Kenya, thereby unwittingly subverting the notion that you do your airplane material first, and the show ends as modestly as it began, but to much appreciation from his audience, who have punctuated his gig with the laughter of recognition throughout.

Perhaps not surprisingly, given the conveyor belt of acts, two and a half hours has passed quickly. Sometimes Kadi has been frenzied and unfocused but always appreciated it seems. He's hinted at a sharp eye for comedy without every giving a sustained look at what his talent can do or given it time to breathe. He has entertained 8.000 people, though, with a little help from his friends.