Hal Sparks - Live Review

In the States, Hal Sparks is well-known for his acting – mainly thanks to the US version of Queer As Folk – as well as a sometime musician with his rock band Zero1.

But it is as a stand-up that he is currently making his London – although any notion that he is some Los Angeles dilettante dabbling in just another performance genre is quickly dismissed. He’s a relaxed, assured comic who manages to escape the American disease of putting slick delivery over mediocre content by actually having some worthwhile, consensus-challenging opinions to share.

Although occasionally smug in his outlook, he is more likely to underplay any provocative intent. In style, he’s a lot more mainstream than the impassioned iconoclasts who become must-see cult hits, but be in no doubt that there are fresh ideas at play here. And in case you are, he’s not ashamed to remind you of the fact by telling how he had to move out of his native Kentucky for ‘thinking too much’. Yet it’s not an empty boast; he has original thoughts about everything from the origins of grunge music to the social impact of flirtatious ‘sexting’ that are always worth hearing.

‘I’m not one of those people who will tell you men and women are different,’ he says at another point, again rather blatantly stating his own originality, but it does lead to his finest routine – a funny and insightful description of how different human interactions would be if male and female genitals were surreally reversed. As heterosexual as they come, despite the role that made him famous, he’s not abashed by telling us his thoughts on relationships.

Pedantry is one of his key weapons. That he loves playing with language is obvious from his eloquent writing (‘I was captain of the analogy team at High School,’ he jokes). So anyone who misuses it is liable to be on the end of his sharp tongue, from coffee shops selling ‘unsweetened’ tea to his friend who can’t help but say empty phrases such as, ‘That’s the last thing you want’. And no, he’s not the first person to take such idioms literally nor to complain about drinks coming in only ‘medium’ and ‘large’ but not ‘small’– but as part of a wider routine, you know it comes from the heart.

Tea is pretty much the extent of his vices, but looking so much younger than his 40 years, Sparks is a good advertisement for not drinking, smoking or doing drugs. Although he makes an excellent point about why he shouldn’t be defined by what he doesn’t do – as well as delivering some harsh home truths to those who do indulge.

Only his extended Michael Jackson segment feels stale; those child-abuse claims being covered by so many comedians that finding fresh ground is difficult. And while Sparks wraps up the familiar opinions well, there’s no escaping the fact they are familiar opinions.

Even after a few shows over here, he does use a few American-specific references that unnecessarily screw up his otherwise sharp timing, as it takes the audience a beat or two to try to work out what he means by VFW, Sandy Duncan, Jolly Ranchers or EMT. These are rare slip-ups in an otherwise exceptional delivery, combining commitment to his material, fluid links and the ability to ambush the audience into accepting his more outrageous pronouncements by charm and stealth.

These few nights at London’s Soho Theatre are only a tentative toe in the waters of British stand-up, but he’s certainly made a good first impression.

Alexei Sayle - Live Review

Alexei Sayle says it was a reluctant decision to return to stand-up after such a along absence, admitting that he was wary he might only be held in such high regard as a founding father of alternative comedy because so few people had actually seen him on stage.

‘Diluting the legacy’ his wife called his comeback– a title for a tour if ever there was one. But on the evidence of this, just his fourth gig in 16 years, Britain’s pioneering anarcho-Marxist comedy star-cum-Mrs Marple actor has very little to fear.

Sure, at the age of 59, some of the feral aggression has gone, as have some of the old certainties. ‘Politics is a lot more complicated now,’ he says – but that could just as well be the effects of his broader life’s experience, not just the blurring of the old left vs right battle lines of the Eighties.

Sayle’s more recent work encompasses adverts for the Wild Bean Café, which might, he confesses, suggest a toning down of his firebrand tendencies. But hasn’t abandoned his beliefs altogether, with a closing routine that carries a reference to the Sabra and Shatila massacre.

But politics is – and always was – just one ingredient in the pie, and Sayle is just as happy doing pub gags about blind hippos going in to pubs, or observational routines deconstructing Casualty. In the wrong hands either could be hack, but Sayle has strong instincts and a rascally delivery that makes this effortless and fun. And while the full-on mania has gone, it’s been replaced by a more accessible, natural wit.

His own career informs much of his self-deprecating material, including a couple of well-pitched anecdotes from his brief stint as a novelty pop star, and an especially delightful piece about how Ben Elton – his successor as Comedy Store compere – got his own back after being the brunt of Sayle’s festering disdain for years. A couple of these segments are old material, but he still makes them feel fresh, thanks to the timing and genial presence it’s almost impossible to fake.

This isn’t a full comeback, but a tentative toe in the water as he fronts a series of cross-generational showcases in the Soho Theatre’s lovely basement club. And whether it’s what he’s doing on stage now, or the more unruly days he represents, but he engenders a playfully feisty atmosphere in the crowd, which rears its head a couple of times.

In the guise of her ant comedian, Bridget Christie largely baffles the audience, which is slightly surprising as such surreal oddness is surely a throwback to the best days of alternative cabaret. Even though her ridiculous parallels between the prejudices faced by female comedians and formic ones deserves better than this, she remains cheerfully stoic, insisting awkwardness was what she always planned as ‘laughter is undignified’.

Nonetheless, the audience really get into the spirit of things when she embarks on her ant based puns, with a series of perfectly-judged heckles all ending in ‘-ant’ – and the ensuing banter on both sides1 lifts the set.

No such disrespect is afforded Simon Munnery, who is given free rein to entertain with his pithy, oblique gags. He opens with a routine about killing dogs that’s skilfully inoffensive, before re-enacting an imaginary theological debate with Richard Dawkins, who is given the voice of a particularly pedantic EL Wisty. And all that’s relatively mainstream in comparison to his jauntily geeky song about the architects of the ill-fated R101 airship, which nonetheless hits the mark. His current tour, named after that track, is a return to form after a few years of treading water – and this charming, sharp set continued that winning streak.

The audience were back on their springs for Josie Long, vocally challenging her account that there was a time when people stood in front of their televisions for the National Anthem played at closedown came. But she handled it beautifully, calling up her expert witness, and creating a nice moment of spontaneity.

At the start of her set, she confessed it has been a while since she’d performed just 20 minutes – and in the event stayed on stage for what must have been about twice that, which seemed too long in the context of this showcase.

This aside, her political-tinged routine, with its key themes of fair taxation and universal free education can be a little soapboxy, but she wins through on puppyish charm and passionate conviction. But even she appeared shocked when her suggestion the Royals’ heads should be on spikes was so enthusiastically endorsed by what she considered a conservative audience – indicating Sayle’s fans haven’t entirely softened in their advancing middle age.

For despite his reservations about putting his hat back in the stand-up ring, this is his show, and even though he had penned only a few routines for the occasion, it certainly proved he can still be relevant – and more importantly funny – after his absence. It’s early days, but his legacy looks more than safe so far.

Bridget Christie - Live Review

Alexei Sayle says it was a reluctant decision to return to stand-up after such a along absence, admitting that he was wary he might only be held in such high regard as a founding father of alternative comedy because so few people had actually seen him on stage.

‘Diluting the legacy’ his wife called his comeback– a title for a tour if ever there was one. But on the evidence of this, just his fourth gig in 16 years, Britain’s pioneering anarcho-Marxist comedy star-cum-Mrs Marple actor has very little to fear.

Sure, at the age of 59, some of the feral aggression has gone, as have some of the old certainties. ‘Politics is a lot more complicated now,’ he says – but that could just as well be the effects of his broader life’s experience, not just the blurring of the old left vs right battle lines of the Eighties.

Sayle’s more recent work encompasses adverts for the Wild Bean Café, which might, he confesses, suggest a toning down of his firebrand tendencies. But hasn’t abandoned his beliefs altogether, with a closing routine that carries a reference to the Sabra and Shatila massacre.

But politics is – and always was – just one ingredient in the pie, and Sayle is just as happy doing pub gags about blind hippos going in to pubs, or observational routines deconstructing Casualty. In the wrong hands either could be hack, but Sayle has strong instincts and a rascally delivery that makes this effortless and fun. And while the full-on mania has gone, it’s been replaced by a more accessible, natural wit.

His own career informs much of his self-deprecating material, including a couple of well-pitched anecdotes from his brief stint as a novelty pop star, and an especially delightful piece about how Ben Elton – his successor as Comedy Store compere – got his own back after being the brunt of Sayle’s festering disdain for years. A couple of these segments are old material, but he still makes them feel fresh, thanks to the timing and genial presence it’s almost impossible to fake.

This isn’t a full comeback, but a tentative toe in the water as he fronts a series of cross-generational showcases in the Soho Theatre’s lovely basement club. And whether it’s what he’s doing on stage now, or the more unruly days he represents, but he engenders a playfully feisty atmosphere in the crowd, which rears its head a couple of times.

In the guise of her ant comedian, Bridget Christie largely baffles the audience, which is slightly surprising as such surreal oddness is surely a throwback to the best days of alternative cabaret. Even though her ridiculous parallels between the prejudices faced by female comedians and formic ones deserves better than this, she remains cheerfully stoic, insisting awkwardness was what she always planned as ‘laughter is undignified’.

Nonetheless, the audience really get into the spirit of things when she embarks on her ant based puns, with a series of perfectly-judged heckles all ending in ‘-ant’ – and the ensuing banter on both sides1 lifts the set.

No such disrespect is afforded Simon Munnery, who is given free rein to entertain with his pithy, oblique gags. He opens with a routine about killing dogs that’s skilfully inoffensive, before re-enacting an imaginary theological debate with Richard Dawkins, who is given the voice of a particularly pedantic EL Wisty. And all that’s relatively mainstream in comparison to his jauntily geeky song about the architects of the ill-fated R101 airship, which nonetheless hits the mark. His current tour, named after that track, is a return to form after a few years of treading water – and this charming, sharp set continued that winning streak.

The audience were back on their springs for Josie Long, vocally challenging her account that there was a time when people stood in front of their televisions for the National Anthem played at closedown came. But she handled it beautifully, calling up her expert witness, and creating a nice moment of spontaneity.

At the start of her set, she confessed it has been a while since she’d performed just 20 minutes – and in the event stayed on stage for what must have been about twice that, which seemed too long in the context of this showcase.

This aside, her political-tinged routine, with its key themes of fair taxation and universal free education can be a little soapboxy, but she wins through on puppyish charm and passionate conviction. But even she appeared shocked when her suggestion the Royals’ heads should be on spikes was so enthusiastically endorsed by what she considered a conservative audience – indicating Sayle’s fans haven’t entirely softened in their advancing middle age.

For despite his reservations about putting his hat back in the stand-up ring, this is his show, and even though he had penned only a few routines for the occasion, it certainly proved he can still be relevant – and more importantly funny – after his absence. It’s early days, but his legacy looks more than safe so far.

Simon Munnery - Live Review

Alexei Sayle says it was a reluctant decision to return to stand-up after such a along absence, admitting that he was wary he might only be held in such high regard as a founding father of alternative comedy because so few people had actually seen him on stage.

‘Diluting the legacy’ his wife called his comeback– a title for a tour if ever there was one. But on the evidence of this, just his fourth gig in 16 years, Britain’s pioneering anarcho-Marxist comedy star-cum-Mrs Marple actor has very little to fear.

Sure, at the age of 59, some of the feral aggression has gone, as have some of the old certainties. ‘Politics is a lot more complicated now,’ he says – but that could just as well be the effects of his broader life’s experience, not just the blurring of the old left vs right battle lines of the Eighties.

Sayle’s more recent work encompasses adverts for the Wild Bean Café, which might, he confesses, suggest a toning down of his firebrand tendencies. But hasn’t abandoned his beliefs altogether, with a closing routine that carries a reference to the Sabra and Shatila massacre.

But politics is – and always was – just one ingredient in the pie, and Sayle is just as happy doing pub gags about blind hippos going in to pubs, or observational routines deconstructing Casualty. In the wrong hands either could be hack, but Sayle has strong instincts and a rascally delivery that makes this effortless and fun. And while the full-on mania has gone, it’s been replaced by a more accessible, natural wit.

His own career informs much of his self-deprecating material, including a couple of well-pitched anecdotes from his brief stint as a novelty pop star, and an especially delightful piece about how Ben Elton – his successor as Comedy Store compere – got his own back after being the brunt of Sayle’s festering disdain for years. A couple of these segments are old material, but he still makes them feel fresh, thanks to the timing and genial presence it’s almost impossible to fake.

This isn’t a full comeback, but a tentative toe in the water as he fronts a series of cross-generational showcases in the Soho Theatre’s lovely basement club. And whether it’s what he’s doing on stage now, or the more unruly days he represents, but he engenders a playfully feisty atmosphere in the crowd, which rears its head a couple of times.

In the guise of her ant comedian, Bridget Christie largely baffles the audience, which is slightly surprising as such surreal oddness is surely a throwback to the best days of alternative cabaret. Even though her ridiculous parallels between the prejudices faced by female comedians and formic ones deserves better than this, she remains cheerfully stoic, insisting awkwardness was what she always planned as ‘laughter is undignified’.

Nonetheless, the audience really get into the spirit of things when she embarks on her ant based puns, with a series of perfectly-judged heckles all ending in ‘-ant’ – and the ensuing banter on both sides1 lifts the set.

No such disrespect is afforded Simon Munnery, who is given free rein to entertain with his pithy, oblique gags. He opens with a routine about killing dogs that’s skilfully inoffensive, before re-enacting an imaginary theological debate with Richard Dawkins, who is given the voice of a particularly pedantic EL Wisty. And all that’s relatively mainstream in comparison to his jauntily geeky song about the architects of the ill-fated R101 airship, which nonetheless hits the mark. His current tour, named after that track, is a return to form after a few years of treading water – and this charming, sharp set continued that winning streak.

The audience were back on their springs for Josie Long, vocally challenging her account that there was a time when people stood in front of their televisions for the National Anthem played at closedown came. But she handled it beautifully, calling up her expert witness, and creating a nice moment of spontaneity.

At the start of her set, she confessed it has been a while since she’d performed just 20 minutes – and in the event stayed on stage for what must have been about twice that, which seemed too long in the context of this showcase.

This aside, her political-tinged routine, with its key themes of fair taxation and universal free education can be a little soapboxy, but she wins through on puppyish charm and passionate conviction. But even she appeared shocked when her suggestion the Royals’ heads should be on spikes was so enthusiastically endorsed by what she considered a conservative audience – indicating Sayle’s fans haven’t entirely softened in their advancing middle age.

For despite his reservations about putting his hat back in the stand-up ring, this is his show, and even though he had penned only a few routines for the occasion, it certainly proved he can still be relevant – and more importantly funny – after his absence. It’s early days, but his legacy looks more than safe so far.

Josie Long - Live Review

Alexei Sayle says it was a reluctant decision to return to stand-up after such a along absence, admitting that he was wary he might only be held in such high regard as a founding father of alternative comedy because so few people had actually seen him on stage.

‘Diluting the legacy’ his wife called his comeback– a title for a tour if ever there was one. But on the evidence of this, just his fourth gig in 16 years, Britain’s pioneering anarcho-Marxist comedy star-cum-Mrs Marple actor has very little to fear.

Sure, at the age of 59, some of the feral aggression has gone, as have some of the old certainties. ‘Politics is a lot more complicated now,’ he says – but that could just as well be the effects of his broader life’s experience, not just the blurring of the old left vs right battle lines of the Eighties.

Sayle’s more recent work encompasses adverts for the Wild Bean Café, which might, he confesses, suggest a toning down of his firebrand tendencies. But hasn’t abandoned his beliefs altogether, with a closing routine that carries a reference to the Sabra and Shatila massacre.

But politics is – and always was – just one ingredient in the pie, and Sayle is just as happy doing pub gags about blind hippos going in to pubs, or observational routines deconstructing Casualty. In the wrong hands either could be hack, but Sayle has strong instincts and a rascally delivery that makes this effortless and fun. And while the full-on mania has gone, it’s been replaced by a more accessible, natural wit.

His own career informs much of his self-deprecating material, including a couple of well-pitched anecdotes from his brief stint as a novelty pop star, and an especially delightful piece about how Ben Elton – his successor as Comedy Store compere – got his own back after being the brunt of Sayle’s festering disdain for years. A couple of these segments are old material, but he still makes them feel fresh, thanks to the timing and genial presence it’s almost impossible to fake.

This isn’t a full comeback, but a tentative toe in the water as he fronts a series of cross-generational showcases in the Soho Theatre’s lovely basement club. And whether it’s what he’s doing on stage now, or the more unruly days he represents, but he engenders a playfully feisty atmosphere in the crowd, which rears its head a couple of times.

In the guise of her ant comedian, Bridget Christie largely baffles the audience, which is slightly surprising as such surreal oddness is surely a throwback to the best days of alternative cabaret. Even though her ridiculous parallels between the prejudices faced by female comedians and formic ones deserves better than this, she remains cheerfully stoic, insisting awkwardness was what she always planned as ‘laughter is undignified’.

Nonetheless, the audience really get into the spirit of things when she embarks on her ant based puns, with a series of perfectly-judged heckles all ending in ‘-ant’ – and the ensuing banter on both sides1 lifts the set.

No such disrespect is afforded Simon Munnery, who is given free rein to entertain with his pithy, oblique gags. He opens with a routine about killing dogs that’s skilfully inoffensive, before re-enacting an imaginary theological debate with Richard Dawkins, who is given the voice of a particularly pedantic EL Wisty. And all that’s relatively mainstream in comparison to his jauntily geeky song about the architects of the ill-fated R101 airship, which nonetheless hits the mark. His current tour, named after that track, is a return to form after a few years of treading water – and this charming, sharp set continued that winning streak.

The audience were back on their springs for Josie Long, vocally challenging her account that there was a time when people stood in front of their televisions for the National Anthem played at closedown came. But she handled it beautifully, calling up her expert witness, and creating a nice moment of spontaneity.

At the start of her set, she confessed it has been a while since she’d performed just 20 minutes – and in the event stayed on stage for what must have been about twice that, which seemed too long in the context of this showcase.

This aside, her political-tinged routine, with its key themes of fair taxation and universal free education can be a little soapboxy, but she wins through on puppyish charm and passionate conviction. But even she appeared shocked when her suggestion the Royals’ heads should be on spikes was so enthusiastically endorsed by what she considered a conservative audience – indicating Sayle’s fans haven’t entirely softened in their advancing middle age.

For despite his reservations about putting his hat back in the stand-up ring, this is his show, and even though he had penned only a few routines for the occasion, it certainly proved he can still be relevant – and more importantly funny – after his absence. It’s early days, but his legacy looks more than safe so far.

Rich Fulcher - Live Review

Rich Fulcher’s a strange and funny man who seems not quite of this world. He may have been sent to Earth to find the perfect comic vehicle for his peculiar talents – but like so many of his efforts, from Snuff Box to the lascivious groupie Eleanor – this intentional shambles is too inconsistent to be the answer.

In these times of Arab Spring rebellion and riots on England’s streets, this impudent American argues that the way to ‘stick it to the man, right up the bunghole’ is not with grand gestures, but minor and ridiculous acts of insurrection. He’s already collected these in an entertaining book, which was published last Christmas, but this is the lecture circuit version.

Not that either the spoof seminar, or the idea these are genuine childishly rebellious actions, clung to particularly strongly. Often the examples are just petty oneupmanship or suggestions about how to deal with daily irritants such as the office bore or unwanted cold-callers. But the more purely subversive the intent, the greater the comic payoff.

Sometimes his suggestions are wildly inventive, like deliberately mispronouncing everyday words; and sometimes a little flat – such as his ideas for engaging with an email spammer, which is already a depleted well of comedy. Likewise, acting out the examples is just as likely to enhance them as exhaust them, and there seems very little care to which of these two payoffs you get.

Much is made of the awkward and amateur nature of the seminar, but just how much of this lack of professionalism is fake is left deliberately unclear. You’re often given the impression he’s genuinely bumbling his way through his often laboured suggestions, until he clobbers you with a powerful right-hook of oddness.

The brutal non-sequitur is his best friend, and he frequently blurts out something that reveals a whole troubled back-story in one sharp, random outburst, rescuing a floundering scene.

In his efforts, Fulcher is ably assisted by his frequently scene-stealing sidekick, Arnab Chandra. At his best, Chandra offers some semblance of normality for Fulcher to rub up against, which heightens the underplayed absurdity, and therefore the laughs. Not that Tiny Acts Of Rebellion is as full-on weird as followers of Fulcher’s previous work might expect; the surrealism and the energy of the performance are more muted than almost everything he’s done before.

The audience (who tonight included his Mighty Boosh mentor Noel Fielding) also play willing co-conspirators in the mild sedition, again to mixed effect. But the crowdsourced letter of generic complaint proves a hit, as does the front-row punter selected to execute one of the tiny acts outside in the real world.

There’s an excellent show in here – or if not, most certainly in Fulcher himself – but it’s not fully teased out here, despite a healthy helping of bizarre highs. The quest for that perfect vehicle continues...

Simon Munnery - Live Review

Simon Munnery may have the pin-sharp mind of man with two Oxbridge degrees – but he combines that with the shambolic amateurism of the late Malcolm Hardee. It’s a yin-and-yang paring that produces this amiably rambling anthology, with peaks of dizzying comic invention mixed with lots of good-natured faffing.

Munnery’s ambitious plan was to write a full-scale musical based on the ill-fated R101 airship, inspired by a visit to their vast hangers. But, symptomatic of his whole approach, he rather lost interest, leaving him with just one song and a couple of minutes of background research.

Still, as he does time and again, he makes a virtue of his apparent ill-preparedness, which serves to put him on the back foot and lower his status compared to the equally easy-going late-night crowd.

So what if the puppet show’s broken, the mic stands misplaced and the pop-up metal arch refuses to stay upright? We’ll muddle through somehow. The one piece of handwork that does function as intended is the home-made top hat he wears on stage – a throwback to the days when he performed as the League Against Tedium – which blows a steady stream of bubbles across the Soho Theatre’s intimate basement. But the explanation for this Dadaist look – an analogy, allegedly, for the parlous state of capitalism – is as rickety as the rest of his props.

Sitting alongside the short-lived salute to the airship pioneers are a couple of brief black and white films, which owe a debt to Monty Python without being overtly Pythonesque, a poorly-sung song or two, and a beat poem about London that makes him sound like a Southern John Cooper Clark with a loop pedal.

These are mixed with more conventional stand-up segments, some in character, some not. His monologues on the delights of living in Bedford or the messages in Bruce Springstein songs are fairly straightforward, without the flashes of creative inspiration that sparks some of the other set pieces, even if the use of language is perfect and precise. But his support for Sainsbury’s, expressed through the medium of the football chant, is charmingly offbeat.

In character, it’s a whole different league. In one section, which he’s been performing for a while, he wittily reveals the truth behind Sherlock Holmes’s undeserved reputation. In another, Munnery wisely decides to present his plentiful bounty of cutting misogyny through the cipher of an inadequate college lecturer, just to make the irony explicit. However that didn’t stop one woman in the audience taking issue with his withering sexism. But it’s so hilariously wrong – not to mention beautifully written – no one should really confuse the intent.

The best section of the lot, though, is the funniest crucifixion scene since Life Of Brian, played out on that broken puppet tableau, awkwardly held in place by a considerate audience member as Munnery fumbles his lines, despite reading from a script. If that sounds like an utterly shabby performance… well it is, but the chaos, combined with some great lines, make for stupid, carefree fun.

It’s proof that when comedy and anti-comedy collide, they don’t always cancel each other out, but can produce an amplified effect – at least when you add in the influence of Simon Munnery, the God particle of alternative comedy.

Ed Caruana - Live Review

It might be just one medium-sized comedy club, but the Amused Moose likes to position itself as a spotter of new talent, primarily through its well-established LaughOff competition. This showcase is an extension of that, with the aim of introducing half a dozen newer acts to the London comedy industry.

The competition looks for ‘potential star quality’ rather than simply the funniest acts around, and this line-up in the Soho Theatre’s cabaret bar reflected that ethos, selecting the sort of acts that might be TV-friendly before too long.

Opener Patrick Cahill probably pushed the envelope the most, and was therefore the most memorable for it. He takes to the stage in what looks like a mammoth floral bow-tie, but in fact turns out to be a home-made hands-free microphone holder, an perfect illustration of his quirky tendencies.

A few on-stage self-affirmation exercises reinforce that idea, before his signature piece – a song about his tumour-riddled Jack Russell. He’s keen to emphasis that it’s not in terrible taste, with a refrain that goes ‘this dog is not in any immediate pain’, but he exploits the uncomfortable subject matter and strange images expertly.

Comparisons with Sean Lock are unavoidable; not only does he share the same lazy, nasal Southern English accent but he has a similarly offbeat viewpoint, which produces a rich stream of inventive jokes which are certainly worth seeking out.

Irishman Pearse James takes a little time to settle in. He starts with from familiar territory about how he can’t speak like the hip-hop kids, while his attempts to emphasise punchlines with a ‘way-hay’ are equally forced and awkward. All the while he offers a running commentary on how he thinks the set’s going that brings to mind Tony Law’s odd asides.

But when he eventually starts to feel comfortable in his own skin, James offers some nifty material. Comparing literature festivals with their drug-fuelled music equivalents is inspired, while his sexual objectification of Serena Williams elicits some masterful images, even if he’s still a little unsteady on the delivery.

Unsteady is not a charge you could level at Angela Barnes - winner of this year’s BBC New Comedy Award, run by Radio 2. She already has the confidence and demeanour of an accomplished club pro and the well-judged punchlines to match, portraying herself as an ordinary loser who’s learned from life’s cruel hand not to have any airs and graces.

Occasionally she slips into an easy line or slower routine, but she’s much more likely to subvert ideas like coming from Britain’s ‘teen pregnancy capital’, with a deft payoff from leftfield. The only sign of her inexperience came as she dropped her slickness at the end, awkwardly trying to squeeze more material out after she’d said goodbye and the audience were clapping as if she’d ended.

No racism intended, but Tommy Rowson has a definite advantage in being Welsh, the lolling rhythms of his native accent being.... well, LOLing. Just the way he says the word ‘devil’, as two distinct syllables, has comic resonance, as well he knows, exploiting it to the full.

His low-key retelling of biblical tales is essentially straightforward comedy, and sometimes feels as such, but the one of his tics of delivery or downplayed turn of phrase will inject giggles. I’d like to see what he could do if he extended his comic sights a bit further.

Ellie Taylor already has some TV exposure, thanks to the coolly-received ITV talent show Show Me The Funny, where she confounded expectations of being the attractive but unfunny one by noticeably growing and learning as a comedian as the series went on.

But it’s probably not unfair to say she still needs some more lessons, as the set here was decidedly mixed. This charming and confident performer has a strong opening gag, and the first half of her short set about girls’ Facebook photos and their captions was keenly observed. But then she spoiled it by talking about vajazzling, as popularised by The Only Way Is Essex. The ‘beauty’ treatment may be inherently hilarious, but Taylor couldn’t add any of her own spin to that indisputable fact.

Yet Taylor herself is some counter to all the damage TOWIE is doing to her home county’s reputation, being charismatic, personable and brighter than her more dubious choices of material suggests. What’s more, although she already has all the assets that might give her a steady career as a TV presenter, she appears to be fully committed to the much tougher path of becoming a decent comic. More power to that aim.

Ed Caruana needs more direction to becoming his own man, too. He’s one of that very large pool of new comedians who’s seen Stewart Lee and thinks that aping that style is less hard work that all the ooomph and energy of other comedians. The result, in the opening stages, is stilted as every pause and every ‘erm’ seems over-rehearsed.

Yet he’s got some good lines of his own in his description of overcrowded trains, and even finds something new on the subject of emoticons – although the later callback to this routine is again rather forced. The bulk of his set manages a more natural combination of style and content, as he relates a graphic story of a filthy toilet cubicle, but it’s not for the faint-hearted.

Sardonic Romesh Ranganathan has one of the best opening lines of any new comedian, playing with the expectations of what being an ‘Asian comedian’ means. His pace is slow and his wit dry, which might make him a slightly more difficult sell than some more upbeat comics, but his best lines prove his funny instincts and desire to avoid approaches that are too obvious. There are still peaks and troughs in even his short set, but there are good signs for the future – which is an apt summing-up of this night as a whole, too.

Ellie Taylor - Live Review

It might be just one medium-sized comedy club, but the Amused Moose likes to position itself as a spotter of new talent, primarily through its well-established LaughOff competition. This showcase is an extension of that, with the aim of introducing half a dozen newer acts to the London comedy industry.

The competition looks for ‘potential star quality’ rather than simply the funniest acts around, and this line-up in the Soho Theatre’s cabaret bar reflected that ethos, selecting the sort of acts that might be TV-friendly before too long.

Opener Patrick Cahill probably pushed the envelope the most, and was therefore the most memorable for it. He takes to the stage in what looks like a mammoth floral bow-tie, but in fact turns out to be a home-made hands-free microphone holder, an perfect illustration of his quirky tendencies.

A few on-stage self-affirmation exercises reinforce that idea, before his signature piece – a song about his tumour-riddled Jack Russell. He’s keen to emphasis that it’s not in terrible taste, with a refrain that goes ‘this dog is not in any immediate pain’, but he exploits the uncomfortable subject matter and strange images expertly.

Comparisons with Sean Lock are unavoidable; not only does he share the same lazy, nasal Southern English accent but he has a similarly offbeat viewpoint, which produces a rich stream of inventive jokes which are certainly worth seeking out.

Irishman Pearse James takes a little time to settle in. He starts with from familiar territory about how he can’t speak like the hip-hop kids, while his attempts to emphasise punchlines with a ‘way-hay’ are equally forced and awkward. All the while he offers a running commentary on how he thinks the set’s going that brings to mind Tony Law’s odd asides.

But when he eventually starts to feel comfortable in his own skin, James offers some nifty material. Comparing literature festivals with their drug-fuelled music equivalents is inspired, while his sexual objectification of Serena Williams elicits some masterful images, even if he’s still a little unsteady on the delivery.

Unsteady is not a charge you could level at Angela Barnes - winner of this year’s BBC New Comedy Award, run by Radio 2. She already has the confidence and demeanour of an accomplished club pro and the well-judged punchlines to match, portraying herself as an ordinary loser who’s learned from life’s cruel hand not to have any airs and graces.

Occasionally she slips into an easy line or slower routine, but she’s much more likely to subvert ideas like coming from Britain’s ‘teen pregnancy capital’, with a deft payoff from leftfield. The only sign of her inexperience came as she dropped her slickness at the end, awkwardly trying to squeeze more material out after she’d said goodbye and the audience were clapping as if she’d ended.

No racism intended, but Tommy Rowson has a definite advantage in being Welsh, the lolling rhythms of his native accent being.... well, LOLing. Just the way he says the word ‘devil’, as two distinct syllables, has comic resonance, as well he knows, exploiting it to the full.

His low-key retelling of biblical tales is essentially straightforward comedy, and sometimes feels as such, but the one of his tics of delivery or downplayed turn of phrase will inject giggles. I’d like to see what he could do if he extended his comic sights a bit further.

Ellie Taylor already has some TV exposure, thanks to the coolly-received ITV talent show Show Me The Funny, where she confounded expectations of being the attractive but unfunny one by noticeably growing and learning as a comedian as the series went on.

But it’s probably not unfair to say she still needs some more lessons, as the set here was decidedly mixed. This charming and confident performer has a strong opening gag, and the first half of her short set about girls’ Facebook photos and their captions was keenly observed. But then she spoiled it by talking about vajazzling, as popularised by The Only Way Is Essex. The ‘beauty’ treatment may be inherently hilarious, but Taylor couldn’t add any of her own spin to that indisputable fact.

Yet Taylor herself is some counter to all the damage TOWIE is doing to her home county’s reputation, being charismatic, personable and brighter than her more dubious choices of material suggests. What’s more, although she already has all the assets that might give her a steady career as a TV presenter, she appears to be fully committed to the much tougher path of becoming a decent comic. More power to that aim.

Ed Caruana needs more direction to becoming his own man, too. He’s one of that very large pool of new comedians who’s seen Stewart Lee and thinks that aping that style is less hard work that all the ooomph and energy of other comedians. The result, in the opening stages, is stilted as every pause and every ‘erm’ seems over-rehearsed.

Yet he’s got some good lines of his own in his description of overcrowded trains, and even finds something new on the subject of emoticons – although the later callback to this routine is again rather forced. The bulk of his set manages a more natural combination of style and content, as he relates a graphic story of a filthy toilet cubicle, but it’s not for the faint-hearted.

Sardonic Romesh Ranganathan has one of the best opening lines of any new comedian, playing with the expectations of what being an ‘Asian comedian’ means. His pace is slow and his wit dry, which might make him a slightly more difficult sell than some more upbeat comics, but his best lines prove his funny instincts and desire to avoid approaches that are too obvious. There are still peaks and troughs in even his short set, but there are good signs for the future – which is an apt summing-up of this night as a whole, too.

Angela Barnes - Live Review

It might be just one medium-sized comedy club, but the Amused Moose likes to position itself as a spotter of new talent, primarily through its well-established LaughOff competition. This showcase is an extension of that, with the aim of introducing half a dozen newer acts to the London comedy industry.

The competition looks for ‘potential star quality’ rather than simply the funniest acts around, and this line-up in the Soho Theatre’s cabaret bar reflected that ethos, selecting the sort of acts that might be TV-friendly before too long.

Opener Patrick Cahill probably pushed the envelope the most, and was therefore the most memorable for it. He takes to the stage in what looks like a mammoth floral bow-tie, but in fact turns out to be a home-made hands-free microphone holder, an perfect illustration of his quirky tendencies.

A few on-stage self-affirmation exercises reinforce that idea, before his signature piece – a song about his tumour-riddled Jack Russell. He’s keen to emphasis that it’s not in terrible taste, with a refrain that goes ‘this dog is not in any immediate pain’, but he exploits the uncomfortable subject matter and strange images expertly.

Comparisons with Sean Lock are unavoidable; not only does he share the same lazy, nasal Southern English accent but he has a similarly offbeat viewpoint, which produces a rich stream of inventive jokes which are certainly worth seeking out.

Irishman Pearse James takes a little time to settle in. He starts with from familiar territory about how he can’t speak like the hip-hop kids, while his attempts to emphasise punchlines with a ‘way-hay’ are equally forced and awkward. All the while he offers a running commentary on how he thinks the set’s going that brings to mind Tony Law’s odd asides.

But when he eventually starts to feel comfortable in his own skin, James offers some nifty material. Comparing literature festivals with their drug-fuelled music equivalents is inspired, while his sexual objectification of Serena Williams elicits some masterful images, even if he’s still a little unsteady on the delivery.

Unsteady is not a charge you could level at Angela Barnes - winner of this year’s BBC New Comedy Award, run by Radio 2. She already has the confidence and demeanour of an accomplished club pro and the well-judged punchlines to match, portraying herself as an ordinary loser who’s learned from life’s cruel hand not to have any airs and graces.

Occasionally she slips into an easy line or slower routine, but she’s much more likely to subvert ideas like coming from Britain’s ‘teen pregnancy capital’, with a deft payoff from leftfield. The only sign of her inexperience came as she dropped her slickness at the end, awkwardly trying to squeeze more material out after she’d said goodbye and the audience were clapping as if she’d ended.

No racism intended, but Tommy Rowson has a definite advantage in being Welsh, the lolling rhythms of his native accent being.... well, LOLing. Just the way he says the word ‘devil’, as two distinct syllables, has comic resonance, as well he knows, exploiting it to the full.

His low-key retelling of biblical tales is essentially straightforward comedy, and sometimes feels as such, but the one of his tics of delivery or downplayed turn of phrase will inject giggles. I’d like to see what he could do if he extended his comic sights a bit further.

Ellie Taylor already has some TV exposure, thanks to the coolly-received ITV talent show Show Me The Funny, where she confounded expectations of being the attractive but unfunny one by noticeably growing and learning as a comedian as the series went on.

But it’s probably not unfair to say she still needs some more lessons, as the set here was decidedly mixed. This charming and confident performer has a strong opening gag, and the first half of her short set about girls’ Facebook photos and their captions was keenly observed. But then she spoiled it by talking about vajazzling, as popularised by The Only Way Is Essex. The ‘beauty’ treatment may be inherently hilarious, but Taylor couldn’t add any of her own spin to that indisputable fact.

Yet Taylor herself is some counter to all the damage TOWIE is doing to her home county’s reputation, being charismatic, personable and brighter than her more dubious choices of material suggests. What’s more, although she already has all the assets that might give her a steady career as a TV presenter, she appears to be fully committed to the much tougher path of becoming a decent comic. More power to that aim.

Ed Caruana needs more direction to becoming his own man, too. He’s one of that very large pool of new comedians who’s seen Stewart Lee and thinks that aping that style is less hard work that all the ooomph and energy of other comedians. The result, in the opening stages, is stilted as every pause and every ‘erm’ seems over-rehearsed.

Yet he’s got some good lines of his own in his description of overcrowded trains, and even finds something new on the subject of emoticons – although the later callback to this routine is again rather forced. The bulk of his set manages a more natural combination of style and content, as he relates a graphic story of a filthy toilet cubicle, but it’s not for the faint-hearted.

Sardonic Romesh Ranganathan has one of the best opening lines of any new comedian, playing with the expectations of what being an ‘Asian comedian’ means. His pace is slow and his wit dry, which might make him a slightly more difficult sell than some more upbeat comics, but his best lines prove his funny instincts and desire to avoid approaches that are too obvious. There are still peaks and troughs in even his short set, but there are good signs for the future – which is an apt summing-up of this night as a whole, too.

Romesh Ranganathan - Live Review

It might be just one medium-sized comedy club, but the Amused Moose likes to position itself as a spotter of new talent, primarily through its well-established LaughOff competition. This showcase is an extension of that, with the aim of introducing half a dozen newer acts to the London comedy industry.

The competition looks for ‘potential star quality’ rather than simply the funniest acts around, and this line-up in the Soho Theatre’s cabaret bar reflected that ethos, selecting the sort of acts that might be TV-friendly before too long.

Opener Patrick Cahill probably pushed the envelope the most, and was therefore the most memorable for it. He takes to the stage in what looks like a mammoth floral bow-tie, but in fact turns out to be a home-made hands-free microphone holder, an perfect illustration of his quirky tendencies.

A few on-stage self-affirmation exercises reinforce that idea, before his signature piece – a song about his tumour-riddled Jack Russell. He’s keen to emphasis that it’s not in terrible taste, with a refrain that goes ‘this dog is not in any immediate pain’, but he exploits the uncomfortable subject matter and strange images expertly.

Comparisons with Sean Lock are unavoidable; not only does he share the same lazy, nasal Southern English accent but he has a similarly offbeat viewpoint, which produces a rich stream of inventive jokes which are certainly worth seeking out.

Irishman Pearse James takes a little time to settle in. He starts with from familiar territory about how he can’t speak like the hip-hop kids, while his attempts to emphasise punchlines with a ‘way-hay’ are equally forced and awkward. All the while he offers a running commentary on how he thinks the set’s going that brings to mind Tony Law’s odd asides.

But when he eventually starts to feel comfortable in his own skin, James offers some nifty material. Comparing literature festivals with their drug-fuelled music equivalents is inspired, while his sexual objectification of Serena Williams elicits some masterful images, even if he’s still a little unsteady on the delivery.

Unsteady is not a charge you could level at Angela Barnes - winner of this year’s BBC New Comedy Award, run by Radio 2. She already has the confidence and demeanour of an accomplished club pro and the well-judged punchlines to match, portraying herself as an ordinary loser who’s learned from life’s cruel hand not to have any airs and graces.

Occasionally she slips into an easy line or slower routine, but she’s much more likely to subvert ideas like coming from Britain’s ‘teen pregnancy capital’, with a deft payoff from leftfield. The only sign of her inexperience came as she dropped her slickness at the end, awkwardly trying to squeeze more material out after she’d said goodbye and the audience were clapping as if she’d ended.

No racism intended, but Tommy Rowson has a definite advantage in being Welsh, the lolling rhythms of his native accent being.... well, LOLing. Just the way he says the word ‘devil’, as two distinct syllables, has comic resonance, as well he knows, exploiting it to the full.

His low-key retelling of biblical tales is essentially straightforward comedy, and sometimes feels as such, but the one of his tics of delivery or downplayed turn of phrase will inject giggles. I’d like to see what he could do if he extended his comic sights a bit further.

Ellie Taylor already has some TV exposure, thanks to the coolly-received ITV talent show Show Me The Funny, where she confounded expectations of being the attractive but unfunny one by noticeably growing and learning as a comedian as the series went on.

But it’s probably not unfair to say she still needs some more lessons, as the set here was decidedly mixed. This charming and confident performer has a strong opening gag, and the first half of her short set about girls’ Facebook photos and their captions was keenly observed. But then she spoiled it by talking about vajazzling, as popularised by The Only Way Is Essex. The ‘beauty’ treatment may be inherently hilarious, but Taylor couldn’t add any of her own spin to that indisputable fact.

Yet Taylor herself is some counter to all the damage TOWIE is doing to her home county’s reputation, being charismatic, personable and brighter than her more dubious choices of material suggests. What’s more, although she already has all the assets that might give her a steady career as a TV presenter, she appears to be fully committed to the much tougher path of becoming a decent comic. More power to that aim.

Ed Caruana needs more direction to becoming his own man, too. He’s one of that very large pool of new comedians who’s seen Stewart Lee and thinks that aping that style is less hard work that all the ooomph and energy of other comedians. The result, in the opening stages, is stilted as every pause and every ‘erm’ seems over-rehearsed.

Yet he’s got some good lines of his own in his description of overcrowded trains, and even finds something new on the subject of emoticons – although the later callback to this routine is again rather forced. The bulk of his set manages a more natural combination of style and content, as he relates a graphic story of a filthy toilet cubicle, but it’s not for the faint-hearted.

Sardonic Romesh Ranganathan has one of the best opening lines of any new comedian, playing with the expectations of what being an ‘Asian comedian’ means. His pace is slow and his wit dry, which might make him a slightly more difficult sell than some more upbeat comics, but his best lines prove his funny instincts and desire to avoid approaches that are too obvious. There are still peaks and troughs in even his short set, but there are good signs for the future – which is an apt summing-up of this night as a whole, too.

Pat Cahill - Live Review

It might be just one medium-sized comedy club, but the Amused Moose likes to position itself as a spotter of new talent, primarily through its well-established LaughOff competition. This showcase is an extension of that, with the aim of introducing half a dozen newer acts to the London comedy industry.

The competition looks for ‘potential star quality’ rather than simply the funniest acts around, and this line-up in the Soho Theatre’s cabaret bar reflected that ethos, selecting the sort of acts that might be TV-friendly before too long.

Opener Patrick Cahill probably pushed the envelope the most, and was therefore the most memorable for it. He takes to the stage in what looks like a mammoth floral bow-tie, but in fact turns out to be a home-made hands-free microphone holder, an perfect illustration of his quirky tendencies.

A few on-stage self-affirmation exercises reinforce that idea, before his signature piece – a song about his tumour-riddled Jack Russell. He’s keen to emphasis that it’s not in terrible taste, with a refrain that goes ‘this dog is not in any immediate pain’, but he exploits the uncomfortable subject matter and strange images expertly.

Comparisons with Sean Lock are unavoidable; not only does he share the same lazy, nasal Southern English accent but he has a similarly offbeat viewpoint, which produces a rich stream of inventive jokes which are certainly worth seeking out.

Irishman Pearse James takes a little time to settle in. He starts with from familiar territory about how he can’t speak like the hip-hop kids, while his attempts to emphasise punchlines with a ‘way-hay’ are equally forced and awkward. All the while he offers a running commentary on how he thinks the set’s going that brings to mind Tony Law’s odd asides.

But when he eventually starts to feel comfortable in his own skin, James offers some nifty material. Comparing literature festivals with their drug-fuelled music equivalents is inspired, while his sexual objectification of Serena Williams elicits some masterful images, even if he’s still a little unsteady on the delivery.

Unsteady is not a charge you could level at Angela Barnes - winner of this year’s BBC New Comedy Award, run by Radio 2. She already has the confidence and demeanour of an accomplished club pro and the well-judged punchlines to match, portraying herself as an ordinary loser who’s learned from life’s cruel hand not to have any airs and graces.

Occasionally she slips into an easy line or slower routine, but she’s much more likely to subvert ideas like coming from Britain’s ‘teen pregnancy capital’, with a deft payoff from leftfield. The only sign of her inexperience came as she dropped her slickness at the end, awkwardly trying to squeeze more material out after she’d said goodbye and the audience were clapping as if she’d ended.

No racism intended, but Tommy Rowson has a definite advantage in being Welsh, the lolling rhythms of his native accent being.... well, LOLing. Just the way he says the word ‘devil’, as two distinct syllables, has comic resonance, as well he knows, exploiting it to the full.

His low-key retelling of biblical tales is essentially straightforward comedy, and sometimes feels as such, but the one of his tics of delivery or downplayed turn of phrase will inject giggles. I’d like to see what he could do if he extended his comic sights a bit further.

Ellie Taylor already has some TV exposure, thanks to the coolly-received ITV talent show Show Me The Funny, where she confounded expectations of being the attractive but unfunny one by noticeably growing and learning as a comedian as the series went on.

But it’s probably not unfair to say she still needs some more lessons, as the set here was decidedly mixed. This charming and confident performer has a strong opening gag, and the first half of her short set about girls’ Facebook photos and their captions was keenly observed. But then she spoiled it by talking about vajazzling, as popularised by The Only Way Is Essex. The ‘beauty’ treatment may be inherently hilarious, but Taylor couldn’t add any of her own spin to that indisputable fact.

Yet Taylor herself is some counter to all the damage TOWIE is doing to her home county’s reputation, being charismatic, personable and brighter than her more dubious choices of material suggests. What’s more, although she already has all the assets that might give her a steady career as a TV presenter, she appears to be fully committed to the much tougher path of becoming a decent comic. More power to that aim.

Ed Caruana needs more direction to becoming his own man, too. He’s one of that very large pool of new comedians who’s seen Stewart Lee and thinks that aping that style is less hard work that all the ooomph and energy of other comedians. The result, in the opening stages, is stilted as every pause and every ‘erm’ seems over-rehearsed.

Yet he’s got some good lines of his own in his description of overcrowded trains, and even finds something new on the subject of emoticons – although the later callback to this routine is again rather forced. The bulk of his set manages a more natural combination of style and content, as he relates a graphic story of a filthy toilet cubicle, but it’s not for the faint-hearted.

Sardonic Romesh Ranganathan has one of the best opening lines of any new comedian, playing with the expectations of what being an ‘Asian comedian’ means. His pace is slow and his wit dry, which might make him a slightly more difficult sell than some more upbeat comics, but his best lines prove his funny instincts and desire to avoid approaches that are too obvious. There are still peaks and troughs in even his short set, but there are good signs for the future – which is an apt summing-up of this night as a whole, too.

Tommy Rowson - Live Review

It might be just one medium-sized comedy club, but the Amused Moose likes to position itself as a spotter of new talent, primarily through its well-established LaughOff competition. This showcase is an extension of that, with the aim of introducing half a dozen newer acts to the London comedy industry.

The competition looks for ‘potential star quality’ rather than simply the funniest acts around, and this line-up in the Soho Theatre’s cabaret bar reflected that ethos, selecting the sort of acts that might be TV-friendly before too long.

Opener Patrick Cahill probably pushed the envelope the most, and was therefore the most memorable for it. He takes to the stage in what looks like a mammoth floral bow-tie, but in fact turns out to be a home-made hands-free microphone holder, an perfect illustration of his quirky tendencies.

A few on-stage self-affirmation exercises reinforce that idea, before his signature piece – a song about his tumour-riddled Jack Russell. He’s keen to emphasis that it’s not in terrible taste, with a refrain that goes ‘this dog is not in any immediate pain’, but he exploits the uncomfortable subject matter and strange images expertly.

Comparisons with Sean Lock are unavoidable; not only does he share the same lazy, nasal Southern English accent but he has a similarly offbeat viewpoint, which produces a rich stream of inventive jokes which are certainly worth seeking out.

Irishman Pearse James takes a little time to settle in. He starts with from familiar territory about how he can’t speak like the hip-hop kids, while his attempts to emphasise punchlines with a ‘way-hay’ are equally forced and awkward. All the while he offers a running commentary on how he thinks the set’s going that brings to mind Tony Law’s odd asides.

But when he eventually starts to feel comfortable in his own skin, James offers some nifty material. Comparing literature festivals with their drug-fuelled music equivalents is inspired, while his sexual objectification of Serena Williams elicits some masterful images, even if he’s still a little unsteady on the delivery.

Unsteady is not a charge you could level at Angela Barnes - winner of this year’s BBC New Comedy Award, run by Radio 2. She already has the confidence and demeanour of an accomplished club pro and the well-judged punchlines to match, portraying herself as an ordinary loser who’s learned from life’s cruel hand not to have any airs and graces.

Occasionally she slips into an easy line or slower routine, but she’s much more likely to subvert ideas like coming from Britain’s ‘teen pregnancy capital’, with a deft payoff from leftfield. The only sign of her inexperience came as she dropped her slickness at the end, awkwardly trying to squeeze more material out after she’d said goodbye and the audience were clapping as if she’d ended.

No racism intended, but Tommy Rowson has a definite advantage in being Welsh, the lolling rhythms of his native accent being.... well, LOLing. Just the way he says the word ‘devil’, as two distinct syllables, has comic resonance, as well he knows, exploiting it to the full.

His low-key retelling of biblical tales is essentially straightforward comedy, and sometimes feels as such, but the one of his tics of delivery or downplayed turn of phrase will inject giggles. I’d like to see what he could do if he extended his comic sights a bit further.

Ellie Taylor already has some TV exposure, thanks to the coolly-received ITV talent show Show Me The Funny, where she confounded expectations of being the attractive but unfunny one by noticeably growing and learning as a comedian as the series went on.

But it’s probably not unfair to say she still needs some more lessons, as the set here was decidedly mixed. This charming and confident performer has a strong opening gag, and the first half of her short set about girls’ Facebook photos and their captions was keenly observed. But then she spoiled it by talking about vajazzling, as popularised by The Only Way Is Essex. The ‘beauty’ treatment may be inherently hilarious, but Taylor couldn’t add any of her own spin to that indisputable fact.

Yet Taylor herself is some counter to all the damage TOWIE is doing to her home county’s reputation, being charismatic, personable and brighter than her more dubious choices of material suggests. What’s more, although she already has all the assets that might give her a steady career as a TV presenter, she appears to be fully committed to the much tougher path of becoming a decent comic. More power to that aim.

Ed Caruana needs more direction to becoming his own man, too. He’s one of that very large pool of new comedians who’s seen Stewart Lee and thinks that aping that style is less hard work that all the ooomph and energy of other comedians. The result, in the opening stages, is stilted as every pause and every ‘erm’ seems over-rehearsed.

Yet he’s got some good lines of his own in his description of overcrowded trains, and even finds something new on the subject of emoticons – although the later callback to this routine is again rather forced. The bulk of his set manages a more natural combination of style and content, as he relates a graphic story of a filthy toilet cubicle, but it’s not for the faint-hearted.

Sardonic Romesh Ranganathan has one of the best opening lines of any new comedian, playing with the expectations of what being an ‘Asian comedian’ means. His pace is slow and his wit dry, which might make him a slightly more difficult sell than some more upbeat comics, but his best lines prove his funny instincts and desire to avoid approaches that are too obvious. There are still peaks and troughs in even his short set, but there are good signs for the future – which is an apt summing-up of this night as a whole, too.

Marc Maron - Live Review

In a distracted moment in tonight’s show, visiting American comic Marc Maron confesses that the only way he knows to appreciate art is to look at a painting and ask: ‘Is it finished?’ If it looks like it is – as if there’s nothing more the artist could do to improve it – it’s a fine piece of work.

Applying the same criterion to Maron’s own stand-up, you’d have to conclude that no, it isn’t finished. You get the impression that his whole life is one giant work-in-progress, with every morsel of angst, self-loathing and unhappiness becoming yet another dab of paint on the canvas of his comedy.

His material can be raw in both senses of the word: not yet cooked and sorely exposed. His unblinking honesty always risks being uncomfortable, but usually avoids it, as he builds up his deeply self-analytical thoughts. His knows his life is ridiculous, so invites you to laugh at it, even if it isn’t always easy.

Stand-up was built on ‘neurotic Jews whining’, says this particular neurotic Jew, as he leads us through his emotional malfunctions. There are the voices in his head that compel him to ruin his life whenever things are looking too rosy; his compulsion to sleep with emotionally broken women with daddy issues; the depressing truth that he can’t be a party animal into middle-age, with his addictive personality seeking intense highs outside the drink and drugs he’s been forced to forsake.

Yes, he’s one mass of hang-ups, his default position set to misery with occasional showers of suicidal depression. That, he says, is the human condition: happy people just aren’t seeing the full picture. However, he hates being described as a stand-up who uses comedy as therapy, but there’s certainly a sense that he’s trying to tame his demons by holding them up for all to see.

It will come as no surprise to learn that someone so very self-critical also frets about his own shortcomings, wondering whether the material is ‘relateable’ for anyone else. The phrase ‘Where did I lose you?’ almost becomes a catchphrase when he delves to deeply into his psyche.

There are occasional breaks in Maron’s intense introspection, allowing him to rage against, for example, the Catholic Church. But the comedy never as strong as when the focus is on him.

This isn’t a laugh-a-minute show, it’s too serious for that, but there are some exquisite phrases, plus chuckles to be had at any slight puncturing of the misery. It’s also rough around the edges. There are a few set pieces which he has down to a T, but in other segments it’s more like thinking aloud, stumbling towards a punchline.

Because of the seriousness of the approach and the deeply personal subject matter, the show is firmly in the ‘comedy as art’ camp. I bet it’ll be lovely when it’s finished.

Mark Watson - Live Review

As 15,000 delegates meet in Copenhagen to try to save the planet, a few dozen others gather in Soho Theatre’s studio room to hear a comedian give his version of Al Gore’s Oscar-winning Inconvenient Truth PowerPoint lecture. Which will get more done? Let’s hope it’s Copenhagen….

Mark Watson is one of the former Presidential candidate’s official missionaries, trained up to go out and spread the word – the only stand-up, incidentally, to be recruited to the task. The result is a show with a split personality, which has all the core elements of Gore’s po-faced wake-up call, but enlivened by Watson’s not exactly deferential commentary.

Because of its genesis, this hour is not a natural comedy show, and gets funnier the more the easily distracted Watson deviates from the standard text. It suggests a fully-fledged stand-up show on this vital topic – hitherto largely overlooked by the comedy fraternity – is probably long overdue, but this hybrid comes with mixed results.

Only Watson could combine the apocalyptic with the apologetic in quite such a likeable way. In his typical enthusiastic but self-effacing style, Watson never claims this is a comedy hour; rather a more entertaining – and briefer – version of the original lecture delivered in a slightly-tongue-in-cheek way by an avowed layman. Emissions into the atmosphere, for example, are dumbed down to the slightly less scientific term, ‘crap’.

The science bits he presents are therefore simplistic – eg explaining the greenhouse effect – or less than rigorous. Showing a graph that shows rising carbon dioxide levels is almost identical to rising global temperature is not evidence of cause and effect, although there hundreds of peer-reviewed studies that fulfil that task. Even with the evidence in the recently leaked emails, there is virtually no debate among those who know what they are talking about that global warming (a) humans’ fault and (b) catastrophic if unchecked. And maybe assuming the audience have a bit more knowledge on climate change – thanks in large part to the success of Gore’s film – would speed things along in the early stages.

Watson has updated the lecture to include the latest figures, and to denounce the irresponsible tabloid coverage. Other deviations from Gore’s original include appointing audience monitors, rather like he did in his 24-hour shows, to ensure he doesn’t go on for too long, get too complex, or become too depressing – a successful ploy to make us all feel more involved. And rather than using the picture of a forlorn solitary polar bear on a tiny island of ice to depict the dramatic impact of rising temperatures, he uses an even more dramatic image: himself weakened with sunstroke in Australia last year.

The terrifying graphs of temperature rises and population explosion, however, speak for themselves. Even so, when Watson coyly but proudly announces that he is expecting a child, the audience reaction is a genuine ‘aaah’ rather than churlishly denouncing such a reckless contribution to the population. No one’s that heartless…

Some easy jokes are to be had by tagging punchlines onto experts’ quotes, while more distinctively ‘Watsonesque’ are his self-deprecating comments on his PowerPoint skills. Yet the feeling is he keeps on being drawn back to the approved script, when it would be funnier, more passionate and more convincing if he were to address the topic on his own terms – as the rant against Jeremy Clarkson proves.

But you have to keep reminding yourself that Mark Watson’s Earth Summit is not meant to be that comedy show, but a conduit for Gore’s wake-up call. On that count – even if Watson will inevitably be preaching to the choir – job done.

Reggie Watts - Live Review

He looks like something out of Michael Bentine’s Potty Time and sounds like… well, nothing you’ve ever heard before. No wonder understated beatbox comic Reggie Watts is building up a significant cult following.

Imagine if the great musical comedian Victor Borge was American, had access to a sampler, loop machine and pitch-shifter rather that than merely an orchestra, and was a bit of a stoner. Then you might get close to Watts’ strange, sporadically brilliant, act.

The hip-hop genre he’s closest to is all boastful, swaggering testosterone, but that’s not Watts’s style: he’s low-key to the point of wilful irritation, shuffling on stage unenthusiastically, adjusting his equipment with careful deliberation and languidly muttering lines from beneath his majestically bushy beard.

His gift for mimicry is unsurpassed. When he affects an English accent, it’s a perfect received pronunciation with a hint of regional brogue. Eat your heart out, Dick Van Dyke. The voice changes between each song, as he absent-mindedly utters something nonsensical, pompous or sometimes even funny. These thoughts are delivered slowly and frequently peter out into nothing, a form of anti-comedy that can be uncomfortable, confusing and frustrating, as the prospect of jokes go wilfully unfulfilled.

Yet amid all this faffing lies some hilarious moments as he subverts the expectations of a well-honed routine – even hiding behind a door to deliver one segment, which he whispers through the letterbox. His revival of the Norman Collier business with the microphone that perpetually cuts out is especially skillfully done.

It’s the music, thought, that makes this act. He samples himself several times, singing short sequences or emitting strange noises, then building those loops into a layered backing track which emerges from the cacophony. On to that he lays spoof R&B songs, raps about his rucksack, his motherfucking rucksack, or leads us into the anthemic chant-along Shit Fuck Stack. He has a fantastic voice, sounding just as good as any big-name rapper, albeit a big-name rapper who’s seriously disillusioned with their job.

As an arch post-modernist, Watts likes to spread bemusement more laughter, which can only get in the way of this being a laugh-a-minute hour; but when he does deign to entertain, even with his trademark awkwardness, the results are impressive.