Frisky & Mannish - Live Review

How apt that one of the campest double acts in comedy are in possibly the biggest tent in London, as pop parodists Frisky & Mannish take over the Udderbelly for their third Edinburgh-bound show.

Having themed previous offerings around school and college, this year their focus is the world of work. At this rate, they’ll be retired by 2013. But, to be blunt, there are already signs of flagging. Not in their vibrant energy, which is as raucous as ever, but in the creativity of their pastiches. Some of the biting wit seems to have been traded in for audience rabble-rousing.

The rabble, though, are more than happy to be roused. That F&M receive two standing ovations from the sold-out crowd is ample evidence of that. Everyone’s more than willing to rise to their feet and dance the Macarena when the raunchily domineering Frisky commands them to, and when, as their finale, they assemble a a boy band from the audience, each with their cliched traits, it goes down a storm. But maybe I’ve seen Adam Hills do this routine too often to be impressed.

But I’m still a fan. Frisky and Mannish have often split opinion, with the most common criticism that it’s a case of style over content. But like the pop they mock, the style IS the content. The showmanship is faultless, they can belt out a tune, and there’s attention to detail in every aspect of the presentation, from the multi-coloured outfits to Lady Frisky’s hair, which appears to be by Stabilo.

When they bowl on stage with an energetic, fast-paced medley of work-related chart-busters, it looks like we’re in for a treat. Then comes the main bit of crowd word, everyone up on their feet for a convoluted way of dividing the room into five tribes, and I – in an admittedly small minority – wish they’d stop this nonsense and return to the serious business of picking apart the world of pop.

However, when that world already contains the preposterous likes of Lady Gaga, Dappy and Jedward, it doesn’t take much to mock them. In fact, just one perfectly judged pause – the musical equivalent of an archly-raised eyebrow – to reduces the words of Katy Perry to ridicule. F&M just have to let the lyrics speak for themselves to expose the jibberish.

As fine purveyors of cheesy mash-ups the forte of these original pop bitches is the sort of musical juxtapositions that Bill Bailey first perfected. Frisky And Mannish’s nursery rhymes medley as if sung by Girls Aloud – performed here as an encore – is a classic, but none of their new offerings come close to that brilliance

Ideas such as the grime version of the Carpenters’ saccharine   On Top Of The World or the Friends theme delivered in a laden Germanic cabaret style raise a smile, but don’t quite have the oomph to stick in the mind. Similarly the ‘phases of Madonna’ montage, from Dick Tracy vamp to Kabbalahtechno and beyond, is expertly done, but the target seems too easy.

To be fair, other subjects are less obvious; and the better your knowledge of pop culture, the more you’ll appreciate their barbed-but-affectionate piss-takes of the likes of Jessie J and Rihanna. Frisky and Mannish clearly want to emulate the musical icons they mock; but they should be wary of letting their performance talents overwhelm the wit.

Tim FitzHigham - Live Review

If ever they open a museum of the upper-class English eccentric, Tim FitzHigham should be stuffed and given pride of place. Charmingly loopy, disarmingly self-deprecating and utterly dedicated to the madcap caper – and yes, this is one time the use of the word ‘caper’ is entirely justified – he is the first to admit he’s a living stereotype.

Thankfully, we don’t have to wait for that museum, as comedy’s answer to Sir Ranulph Fiennes is the best guide to his own unique insanity: describing his peculiar adventures with the same sort of mildly unhinged passion that got him into the scrapes in the first place.

Five years and one day since he first set out to row the Channel in a Victorian bathtub, FitzHigham is at the South Bank’s eye-catching Udderbelly to retell that epic tale in super-condensed, 60-minute format. The full version, however, is covered in his eminently readable book (reviewed here), which just happens to be re-released with the new title All At Sea this month.

His quest is the sort of story that inevitably makes the ‘and finally…’ bit of the news. But beyond the amused eye-rolling at an oddball’s quirky achievement lies a much more engrossing story, told here, as it originally was in the 2004 and 2005 Edinburgh festivals, with an irresistible lightness of touch.

The tale begins – inevitably – in a pub, where FitzHigham mentions his idea to a friend, who quickly suggests the journey be extended not just from Calais to Dover, but all the way to London. Vastly underestimating the distance, FitzHigham readily agrees to the wager, but mileage turns out to be only one of many things he hadn’t quite fully appreciated. He’d never rowed before, had no money, misjudged the demands of propelling a third of a tonne of plumbing against strong currents in the world’s busiest shipping lane and was oblivious to the paperwork required for such an endeavour. Apart from those minor details, he was well-prepared.

Still, such trials are the stuff of great stories, and this is undeniably what FitzHigham has; and although this fast-paced version can only skim the surface in just the way his bathtub didn’t, the spirit of adventure is obvious. Although his achievement was incredible, FitzHigham plays it down, emphasising the jolly japery and his foolishly quixotic nature more than the physical and mental demands. But even from this taster, you can tell he went to a very dark place on this challenge – and that doesn’t just mean Margate.

However, it’s the man more than story that makes this such an entertaining ride; FitzHigham is the sort of benign oddball you can’t help but warm to – which explains how his schemes ever get off the ground, as his passion cajoles people into helping him. The tale of derring-do is told with gags at his own expense, dodgy puns sold with a cheeky showmanship, and a mild anti-French xenophobia that’s as much a part of the English psyche as a good old-fashioned eccentric gentleman adventurer.

Michael Winslow - Live Review

Talk about a talent. Michael Winslow brings you the guitars of Hendrix and Page, the special effects of Star Wars, the singing voice of Louis Armstrong… and the comedy of a nondescript mid-bill road comic.

But we shouldn’t be too surprised as he is, after all, the man even Udderbelly staff could be overheard billing as ‘the bloke who does the sound effects on Police Academy’; which is a much more evocative description than the standard CV of Letterman appearances and the like read out as his introduction.

No one’s here to discover an insightful artist’s unique comic take on the world, but instead we want to be amazed at his vocal dexterity first-hand. And on that front, no disappointment, as this was a show of more than enough jaw-dropping set pieces to earn him a standing ovation at the end, loosely linked by some nondescript stand-up.

When Winslow does his superficially tired routines about flying, daytime TV or the frustrations of self-service supermarket checkouts, he has the arsenal of impressive self-generated effects to back it up. Most comics might drop in little re-enactments to emphasise a point or provide punctuation, for Winslow such asides ARE the show, and the monologue around it mere padding.

Compared to many, his chat sounds stilted and rehearsed, overusing an exaggerated eye-roll pretty that’s pretty much the only non-verbal technique he has. Similarly, the set-ups follow a predictable formula: how he can’t go into Tesco/DIY stores/restaurants any more because of the mischievous pranks he allegedly plays. And if he’s to return to Britain after these two nights on the South Bank, he might want to double-check some of his references: Redd Foxx, Laffy Taffy and even Cheech and Chong aren’t as universally recognised as he thinks they are.

But when he launches into a montage of generic ethnic background music, a riff-perfect rendition of Whole Lotta Love, or a scan through the AM radio dial of classic rock, smooth jazz and pretentious classic stations, you can’t help but be wowed; all failings of the comedy are forgotten in an instant.

Into the mix goes some impressive beatboxing, impressions of the likes of Mike Tyson, Stevie Wonder and Doc Brown from Back To The Future and – of course – the out-of-sync dubbing of a kung-fu scene which made him the funniest thing in Police Academy (admittedly an honour on a par with being the fattest supermodel, most reasonable BNP member or best footballer in the England squad).

Varying the delivery style to include overdubbing some film clips, rapping, singing as well as the more descriptive stand-up, there’s enough texture to just about sustain the hour – quite some feat for what is essentially a gimmick. But it’s a gimmick he’s spent 32 years perfecting – so come for the spectacle of his unique talent, and treat any laugh as a bonus.

Rob Schneider - Live Review

Rob Schneider is known more for being Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo, or the guy who repeatedly yells ‘you can do it!’ at Adam Sandler in The Waterboy, than he is as a stand-up.

And this flying 4th of July visit to London isn’t likely to change that.

If you like easy jokes about the penny-pinching on budget airlines, impressions of foreigners and their wacky accents or observations about how George Bush speaks like an idiot, Schneider is the man for you. Everyone else will find most of his hour-long routine, delivered in an underpowered deadpan, dull and pedestrian.

There’s frequently no point of view other than the hack consensus of US stand-up: East Asians are bad drivers and have small penises, imagine what it would be like if Christopher Walken did the voice of satnav… and what’s the deal with those drug ads on TV and their scary list of side-effects? ‘A side-effect of Viagra is blurred vision,’ he notes. ‘It depends what your wife looks like – that could be an advantage!’ That’s the sort of joke you’re paying £22.50 a ticket for.

He’s lucky to have a Filipina mother and a Mexican fiancée to give him licence to do their comedy accents; though he doesn’t even have that flimsy excuse for his borderline racist takes on stereotypical Chinese and Japanese speech patterns. ‘You take back now,’ he barks repeatedly, just about managing to hold back the temptation to make ‘slitty eyes’ with his fingers, which would be entirely in keeping with the tone of his impressions. American comedians have different sensitivities when it comes to ethnic jokes, but liberal audiences aren’t likely to be comfortable with his stuff on Muslims, equating long names with terrorists and asserting: ‘In Iraq you’ve got your Sunnis, your Shias and your shitheads.’

It’s not all as bad as this. He finds some reasonably funny angles on relationships, dogs and the trappings of fame; routines which nonetheless tend to be made more on his delivery than his writing. As you might expect from a film actor and former Saturday Night Live star, his thumbnail character pieces, in which he brings to life characters populating his stories, are very effective – at least when he stays away from the funny foreigners. And he certainly knows how to employ emphatic repetition to build a rhythm for laughs, even when the material is built on sand.

A few glimpses of his real life peek through. He’s divorced (though his routine about his ex-wife seems to be mainly about point-scoring and swearing liberally) and has a daughter who turned 21 the day before the gig. These touches of the personal add a little more interest to the gig, but nowhere near enough.

The disappointing thing is that because of his name, Schneider can fill the large Udderbelly at substantial ticket cost, yet all across town comedy nights are offering better gigs at a third of the price, and struggling to win the crowds. I don’t know about ‘You can do it!’, but maybe Schneider just shouldn’t.

Woody Bop Muddy - Live Review

The Crack is the more chilled-out cousin of cabaret sensation La Clique, trading some of its stablemate’s elegant, vibrant sleaze for a more artful, if sometimes less thrilling, line-up.

PVC-clad sword-swallower Miss Behave hosts this six-night run in the South Bank’s Udderbelly, with the help of frequent inserts from Doctor Stewart’s staccato dance vignettes, perfectly lip-synched to mashed-up club tracks.

All live shows involve some level of conspiracy between audience and performer, but it’s crucial to a decadent underground cabaret such as this, requiring both sides to believe they are part of an almost illicit happening.

Some acts are better at building this relationship than others, but following the opening routine by Kalki Hula Girl, Phil Kay created a lovely rapport, thanks to his improvised ten-minute song about people who catch his eye in the audience. As someone who regularly talks for hours at a time – not always advisedly – this slot was barely enough to let him hit his stride, but his benign playfulness worked as an impeccable icebreaker.

A more mellow musical offering came from Earl Okin, who might not look the part as a self-proclaimed sex symbol with his squat frame, distinctively outdated dress sense, and scouring-pad hair. But close your eyes and you could almost be listening to a vintage scratched 78, with his sultry lisp and mellifluous voice. The way he rolls his consonants sounds like creaking wood – and the audience (which tonight included one Eddie Izzard, incidentally) was suitably appreciative when he produced the brass section to his bluesy numbers My Room and Bessie using his mouth alone.

Dutch clown Mr Jones was something of a disappointment. In baggy checked suit and carrying an outsized suitcase full of props he proceeded to go through every staple of the street performer’s act, pulling out juggling clubs, a lasso, a whip and diablo in a deliberately desperate attempt to win our attention. His shtick is that he’s a bit of a rubbish entertainer, far too willing to please – but there’s a fine line between faking that and coming across as the real thing; and in his overlong set, Mr Jones fell the wrong side of it. You’d be better off in Covent Garden.

Jon Hicks initially appeared to be another slow-burning act; coming on in paint-splattered decorator’s suit, and attending to some silent comedy business at a snail’s pace. But when the soundtrack kicked in, his true talent emerged as he started chucking paint at the 6ft canvas behind him. He’s a speed artist, and created a mighty impressive portrait in just a few minutes, with a sort of ‘can you guess what it is yet’ tease as the image gradually formed. Eat your heart out, Rolf Harris.

Nina Conti was a crowd favourite with her polished post-postmodern ventriloquism, cleverly deconstructing the deconstructions and with an ambitious, funny and very impressive finale – as seen in her last Edinburgh show – more than excusing any of the obvious-but-effective ‘hand up the backside’ jokes. She is a consummate entertainer, with some brains behind the banter, almost guaranteed to go down well in any room.

She was followed by Andrew Lawrence, who quickly divided the room. He began with a rather odd description of a lump of snot that had lodged up his nostril, delivered without his usual fierce intensity. The site of a strange, whiney man discussing his mucus unsurprisingly failed to catch the attention – so when a heckler interjected, it was hard to predict on whose side the audience would fall.

But by the pure force of his diatribe, Lawrence won at least a narrow majority of the crowd, to enable him to continue with his planned routine: a savagely aggressive rant he imagines giving to the petty traffic cop who once pulled him over on the outskirts of Leicester.

What you can say of his act is that it brought a genuine frisson to the marquee, creating an atmosphere that could so easily have turned nasty. But as he demanded a standing ovation, the cheers outnumbered the jeers. Just about.

The best was saved to last, however, with the brilliantly ridiculous anarchy of Woody Bop Muddy; a barnstorming act who probably hasn’t been seen in the comedy clubs for a decade or more, although he does make occasional appearances on the outdoor festival circuit.

His bonkers Record Graveyard act is easy to describe, but hard to explain. He chucks around great handfuls of rice, then produces an Oxfam shop’s worth of cheesy, ancient LPs whose fate is decided by mob rule. Will these vinyl atrocities be destroyed by his golden hammer, or allowed to ascend into record heaven?

It’s a superbly daft act combining inspired madness, irrefutable high energy and liberating audience participation, sold with 100 per cent conviction. It’s a genuine joy to see him back.

To say he’s worth the £17 to £21 ticket price alone might be overstating the case, but he does provide a barnstorming finale to this eclectic variety line-up.

Andrew Lawrence - Live Review

The Crack is the more chilled-out cousin of cabaret sensation La Clique, trading some of its stablemate’s elegant, vibrant sleaze for a more artful, if sometimes less thrilling, line-up.

PVC-clad sword-swallower Miss Behave hosts this six-night run in the South Bank’s Udderbelly, with the help of frequent inserts from Doctor Stewart’s staccato dance vignettes, perfectly lip-synched to mashed-up club tracks.

All live shows involve some level of conspiracy between audience and performer, but it’s crucial to a decadent underground cabaret such as this, requiring both sides to believe they are part of an almost illicit happening.

Some acts are better at building this relationship than others, but following the opening routine by Kalki Hula Girl, Phil Kay created a lovely rapport, thanks to his improvised ten-minute song about people who catch his eye in the audience. As someone who regularly talks for hours at a time – not always advisedly – this slot was barely enough to let him hit his stride, but his benign playfulness worked as an impeccable icebreaker.

A more mellow musical offering came from Earl Okin, who might not look the part as a self-proclaimed sex symbol with his squat frame, distinctively outdated dress sense, and scouring-pad hair. But close your eyes and you could almost be listening to a vintage scratched 78, with his sultry lisp and mellifluous voice. The way he rolls his consonants sounds like creaking wood – and the audience (which tonight included one Eddie Izzard, incidentally) was suitably appreciative when he produced the brass section to his bluesy numbers My Room and Bessie using his mouth alone.

Dutch clown Mr Jones was something of a disappointment. In baggy checked suit and carrying an outsized suitcase full of props he proceeded to go through every staple of the street performer’s act, pulling out juggling clubs, a lasso, a whip and diablo in a deliberately desperate attempt to win our attention. His shtick is that he’s a bit of a rubbish entertainer, far too willing to please – but there’s a fine line between faking that and coming across as the real thing; and in his overlong set, Mr Jones fell the wrong side of it. You’d be better off in Covent Garden.

Jon Hicks initially appeared to be another slow-burning act; coming on in paint-splattered decorator’s suit, and attending to some silent comedy business at a snail’s pace. But when the soundtrack kicked in, his true talent emerged as he started chucking paint at the 6ft canvas behind him. He’s a speed artist, and created a mighty impressive portrait in just a few minutes, with a sort of ‘can you guess what it is yet’ tease as the image gradually formed. Eat your heart out, Rolf Harris.

Nina Conti was a crowd favourite with her polished post-postmodern ventriloquism, cleverly deconstructing the deconstructions and with an ambitious, funny and very impressive finale – as seen in her last Edinburgh show – more than excusing any of the obvious-but-effective ‘hand up the backside’ jokes. She is a consummate entertainer, with some brains behind the banter, almost guaranteed to go down well in any room.

She was followed by Andrew Lawrence, who quickly divided the room. He began with a rather odd description of a lump of snot that had lodged up his nostril, delivered without his usual fierce intensity. The site of a strange, whiney man discussing his mucus unsurprisingly failed to catch the attention – so when a heckler interjected, it was hard to predict on whose side the audience would fall.

But by the pure force of his diatribe, Lawrence won at least a narrow majority of the crowd, to enable him to continue with his planned routine: a savagely aggressive rant he imagines giving to the petty traffic cop who once pulled him over on the outskirts of Leicester.

What you can say of his act is that it brought a genuine frisson to the marquee, creating an atmosphere that could so easily have turned nasty. But as he demanded a standing ovation, the cheers outnumbered the jeers. Just about.

The best was saved to last, however, with the brilliantly ridiculous anarchy of Woody Bop Muddy; a barnstorming act who probably hasn’t been seen in the comedy clubs for a decade or more, although he does make occasional appearances on the outdoor festival circuit.

His bonkers Record Graveyard act is easy to describe, but hard to explain. He chucks around great handfuls of rice, then produces an Oxfam shop’s worth of cheesy, ancient LPs whose fate is decided by mob rule. Will these vinyl atrocities be destroyed by his golden hammer, or allowed to ascend into record heaven?

It’s a superbly daft act combining inspired madness, irrefutable high energy and liberating audience participation, sold with 100 per cent conviction. It’s a genuine joy to see him back.

To say he’s worth the £17 to £21 ticket price alone might be overstating the case, but he does provide a barnstorming finale to this eclectic variety line-up.

Phil Kay - Live Review

The Crack is the more chilled-out cousin of cabaret sensation La Clique, trading some of its stablemate’s elegant, vibrant sleaze for a more artful, if sometimes less thrilling, line-up.

PVC-clad sword-swallower Miss Behave hosts this six-night run in the South Bank’s Udderbelly, with the help of frequent inserts from Doctor Stewart’s staccato dance vignettes, perfectly lip-synched to mashed-up club tracks.

All live shows involve some level of conspiracy between audience and performer, but it’s crucial to a decadent underground cabaret such as this, requiring both sides to believe they are part of an almost illicit happening.

Some acts are better at building this relationship than others, but following the opening routine by Kalki Hula Girl, Phil Kay created a lovely rapport, thanks to his improvised ten-minute song about people who catch his eye in the audience. As someone who regularly talks for hours at a time – not always advisedly – this slot was barely enough to let him hit his stride, but his benign playfulness worked as an impeccable icebreaker.

A more mellow musical offering came from Earl Okin, who might not look the part as a self-proclaimed sex symbol with his squat frame, distinctively outdated dress sense, and scouring-pad hair. But close your eyes and you could almost be listening to a vintage scratched 78, with his sultry lisp and mellifluous voice. The way he rolls his consonants sounds like creaking wood – and the audience (which tonight included one Eddie Izzard, incidentally) was suitably appreciative when he produced the brass section to his bluesy numbers My Room and Bessie using his mouth alone.

Dutch clown Mr Jones was something of a disappointment. In baggy checked suit and carrying an outsized suitcase full of props he proceeded to go through every staple of the street performer’s act, pulling out juggling clubs, a lasso, a whip and diablo in a deliberately desperate attempt to win our attention. His shtick is that he’s a bit of a rubbish entertainer, far too willing to please – but there’s a fine line between faking that and coming across as the real thing; and in his overlong set, Mr Jones fell the wrong side of it. You’d be better off in Covent Garden.

Jon Hicks initially appeared to be another slow-burning act; coming on in paint-splattered decorator’s suit, and attending to some silent comedy business at a snail’s pace. But when the soundtrack kicked in, his true talent emerged as he started chucking paint at the 6ft canvas behind him. He’s a speed artist, and created a mighty impressive portrait in just a few minutes, with a sort of ‘can you guess what it is yet’ tease as the image gradually formed. Eat your heart out, Rolf Harris.

Nina Conti was a crowd favourite with her polished post-postmodern ventriloquism, cleverly deconstructing the deconstructions and with an ambitious, funny and very impressive finale – as seen in her last Edinburgh show – more than excusing any of the obvious-but-effective ‘hand up the backside’ jokes. She is a consummate entertainer, with some brains behind the banter, almost guaranteed to go down well in any room.

She was followed by Andrew Lawrence, who quickly divided the room. He began with a rather odd description of a lump of snot that had lodged up his nostril, delivered without his usual fierce intensity. The site of a strange, whiney man discussing his mucus unsurprisingly failed to catch the attention – so when a heckler interjected, it was hard to predict on whose side the audience would fall.

But by the pure force of his diatribe, Lawrence won at least a narrow majority of the crowd, to enable him to continue with his planned routine: a savagely aggressive rant he imagines giving to the petty traffic cop who once pulled him over on the outskirts of Leicester.

What you can say of his act is that it brought a genuine frisson to the marquee, creating an atmosphere that could so easily have turned nasty. But as he demanded a standing ovation, the cheers outnumbered the jeers. Just about.

The best was saved to last, however, with the brilliantly ridiculous anarchy of Woody Bop Muddy; a barnstorming act who probably hasn’t been seen in the comedy clubs for a decade or more, although he does make occasional appearances on the outdoor festival circuit.

His bonkers Record Graveyard act is easy to describe, but hard to explain. He chucks around great handfuls of rice, then produces an Oxfam shop’s worth of cheesy, ancient LPs whose fate is decided by mob rule. Will these vinyl atrocities be destroyed by his golden hammer, or allowed to ascend into record heaven?

It’s a superbly daft act combining inspired madness, irrefutable high energy and liberating audience participation, sold with 100 per cent conviction. It’s a genuine joy to see him back.

To say he’s worth the £17 to £21 ticket price alone might be overstating the case, but he does provide a barnstorming finale to this eclectic variety line-up.

Nina Conti - Live Review

The Crack is the more chilled-out cousin of cabaret sensation La Clique, trading some of its stablemate’s elegant, vibrant sleaze for a more artful, if sometimes less thrilling, line-up.

PVC-clad sword-swallower Miss Behave hosts this six-night run in the South Bank’s Udderbelly, with the help of frequent inserts from Doctor Stewart’s staccato dance vignettes, perfectly lip-synched to mashed-up club tracks.

All live shows involve some level of conspiracy between audience and performer, but it’s crucial to a decadent underground cabaret such as this, requiring both sides to believe they are part of an almost illicit happening.

Some acts are better at building this relationship than others, but following the opening routine by Kalki Hula Girl, Phil Kay created a lovely rapport, thanks to his improvised ten-minute song about people who catch his eye in the audience. As someone who regularly talks for hours at a time – not always advisedly – this slot was barely enough to let him hit his stride, but his benign playfulness worked as an impeccable icebreaker.

A more mellow musical offering came from Earl Okin, who might not look the part as a self-proclaimed sex symbol with his squat frame, distinctively outdated dress sense, and scouring-pad hair. But close your eyes and you could almost be listening to a vintage scratched 78, with his sultry lisp and mellifluous voice. The way he rolls his consonants sounds like creaking wood – and the audience (which tonight included one Eddie Izzard, incidentally) was suitably appreciative when he produced the brass section to his bluesy numbers My Room and Bessie using his mouth alone.

Dutch clown Mr Jones was something of a disappointment. In baggy checked suit and carrying an outsized suitcase full of props he proceeded to go through every staple of the street performer’s act, pulling out juggling clubs, a lasso, a whip and diablo in a deliberately desperate attempt to win our attention. His shtick is that he’s a bit of a rubbish entertainer, far too willing to please – but there’s a fine line between faking that and coming across as the real thing; and in his overlong set, Mr Jones fell the wrong side of it. You’d be better off in Covent Garden.

Jon Hicks initially appeared to be another slow-burning act; coming on in paint-splattered decorator’s suit, and attending to some silent comedy business at a snail’s pace. But when the soundtrack kicked in, his true talent emerged as he started chucking paint at the 6ft canvas behind him. He’s a speed artist, and created a mighty impressive portrait in just a few minutes, with a sort of ‘can you guess what it is yet’ tease as the image gradually formed. Eat your heart out, Rolf Harris.

Nina Conti was a crowd favourite with her polished post-postmodern ventriloquism, cleverly deconstructing the deconstructions and with an ambitious, funny and very impressive finale – as seen in her last Edinburgh show – more than excusing any of the obvious-but-effective ‘hand up the backside’ jokes. She is a consummate entertainer, with some brains behind the banter, almost guaranteed to go down well in any room.

She was followed by Andrew Lawrence, who quickly divided the room. He began with a rather odd description of a lump of snot that had lodged up his nostril, delivered without his usual fierce intensity. The site of a strange, whiney man discussing his mucus unsurprisingly failed to catch the attention – so when a heckler interjected, it was hard to predict on whose side the audience would fall.

But by the pure force of his diatribe, Lawrence won at least a narrow majority of the crowd, to enable him to continue with his planned routine: a savagely aggressive rant he imagines giving to the petty traffic cop who once pulled him over on the outskirts of Leicester.

What you can say of his act is that it brought a genuine frisson to the marquee, creating an atmosphere that could so easily have turned nasty. But as he demanded a standing ovation, the cheers outnumbered the jeers. Just about.

The best was saved to last, however, with the brilliantly ridiculous anarchy of Woody Bop Muddy; a barnstorming act who probably hasn’t been seen in the comedy clubs for a decade or more, although he does make occasional appearances on the outdoor festival circuit.

His bonkers Record Graveyard act is easy to describe, but hard to explain. He chucks around great handfuls of rice, then produces an Oxfam shop’s worth of cheesy, ancient LPs whose fate is decided by mob rule. Will these vinyl atrocities be destroyed by his golden hammer, or allowed to ascend into record heaven?

It’s a superbly daft act combining inspired madness, irrefutable high energy and liberating audience participation, sold with 100 per cent conviction. It’s a genuine joy to see him back.

To say he’s worth the £17 to £21 ticket price alone might be overstating the case, but he does provide a barnstorming finale to this eclectic variety line-up.

Joan Rivers - Live Review

The day after Sandra Bernhard opens in London, a grander, older dame of American comedy opens across the river, marking the start of the seven-week programme in the purple upside-down cow that is the Udderbelly.

There can be few who don’t know what to expect from the vitriolic Joan Rivers by now. With her bitter Jewish bitchiness, she might be considered Sarah Silverman’s spiritual grandmother, sniping viciously, provocatively and even offensively at any target in her sights. At 75 she may be the only star to look less lifelike than her Madame Tussaud’s waxwork, but she’s lost none of her bite.

Gays, Mexicans, the Chinese, fatties, old people, deaf people, blind people and countless celebrities are all fair game, covered by the usual allowance: well, she has a go at everyone. And if anyone has carte blanche to be throw good taste out of the window, it would have to be a woman who can make cruel jokes at the expense of her own beloved husband’s suicide. She has all the tact and compassion of Kim Jung-Il.

Some of her victims may seem dated and obscure – who would have thought that 79-year-old former American TV host Dick Clarke or Jimmy Carter’s daughter Amy would be on the receiving end of a savage diatribe in London in 2009? In another evocation of her past, she performs – as she would have done in the nightclubs of the Sixties – in front of a bad, Four people employed simply to sit there and laugh at her jokes, then play a funky Bonzos-style version of Rule Britannia at the show’s end.

The uncompromising viciousness of River’s delivery means the brutality never stops, as the septugenerian draws energy from her own barbarism – a sort of comedic blood lust that keeps her vibrant. It means she’s not too old – or too embarrassed – to writhe around on the floor to illustrate a routine about sex. Getting to her feet is more of a struggle.

Can we talk? Well, she certainly can. Rivers is a verbal streetfighter, and her onslaught is relentless. If the wit behind the gags can sometimes be left wanting, the sharpness of their impact never is. So while many comics have mocked the likes of Mel Gibson’s anti-Semitism, Madonna’s English pretensions or Angelina Jolie’s Third World adoptions, few do it with such short, sharp stabs. And it’s given an extra edge as it’s highly likely she knows these people.

There’s little new here from Rivers’s last visits to the UK – despite the cue-cards to prompt her taped to the stage floor. But you can’t be a comedy fan and not want to see this legend, still in full force after all these years.