Sarah Bennetto - Live Review

Storytelling can sometimes be seen as comedy’s fey, bookish older brother, brooding alone in the corner as his more popular, charismatic sibling gets all the attention for his ribald tales in the centre of the room. It’s all vacuous showboating, Storytelling mutters, while quietly wishing it was him in the spotlight.

The London Storytelling Festival is the latest of several attempts to make the art more relevant, even if the closing night gala wasn’t helped by a wordy preamble from hosts Sarah Bennetto and Deborah Francis-White about how it’s ‘the oldest artform’, ‘the way we communicate’ and how ‘made me understand who I was, my place in the world and my very existence’.

Thankfully, once the show got busy with the ‘Once upon a times…’ such worthy pretentiousness was largely jettisoned, and the stories were allowed to shine on their own merits.

Opening act Martin Dockery certainly showed how to spin even the most common occurrence into a gripping yarn – a trick the best stand-ups display. This vibrant New Yorker told of a fight with his long-term girlfriend amid the majesty of a Cambodian temple. Delivered with verve and told with wit and insight, he is so engaging and evocative he makes the audience believe they are sharing the sunrise – and the argument – with him.

From the experienced to the novice, with journalist Will Hodgkinson choosing the Leicester Square Theatre for his first try at live storytelling. He’s normally a rock journalist, but here he mulled the idea of tattoos, telling us a factual story about the symbolism of tattoos among the Russian prison population that didn’t always make for easy listening. The delivery occasionally needed a bit of polish, but this was an assured offering on a tough subject.

Phil Kay’s been doing storytelling in his stand-up since before it was recognised as a sub-genre of the current scene. From the profundity of Hodgkinson’s tale, troubadour Kay brought us back to the apparently trivial, regaling us with a tale of hitchhiking across Scotland to buy a car. It’s Kay’s knack for exaggerating minor observations into whole philosophies that makes this relatively minor errand so gripping, and he left us on a high.

For her own story, Francis-White – the comedian who also produced this festival – revealed that she was brought up a Jehovah’s Witness. Thankfully, this whole event wasn’t a ploy for her to sell us copies of the Watchtower, as she’s now reformed, but as a youngster she used to knock on strangers’ doors spreading the word. And should you question the wisdom of sending a teenage girl to do that, your fears will be realised with Francis-White’s yarn. Yet although there’s a menace to the tale , and she tells it with a lightness of touch – while the subject holds an intrinsic fascination because it’s so different to common experiences.

Singer-songwriter Judith Owen was in more clichéd territory when speaking of Los Angeles, where she now lives, being fake and full of desperate would-be stars. She brought out her husband, Simpsons actor Harry Shearer, to accompany her on bass guitar for the ensuing song – although ironically enough for someone known for his voice talents, he wasn’t allowed to speak. At least not yet. Owen has a fine jazz voice, but unimaginative lyrics, which is surely key in a storytelling night. In car-dependent Southern California, it’s not often you find ‘LA’ and ‘pedestrian’ in the same sentence, but it’s probably apt here.

Sarah Bennetto, the festival’s artistic director and curator of her own regular Storytellers’ Club, opening the second half with a yarn that made attending an Arcade Fire gig sond almost as magical and adventurous as a trip to Narnia. Though a comedian, the anecdote wasn’t entertaining rather than funny, but it was warmly told.

Next up was Mark Thomas, who was nothing short of astounding. After a couple of jokey reminiscences about the early days of alternative cabaret, he started telling us about his dad – a full-on rough, but hard-grafting working-class Methodist, Thatcherite builder from South London – and the difficult relationship he has with him. This has been a fertile ground for comics of late, most notably Russell Kane, but it’s never been covered as expertly as this. This powerful story was packed full of emotion, taking the audience on an incredible ride through the decades and, more significantly, the contradictory, complex feelings he had for this brusque character.

Always surprising as it deftly nipped between the moving and the funnys this was a ride that left the audience drained in the best possible way, having come through an amazing tale. Absolutely superlative stuff.

The story ended with a moral about joys money can’t buy, so it was rather unfortunate that Owen was reintroduced with the words: ‘And after the show she will be autographing CDs – if you buy them, of course.’ That Simpsons pay settlement must have hit the Shearer household harder than reported. Again, her contribution, setting up a song about women waiting ashore for their sea-faring men amid dreadful storms, was platitudinous (‘inside all of us is something that means the worst possible things can be turned around’) and the track itself soporific.

To headline, hubby Shearer returned, but despite his fame was, unfortunately, one of the weaker links in the line-up, with stories that were low on drama – and strong endings. Being taken to a Tijuana strip club was rather flat, and the story of submitting a lightweight lifestyle piece to Newsweek magazine in his youth only to find the introduction had been twisted to suit the publication’s agenda will come as no surprise in the nation that brought us the Daily Mail, Daily Express, The Sun, News Of The World, the Daily Mirror, the Sunday Sport….

But that Mark Thomas, he was fantastic.

Harry Shearer - Live Review

Storytelling can sometimes be seen as comedy’s fey, bookish older brother, brooding alone in the corner as his more popular, charismatic sibling gets all the attention for his ribald tales in the centre of the room. It’s all vacuous showboating, Storytelling mutters, while quietly wishing it was him in the spotlight.

The London Storytelling Festival is the latest of several attempts to make the art more relevant, even if the closing night gala wasn’t helped by a wordy preamble from hosts Sarah Bennetto and Deborah Francis-White about how it’s ‘the oldest artform’, ‘the way we communicate’ and how ‘made me understand who I was, my place in the world and my very existence’.

Thankfully, once the show got busy with the ‘Once upon a times…’ such worthy pretentiousness was largely jettisoned, and the stories were allowed to shine on their own merits.

Opening act Martin Dockery certainly showed how to spin even the most common occurrence into a gripping yarn – a trick the best stand-ups display. This vibrant New Yorker told of a fight with his long-term girlfriend amid the majesty of a Cambodian temple. Delivered with verve and told with wit and insight, he is so engaging and evocative he makes the audience believe they are sharing the sunrise – and the argument – with him.

From the experienced to the novice, with journalist Will Hodgkinson choosing the Leicester Square Theatre for his first try at live storytelling. He’s normally a rock journalist, but here he mulled the idea of tattoos, telling us a factual story about the symbolism of tattoos among the Russian prison population that didn’t always make for easy listening. The delivery occasionally needed a bit of polish, but this was an assured offering on a tough subject.

Phil Kay’s been doing storytelling in his stand-up since before it was recognised as a sub-genre of the current scene. From the profundity of Hodgkinson’s tale, troubadour Kay brought us back to the apparently trivial, regaling us with a tale of hitchhiking across Scotland to buy a car. It’s Kay’s knack for exaggerating minor observations into whole philosophies that makes this relatively minor errand so gripping, and he left us on a high.

For her own story, Francis-White – the comedian who also produced this festival – revealed that she was brought up a Jehovah’s Witness. Thankfully, this whole event wasn’t a ploy for her to sell us copies of the Watchtower, as she’s now reformed, but as a youngster she used to knock on strangers’ doors spreading the word. And should you question the wisdom of sending a teenage girl to do that, your fears will be realised with Francis-White’s yarn. Yet although there’s a menace to the tale , and she tells it with a lightness of touch – while the subject holds an intrinsic fascination because it’s so different to common experiences.

Singer-songwriter Judith Owen was in more clichéd territory when speaking of Los Angeles, where she now lives, being fake and full of desperate would-be stars. She brought out her husband, Simpsons actor Harry Shearer, to accompany her on bass guitar for the ensuing song – although ironically enough for someone known for his voice talents, he wasn’t allowed to speak. At least not yet. Owen has a fine jazz voice, but unimaginative lyrics, which is surely key in a storytelling night. In car-dependent Southern California, it’s not often you find ‘LA’ and ‘pedestrian’ in the same sentence, but it’s probably apt here.

Sarah Bennetto, the festival’s artistic director and curator of her own regular Storytellers’ Club, opening the second half with a yarn that made attending an Arcade Fire gig sond almost as magical and adventurous as a trip to Narnia. Though a comedian, the anecdote wasn’t entertaining rather than funny, but it was warmly told.

Next up was Mark Thomas, who was nothing short of astounding. After a couple of jokey reminiscences about the early days of alternative cabaret, he started telling us about his dad – a full-on rough, but hard-grafting working-class Methodist, Thatcherite builder from South London – and the difficult relationship he has with him. This has been a fertile ground for comics of late, most notably Russell Kane, but it’s never been covered as expertly as this. This powerful story was packed full of emotion, taking the audience on an incredible ride through the decades and, more significantly, the contradictory, complex feelings he had for this brusque character.

Always surprising as it deftly nipped between the moving and the funnys this was a ride that left the audience drained in the best possible way, having come through an amazing tale. Absolutely superlative stuff.

The story ended with a moral about joys money can’t buy, so it was rather unfortunate that Owen was reintroduced with the words: ‘And after the show she will be autographing CDs – if you buy them, of course.’ That Simpsons pay settlement must have hit the Shearer household harder than reported. Again, her contribution, setting up a song about women waiting ashore for their sea-faring men amid dreadful storms, was platitudinous (‘inside all of us is something that means the worst possible things can be turned around’) and the track itself soporific.

To headline, hubby Shearer returned, but despite his fame was, unfortunately, one of the weaker links in the line-up, with stories that were low on drama – and strong endings. Being taken to a Tijuana strip club was rather flat, and the story of submitting a lightweight lifestyle piece to Newsweek magazine in his youth only to find the introduction had been twisted to suit the publication’s agenda will come as no surprise in the nation that brought us the Daily Mail, Daily Express, The Sun, News Of The World, the Daily Mirror, the Sunday Sport….

But that Mark Thomas, he was fantastic.

Phil Kay - Live Review

Storytelling can sometimes be seen as comedy’s fey, bookish older brother, brooding alone in the corner as his more popular, charismatic sibling gets all the attention for his ribald tales in the centre of the room. It’s all vacuous showboating, Storytelling mutters, while quietly wishing it was him in the spotlight.

The London Storytelling Festival is the latest of several attempts to make the art more relevant, even if the closing night gala wasn’t helped by a wordy preamble from hosts Sarah Bennetto and Deborah Francis-White about how it’s ‘the oldest artform’, ‘the way we communicate’ and how ‘made me understand who I was, my place in the world and my very existence’.

Thankfully, once the show got busy with the ‘Once upon a times…’ such worthy pretentiousness was largely jettisoned, and the stories were allowed to shine on their own merits.

Opening act Martin Dockery certainly showed how to spin even the most common occurrence into a gripping yarn – a trick the best stand-ups display. This vibrant New Yorker told of a fight with his long-term girlfriend amid the majesty of a Cambodian temple. Delivered with verve and told with wit and insight, he is so engaging and evocative he makes the audience believe they are sharing the sunrise – and the argument – with him.

From the experienced to the novice, with journalist Will Hodgkinson choosing the Leicester Square Theatre for his first try at live storytelling. He’s normally a rock journalist, but here he mulled the idea of tattoos, telling us a factual story about the symbolism of tattoos among the Russian prison population that didn’t always make for easy listening. The delivery occasionally needed a bit of polish, but this was an assured offering on a tough subject.

Phil Kay’s been doing storytelling in his stand-up since before it was recognised as a sub-genre of the current scene. From the profundity of Hodgkinson’s tale, troubadour Kay brought us back to the apparently trivial, regaling us with a tale of hitchhiking across Scotland to buy a car. It’s Kay’s knack for exaggerating minor observations into whole philosophies that makes this relatively minor errand so gripping, and he left us on a high.

For her own story, Francis-White – the comedian who also produced this festival – revealed that she was brought up a Jehovah’s Witness. Thankfully, this whole event wasn’t a ploy for her to sell us copies of the Watchtower, as she’s now reformed, but as a youngster she used to knock on strangers’ doors spreading the word. And should you question the wisdom of sending a teenage girl to do that, your fears will be realised with Francis-White’s yarn. Yet although there’s a menace to the tale , and she tells it with a lightness of touch – while the subject holds an intrinsic fascination because it’s so different to common experiences.

Singer-songwriter Judith Owen was in more clichéd territory when speaking of Los Angeles, where she now lives, being fake and full of desperate would-be stars. She brought out her husband, Simpsons actor Harry Shearer, to accompany her on bass guitar for the ensuing song – although ironically enough for someone known for his voice talents, he wasn’t allowed to speak. At least not yet. Owen has a fine jazz voice, but unimaginative lyrics, which is surely key in a storytelling night. In car-dependent Southern California, it’s not often you find ‘LA’ and ‘pedestrian’ in the same sentence, but it’s probably apt here.

Sarah Bennetto, the festival’s artistic director and curator of her own regular Storytellers’ Club, opening the second half with a yarn that made attending an Arcade Fire gig sond almost as magical and adventurous as a trip to Narnia. Though a comedian, the anecdote wasn’t entertaining rather than funny, but it was warmly told.

Next up was Mark Thomas, who was nothing short of astounding. After a couple of jokey reminiscences about the early days of alternative cabaret, he started telling us about his dad – a full-on rough, but hard-grafting working-class Methodist, Thatcherite builder from South London – and the difficult relationship he has with him. This has been a fertile ground for comics of late, most notably Russell Kane, but it’s never been covered as expertly as this. This powerful story was packed full of emotion, taking the audience on an incredible ride through the decades and, more significantly, the contradictory, complex feelings he had for this brusque character.

Always surprising as it deftly nipped between the moving and the funnys this was a ride that left the audience drained in the best possible way, having come through an amazing tale. Absolutely superlative stuff.

The story ended with a moral about joys money can’t buy, so it was rather unfortunate that Owen was reintroduced with the words: ‘And after the show she will be autographing CDs – if you buy them, of course.’ That Simpsons pay settlement must have hit the Shearer household harder than reported. Again, her contribution, setting up a song about women waiting ashore for their sea-faring men amid dreadful storms, was platitudinous (‘inside all of us is something that means the worst possible things can be turned around’) and the track itself soporific.

To headline, hubby Shearer returned, but despite his fame was, unfortunately, one of the weaker links in the line-up, with stories that were low on drama – and strong endings. Being taken to a Tijuana strip club was rather flat, and the story of submitting a lightweight lifestyle piece to Newsweek magazine in his youth only to find the introduction had been twisted to suit the publication’s agenda will come as no surprise in the nation that brought us the Daily Mail, Daily Express, The Sun, News Of The World, the Daily Mirror, the Sunday Sport….

But that Mark Thomas, he was fantastic.

Mark Thomas - Live Review

Storytelling can sometimes be seen as comedy’s fey, bookish older brother, brooding alone in the corner as his more popular, charismatic sibling gets all the attention for his ribald tales in the centre of the room. It’s all vacuous showboating, Storytelling mutters, while quietly wishing it was him in the spotlight.

The London Storytelling Festival is the latest of several attempts to make the art more relevant, even if the closing night gala wasn’t helped by a wordy preamble from hosts Sarah Bennetto and Deborah Francis-White about how it’s ‘the oldest artform’, ‘the way we communicate’ and how ‘made me understand who I was, my place in the world and my very existence’.

Thankfully, once the show got busy with the ‘Once upon a times…’ such worthy pretentiousness was largely jettisoned, and the stories were allowed to shine on their own merits.

Opening act Martin Dockery certainly showed how to spin even the most common occurrence into a gripping yarn – a trick the best stand-ups display. This vibrant New Yorker told of a fight with his long-term girlfriend amid the majesty of a Cambodian temple. Delivered with verve and told with wit and insight, he is so engaging and evocative he makes the audience believe they are sharing the sunrise – and the argument – with him.

From the experienced to the novice, with journalist Will Hodgkinson choosing the Leicester Square Theatre for his first try at live storytelling. He’s normally a rock journalist, but here he mulled the idea of tattoos, telling us a factual story about the symbolism of tattoos among the Russian prison population that didn’t always make for easy listening. The delivery occasionally needed a bit of polish, but this was an assured offering on a tough subject.

Phil Kay’s been doing storytelling in his stand-up since before it was recognised as a sub-genre of the current scene. From the profundity of Hodgkinson’s tale, troubadour Kay brought us back to the apparently trivial, regaling us with a tale of hitchhiking across Scotland to buy a car. It’s Kay’s knack for exaggerating minor observations into whole philosophies that makes this relatively minor errand so gripping, and he left us on a high.

For her own story, Francis-White – the comedian who also produced this festival – revealed that she was brought up a Jehovah’s Witness. Thankfully, this whole event wasn’t a ploy for her to sell us copies of the Watchtower, as she’s now reformed, but as a youngster she used to knock on strangers’ doors spreading the word. And should you question the wisdom of sending a teenage girl to do that, your fears will be realised with Francis-White’s yarn. Yet although there’s a menace to the tale , and she tells it with a lightness of touch – while the subject holds an intrinsic fascination because it’s so different to common experiences.

Singer-songwriter Judith Owen was in more clichéd territory when speaking of Los Angeles, where she now lives, being fake and full of desperate would-be stars. She brought out her husband, Simpsons actor Harry Shearer, to accompany her on bass guitar for the ensuing song – although ironically enough for someone known for his voice talents, he wasn’t allowed to speak. At least not yet. Owen has a fine jazz voice, but unimaginative lyrics, which is surely key in a storytelling night. In car-dependent Southern California, it’s not often you find ‘LA’ and ‘pedestrian’ in the same sentence, but it’s probably apt here.

Sarah Bennetto, the festival’s artistic director and curator of her own regular Storytellers’ Club, opening the second half with a yarn that made attending an Arcade Fire gig sond almost as magical and adventurous as a trip to Narnia. Though a comedian, the anecdote wasn’t entertaining rather than funny, but it was warmly told.

Next up was Mark Thomas, who was nothing short of astounding. After a couple of jokey reminiscences about the early days of alternative cabaret, he started telling us about his dad – a full-on rough, but hard-grafting working-class Methodist, Thatcherite builder from South London – and the difficult relationship he has with him. This has been a fertile ground for comics of late, most notably Russell Kane, but it’s never been covered as expertly as this. This powerful story was packed full of emotion, taking the audience on an incredible ride through the decades and, more significantly, the contradictory, complex feelings he had for this brusque character.

Always surprising as it deftly nipped between the moving and the funnys this was a ride that left the audience drained in the best possible way, having come through an amazing tale. Absolutely superlative stuff.

The story ended with a moral about joys money can’t buy, so it was rather unfortunate that Owen was reintroduced with the words: ‘And after the show she will be autographing CDs – if you buy them, of course.’ That Simpsons pay settlement must have hit the Shearer household harder than reported. Again, her contribution, setting up a song about women waiting ashore for their sea-faring men amid dreadful storms, was platitudinous (‘inside all of us is something that means the worst possible things can be turned around’) and the track itself soporific.

To headline, hubby Shearer returned, but despite his fame was, unfortunately, one of the weaker links in the line-up, with stories that were low on drama – and strong endings. Being taken to a Tijuana strip club was rather flat, and the story of submitting a lightweight lifestyle piece to Newsweek magazine in his youth only to find the introduction had been twisted to suit the publication’s agenda will come as no surprise in the nation that brought us the Daily Mail, Daily Express, The Sun, News Of The World, the Daily Mirror, the Sunday Sport….

But that Mark Thomas, he was fantastic.

Deborah Frances White - Live Review

Storytelling can sometimes be seen as comedy’s fey, bookish older brother, brooding alone in the corner as his more popular, charismatic sibling gets all the attention for his ribald tales in the centre of the room. It’s all vacuous showboating, Storytelling mutters, while quietly wishing it was him in the spotlight.

The London Storytelling Festival is the latest of several attempts to make the art more relevant, even if the closing night gala wasn’t helped by a wordy preamble from hosts Sarah Bennetto and Deborah Francis-White about how it’s ‘the oldest artform’, ‘the way we communicate’ and how ‘made me understand who I was, my place in the world and my very existence’.

Thankfully, once the show got busy with the ‘Once upon a times…’ such worthy pretentiousness was largely jettisoned, and the stories were allowed to shine on their own merits.

Opening act Martin Dockery certainly showed how to spin even the most common occurrence into a gripping yarn – a trick the best stand-ups display. This vibrant New Yorker told of a fight with his long-term girlfriend amid the majesty of a Cambodian temple. Delivered with verve and told with wit and insight, he is so engaging and evocative he makes the audience believe they are sharing the sunrise – and the argument – with him.

From the experienced to the novice, with journalist Will Hodgkinson choosing the Leicester Square Theatre for his first try at live storytelling. He’s normally a rock journalist, but here he mulled the idea of tattoos, telling us a factual story about the symbolism of tattoos among the Russian prison population that didn’t always make for easy listening. The delivery occasionally needed a bit of polish, but this was an assured offering on a tough subject.

Phil Kay’s been doing storytelling in his stand-up since before it was recognised as a sub-genre of the current scene. From the profundity of Hodgkinson’s tale, troubadour Kay brought us back to the apparently trivial, regaling us with a tale of hitchhiking across Scotland to buy a car. It’s Kay’s knack for exaggerating minor observations into whole philosophies that makes this relatively minor errand so gripping, and he left us on a high.

For her own story, Francis-White – the comedian who also produced this festival – revealed that she was brought up a Jehovah’s Witness. Thankfully, this whole event wasn’t a ploy for her to sell us copies of the Watchtower, as she’s now reformed, but as a youngster she used to knock on strangers’ doors spreading the word. And should you question the wisdom of sending a teenage girl to do that, your fears will be realised with Francis-White’s yarn. Yet although there’s a menace to the tale , and she tells it with a lightness of touch – while the subject holds an intrinsic fascination because it’s so different to common experiences.

Singer-songwriter Judith Owen was in more clichéd territory when speaking of Los Angeles, where she now lives, being fake and full of desperate would-be stars. She brought out her husband, Simpsons actor Harry Shearer, to accompany her on bass guitar for the ensuing song – although ironically enough for someone known for his voice talents, he wasn’t allowed to speak. At least not yet. Owen has a fine jazz voice, but unimaginative lyrics, which is surely key in a storytelling night. In car-dependent Southern California, it’s not often you find ‘LA’ and ‘pedestrian’ in the same sentence, but it’s probably apt here.

Sarah Bennetto, the festival’s artistic director and curator of her own regular Storytellers’ Club, opening the second half with a yarn that made attending an Arcade Fire gig sond almost as magical and adventurous as a trip to Narnia. Though a comedian, the anecdote wasn’t entertaining rather than funny, but it was warmly told.

Next up was Mark Thomas, who was nothing short of astounding. After a couple of jokey reminiscences about the early days of alternative cabaret, he started telling us about his dad – a full-on rough, but hard-grafting working-class Methodist, Thatcherite builder from South London – and the difficult relationship he has with him. This has been a fertile ground for comics of late, most notably Russell Kane, but it’s never been covered as expertly as this. This powerful story was packed full of emotion, taking the audience on an incredible ride through the decades and, more significantly, the contradictory, complex feelings he had for this brusque character.

Always surprising as it deftly nipped between the moving and the funnys this was a ride that left the audience drained in the best possible way, having come through an amazing tale. Absolutely superlative stuff.

The story ended with a moral about joys money can’t buy, so it was rather unfortunate that Owen was reintroduced with the words: ‘And after the show she will be autographing CDs – if you buy them, of course.’ That Simpsons pay settlement must have hit the Shearer household harder than reported. Again, her contribution, setting up a song about women waiting ashore for their sea-faring men amid dreadful storms, was platitudinous (‘inside all of us is something that means the worst possible things can be turned around’) and the track itself soporific.

To headline, hubby Shearer returned, but despite his fame was, unfortunately, one of the weaker links in the line-up, with stories that were low on drama – and strong endings. Being taken to a Tijuana strip club was rather flat, and the story of submitting a lightweight lifestyle piece to Newsweek magazine in his youth only to find the introduction had been twisted to suit the publication’s agenda will come as no surprise in the nation that brought us the Daily Mail, Daily Express, The Sun, News Of The World, the Daily Mirror, the Sunday Sport….

But that Mark Thomas, he was fantastic.

Doug Stanhope - Live Review

How lovely  to see Doug Stanhope back in Leicester Square Theatre, even if he clearly feels he’s slumming it after doing a night at the Hammersmith Apollo back in April. He made several references to ‘slinking back’ and being  mystified that we all come back as well.  

This was the second show in a month’s run and he’s still clearly finding his sea-legs, it took him a few minutes and a couple of vodkas to relax into fluency.  Initially there were some pauses, with expectant silence, as he adjusted himself into the set, enjoying the awkwardness. This wasn’t all new, but it felt as fresh as paint, and I think the show will evolve as he’s looking to have a new hour by the end, for DVD purposes.  

He’s great with the drunken anecdote, describing a woozy arrival at Halifax, Canada, in the middle of the night, where his fancy-dress jacket and girlfriend’s pyjama’d appearance got them picked for drug carriers, painting a vivid picture of her sleepy contribution impeding proceedings as they were politely interrogated by mild Canadian border security.   

Not currently a drug user, he warned against advertising that you were, by bombing around in a flower-power decorated VW camper van or as a biker, where the smart thing to do would be to appear ultra conservative and straight, as a cover, leading to some entertaining speculation about Mormons and Amish folk. From the drug dress code, to the Muslim dress code to extremism and the contradictory nature of having a hierarchical approach to becoming a terrorist instead of just independently  ‘blowing shit up’.  He makes Al Qaeda hilarious, which is properly subversive.  

And then he moves into a dissection of  organisations, charities, philosphies, the futility of rehab – every 12-step programme is  all about a God, and the disgrace that medical profession gives up on science and turns to ‘a higher power’ to treat addiction.  There’s a beautiful bit about celebrity rehab shows, where the actual rehabiliation is always off camera, what we enjoy is watching some bloke stumbling around bashing into the furniture before he’s whisked away to be rescued.  

He’s not an advocate for drugs and alcohol, but he’s all for honesty, so he doesn’t hesitate to keep us apprised of his physical and mental decline, the constant need for sleeping tablets, the consistency of his faeces, his faltering memory and utter lack of libido, but this isn’t plaintive and whinging, it’s a factual , comical and vulnerable all once.

Because he’s so brutal on himself, he’s equally outspoken about Amy Winehouse – ‘not a genius’ – and Russell Brand and other subjects popularly held dear without examination.

At the same time as commentating on   atheism, the economy and addiction, he literally brings it right home, talking about small town life in Bisby, Arizona, (pop. 6,000) and the etiquette of living among  a community of artists and what being an artist means – making stuff other people don’t want to see or hear, pretty much like the children they want to bring to his parties.  

He was on great curmudgeonly form and concluded with a wonderful and disgusting soliloquy about the true indicator of a poor economy can be measured by the degradation of prostitution.  He doesn’t shy away from difficult areas, but makes them vivid and grotesque and above all funny, fuelled by an angry sense of a world that has skewed priorities.  

Anyone who had seen Stanhope before will have relished this performance as covering some favourite topics and on top form – not yet exhausted by his loathing for London and being away from home. Any newcomers will have seen why his brand of filthy, angry, half drunk utterance is so popular. If current form is anything to go by, and your curiosity is piqued, make sure you see him this month.

Luke Wright - Live Review

Luke Wright is serious about his legacy in the rich history of balladeers, boasting: ‘Swift, Pope… now it’s my turn’.

In Cynical Ballads, this assured young poet gives us a history of the form, as well as his contributions to it. Only latterly has the word been associated with song, as its true roots are in narrative verse – the Ballad Of Reading Gaol, for instance. And the most influential type of ballad influencing Wright here are the so-called broadside ballads, penny-sheets from the 16th to 19th centuries that broke the news of the day, often about gruesome executions, in rhyme.

Breaking news might now be best left to Twitter rather than the poets, but Wright paints a picture of 21st Century Britain through a series of seven extended ballads, each about a modern archetype, from the talentless X-Factor contestant to the Tory grandees, aloof on their country estate.

Such characters may be familiar, but Wright’s skilled in detailing them isn’t. Poets make their words dance, he says, and his are hoofing away like the Moulin Rouge chorus-line, whether it’s describing the ‘peroxide oompah-loompah girls dribbling their kebabs’ or the twee horsey villages that are all ‘Agas, Barbours and Trollope sagas’.

Subtitled Seven Caustic Tales From Broken Britain, Wright’s character sketches are often downbeat, similar in tone to the cult Monkey Dust animation of the mid-2000s. A couple of the ballads are particularly bleak, especially the one detailing sink-estate brutality, while others are depressing more for what they say about the iniquitous system; from the landed gentry haw-hawing as the oiks get poorer, to the Boris-alike Dudley Livingstone, hiding his rabid right-wing views behind charming bluster.

A touch of lightness comes from Mr & Mrs P Cartwight – the ‘extreme SKIers’, Spending the Kids’ Inheritance. ‘You’ve heard of affluenza,’ Wright says of their cosy middle-class lifestyle. ‘Well this was affli-Aids’. Yet there’s a grim Roald Dahl-style sting in this tale of gleeful profligacy.

Although his words do a perfectly fine job in describing the folk in his yarns, what really brings them to life are the beautifully scribbled illustrations of Sam Ratcliffe, providing a distinctive and stylishly dystopian backdrop to the poetry, complementing it perfectly. They are the backbone of a splendidly put-together production, which also includes a haunting tune and Wright’s own simple, but thought-through, wardrobe.

Away from the verse, Wright can come across as a little precocious and smug, but in the poetry, he shows how he’s earned his status. The only mistake, possibly, is to consider this comedy. For although it’s billed as ‘darkly comic’, Cynical Ballads definitely has the emphasis on the adverb, not the adjective. Wright has a wryly witty turn of phrase, and the occasional funny line, but this impresses for its poignant literacy, not for its chuckle count.

Doug Stanhope - Live Review

Ever insightful, Doug Stanhope knows the impotence of his trademark fury better than most. He’s come to accept that his big, if hugely controversial, ideas to solve all the world’s ills fall on the deaf ears of the drunkards and wastrels he considers his natural audience.

He also admits this all-too brief London run coincides with his annual crisis of confidence, when he becomes listless with his own material and convinced he’s not, nor never has been, funny. He’s hardly motivated by the news, feeling there aren’t too many ha-has in sub-prime mortgage lending, so what he really needs is a ‘better 9/11’ to inspire him anew

This – plus the fact he’s noticeably under the weather – doesn’t auger well for an hilarious 80 minutes. But thankfully, despite his protests, there’s no drought of ideas in what turns out to be another powerfully opinionated show. If global issues aren’t his concern, he is still left to focus his omnipresent frustrated rage in two opposing directions: outwards to the minutiae of existence, and inwards to his own numerous failings of a human being.

In a coruscating early routine about stand-up itself; he contrasts his attempts at observational comedy with the benign wit of Jerry Seinfeld. Both may comment upon the inadequacies of airline food – but where Seinfeld simply points it out, Stanhope wants to punch someone in the head for it. Comedy is all the funnier when it has anger management issues, and Stanhope brings plenty of those to the table.

When it comes to himself, he’s not so much angry as disappointed, especially at the state of his aging body, which he doesn’t even feel he can inflict upon comedy groupies any more. But he can still get laid: ‘I got hooker money,’ he declares.

It’s a line that is perfectly believable, coming from Stanhope. You know his debauched tales of drunken, drug-fuelled excess, of watching porn, and generally being on the fringes of society – although never the core thread of his act – are entirely authentic. That you know he’s the real deal gives added credence that the views he espouses are genuinely held beliefs, not concocted for the sake of a glib joke.

So even on the rare occasions when routines don’t really work – a muddled if well-intentioned derision of the Monarchy or some nonsense about humans being the result of aliens breeding with apes – you still want to listen to hear what he has to say.

Aside from the closing material about the relative lack of intimacy in sex, which Stanhope performed at his last UK visit, his most impressive routine considers the discrimination against the ugly as heinous as any other prejudice. This tessellates neatly with both his take on Barack Obama and racism, and his inspired thoughts on Susan Boyle, brutally spearing those who expected her to be unable to sing simply because she was aesthetically imperfect.

Elsewhere, Stanhope beautifully offensive take on why abortion is the environmentally sensible choice, and a thoughtfully logical, if comedically underpowered, manifesto makes a great case for how the state should have no power over what you do to your own body – from drugs to abortion to euthanasia.

Hang on, aren’t we back on to the big issues Stanhope said he wouldn’t tackle. But for a drunk wreck of a man with a tendency to rub people up the wrong way, he doesn’t half make some good points – and funny ones too.

Steve Hughes - Live Review

For an outspoken spokesman for the non-compliant counter-culture, Steve Hughes can be remarkably mainstream.

He’s got routines about all those baffling coffee choices in Starbucks about those elaborate revolving toilet doors on intercity trains and about how Steve Irwin’s 2006 death was no surprise after a lifetime of poking dangerous animals. Hacky observational comedy of the simplest – and least interesting – kind.

Yet he is forgiven these weak points, partly because he does at least express them with a witty flourish of language, but mainly because they have little relevance to the bigger picture: a consistent and passionate comedy outlook driven by his distinctive convictions. Suspicion is the single defining trait – or paranoia, depending on where your sympathies lie.

And the bigger picture, as the show’s title suggests, is this grizzled Australian’s main concern. His material contains almost as many references to such global ideas such as the ‘corporate Satantic matrix’ or humanity’s ‘singular consciousness’ as there are C-bombs. Which is a lot.

His instinct – no, his compulsion – is to question authority, in whatever form it takes, from CCTV surveillance to health and safety. Sometimes you suspect he’s disputing orthodoxies just for the sake of it, but he’s of the opinion that apathy is the biggest threat to freedom, and is determined not to join a populace complicit in the erosion of their own rights.

Even if you don’t wholeheartedly agree with his worse-case-scenario outlook, Hughes is funnier, and more gentle, than the preachy politics might suggest. Well, for the bulk of the show at least -– in the closing third or so, he spends a lot of the comedy capital he’s acquired as he mounts his soapbox and pushes the message ahead of the jokes. Received wisdom is here dismissed with a derisory snort, rather than the piercing barbs which characterise his best routines.

Hughes’s fans will have heard some of this before; as it’s not only the same issues that have consumed him for the past decade or so, but some of the same routines, too. However newcomers to his work are in for a treat, and there is enough fresh writing for this not to be merely a ‘greatest hits’ tour on the back of a couple of high-profile telly gigs.

As well as his outsider politics, Hughes comes across as the ultimate road comic – the product of a life of hard, transient living that provides a vicarious fascination for the more buttoned-down component of his audience… which, compared to him, is pretty much everyone. But he’s charming with it, widening his appeal.

Hughes still has the earthy demeanour of the heavy metal guitarist he used to be. But with his stand-up he proves himself a skilful lyricist, too, able to condense his big ideas into a pithy, elegant punchline. One brief routine about privacy ends with the payoff ‘How come my house has more rights than I do?’ which is typically efficient and eloquent.

Kudos, too, to opening act Sully O’Sullivan – who didn’t push the boat out in terms of originality, and had a forced cadence that’s too obviously fake – but he got the job done with skilful audience banter, and some perfectly dropped punchlines that provided an appealing twist to routine set-ups.

It all makes for an entertaining night of subtle sedition – sticking it to The Man, but with a smile.

Stewart Lee - Live Review

Poor Stewart Lee. Despite BBC Two’s best efforts to conceal the second series of his stand-up show, he finds himself more popular than ever, attracting audiences big enough to sustain a residency in London’s Leicester Square Theatre from now until the middle of February.

But such success does not sit easy on Lee’s weary shoulders, and it gives rise to a new catchphrase. ‘It’s not aimed at you,’ he repeatedly tells the Jimmy Carr fans finding his way into his audience, desperately trying to deter all but his hardcore demographic.

It’s all part of the way Lee’s fractious, intransigent elitism has become as much of an in-joke as his curmudgeonly harrumphs at other comedians – a self-awareness that softens his ‘passive-aggressive monotony’ without compromising it.

Yet for all his avowed desire to return to the days when he played to a devout cabal of middle-aged liberals, the first section of Carpet Remnant World is perhaps some of his most accessible, as he offers his cantankerous take on big news stories such as the assassination of Bin Laden – even including a few actual jokes in the mix. But Lee’s take on topical comedy is nonetheless more complex than the material that makes it on to Mock The Week – as his distinctive, tongue-in-cheek, version of Frankie Boyle’s gag about the Queen’s ancient vagina proves.

Nor can he do observational comedy with quite the conviction of a Michael McIntyre. He tries with limited success – hence the material about shops with 'world' in their name – but eventually throws his hands up in defeat, acknowledging this is a fragmented, out-of-touch show. His life now involves only driving to gigs and looking after his four-year-old son.

In sarcastic commentary on fellow middle-aged comics, he has to concede that his viewpoint has drastically narrowed as the range of influences and experience shrinks to the mundanely domestic. After all, what comic could possibly find enough mileage in Scooby Doo And The Pirate Zombie Jungle Island to fill an extended routine?

Well, Lee could obviously. A gloriously self-referential rant about the ghost-hunting teenagers remains awkwardly funny while providing a sharp satire on the irrelevance of most comedy. It fits in with the ethos of the show in exposing the tricks of the modern stand-up trade, such as tear-jerking through lines or the structural devices to make disparate routines seems like they are true to a theme.

The next disparate routine here is a convincing argument about how the likes of Twitter have reduced us to a surveillance society, with his every move being noted and commented upon. It leads to a catalogue of viciously vitriolic abuse Lee has sustained by online trolls wishing him harm. He’s not the first comedian to have made capital from his critics, but it is very effective, set to a inappropriately relaxing jazz soundtrack.

Maybe parenthood has softened him a little, as Carpet Remnant World is less intense and less challenging than some of his more powerful shows – and less reliant on the repetition and pregnant pauses, too. But it’s no less funny, nor less thoughtful, for it – appealing both to both the comedy anoraks who are Lee’s core audience and, whisper it quietly, new converts. If all goes horribly wrong, this could make his fan base expand again.

Bill Burr - Live Review

Imagine a short-tempered American man who owns a pitbull, advocates gun ownership and can think of plenty of good reasons to hit a woman.

Now think again. Bill Burr is all of these things, yet is so gifted a comedian that even the most liberal-minded audience member is likely to concede that maybe he’s got a point. His skill is in acknowledging he’s a moron for thinking such things, but having the honesty to confess to his more basic instincts. The best comedy makes us tacitly acknowledge life’s dark side and laugh in its face, and this is where Burr – making a rare one-off appearance in the UK – is in his element.

For all the aggression underpinning his arguments, he’s no dumb-ass redneck, but actually occupies a low-status position, a regular Joe beaten down by life’s frustrations. The standpoint is therefore sympathetic, making his annoyance easy to identify with. From there, he can make his exaggerated responses seem if not reasonable, then at least justifiable – and all delivered with a Everyman charm and subtle irony that allows him to waltz around the controversy his hot topics might otherwise provoke.

He doesn’t, of course, start with the domestic violence material. That is something to build up to, after establishing what manner of man he is. Yet even his ice-breaker gags, about how awful facelifts look or how he, like most white people, managed to avoid the most rudimentary of skincare tips, is as funny as it is identifiable, with deft punchlines packed tightly together. First and foremost, he is a technically faultless comedian, with perfectly-engineered architecture that ensures opinion, observation and gags are tightly intertwined, with the occasional underplayed callback to give just a hint of the structure beneath.

There’s very little wasted. Sometimes when comics act out a little scene, for example, it just reinforces the point they already made, adding little new – but Burr’s depiction of a man losing his temper with a DIY project adds value in the close attention to detail, meaning the familiar scene is recreated with hilarious accuracy, and an unfolding mini-drama. No wonder there are so many laughs of recognition.

Much of his comedy reflects domestic life. In his case, he’s unmarried, 43 and childless, which preys on his mind. But he has a partner, and the niggling arguments they have are a mainstay of this brisk 75-minute set. Yes, it’s another stand-up addressing the difference between the genders, but when you do so with insight, and take even familiar tropes in new directions, no topic is hack.

With some of his more outlandish statements, he’s being deliberately provocative, yet he argues with a cheeky confidence and an attitude which says: ‘you all think it even though you shouldn’t’. It picks away at polite behaviour and addresses more primal responses, far from the realm of the politically correct.

His boldness on stage is what makes him so appealing, while the suspicion that he would never be so forthright in real life lets him get away with it. This was a welcome visit from a gifted comedy artisan – if only his British visit wasn’t so fleeting.

Tom Stade - Live Review

Tom Stade might not be that familiar a name – a McIntryre Roadshow and a couple of other stand-up slots is pretty much all he has on his televisual CV – but that he can play three nights to decent-sized houses at the Leicester Square Theatre should provide heartening proof that quality will always find its audience.

For almost a decade as a stalwart of the British circuit, this audacious, cheeky and sarcastic Canadian has built up a formidable repertoire, epitomised by harsh jokes which he justifies by sophisticated arguments. That way he should appeal to both those seeking the sick, and those seeking the insightful – though they are not always mutually exclusive demographics.

Half of his set is personal; a front-line report from a man deeply embedded in a 16-year relationship, where passionate romance has long been replaced by placid, soul-sapping acceptance. He feels trapped, with his dreams sacrificed and his sex life almost tragic. It makes him bitterly frustrated, which erupts in raw gags that cut very close to the bone. Some of the chuckles are surely bitter laughs of recognition.

On the face of it, he is discussing those most well-worn of ‘men are from Mars…’ topics, complaining, for example, that women talk too much. Yet he approaches with such a fresh angle – a unique theory as to why this might be that has a ring of plausibility – that the gives the routine a real edge.

The same is true of other topics. Fat Americans, airport security and shopping at Primark might be the set list of any lazy McHack comedian, yet Stade creeps up on such topics from the undergrowth, rather that taking the well-worn path to their front door.

His disarmingly charming approach goes a long way, too. When he teeters along the edge of taste and decency – which he so often does – it’s with a snigger in his voice at how naughty he’s being, making his mischievous little gags about Islam or Third World famine.

Some would say this is no ground for comedy, but Stade is unapologetic about the fact that he’s just saying things that amuse him, sometimes precisely because they are verboten.

Another technique – which gives this show his title – is to assume one front-row punter is an age-old friend, Jimmy’, who’s been on many adventures with him. ‘When we went to Somalia, what year was that?’ he prompts, seeking confirmation his tall tales. Even if tonight’s Jimmy was a little slow on the uptake about what was required of him; that provides more laughs. The technique also provides Slade with an instant scapegoat, putting any dubious material on to poor Jimmy’s shoulders.

But when it comes to taking the credit for a bold, brilliantly-written show that forever teases the audience’s expecatations, Stade shouldn’t have to share the plaudits with anybody. This is a genuinely classy, genuinely funny show from a slick pro.

Rita Rudner - Live Review

It’s almost impossible to write about Rita Rudner’s first London shows in more than 15 years without sounding as if she’s being damned with faint praise. She is, for 90 minutes or thereabouts, mildly amusing, with well-buffed jokes that are cute rather than uproarious. But although on the bland side, she delivers with a consistency, charm and admirable professionalism that will surely warm the cockles, even if they leave ribs unaching.

Her routine is based on the sort observations everyone will al know. Not even clichés, but truths already held to be self-evident. In her eyes, women all like shopping, decorative cushions and shoes, while hobbies include talking about relationships and failing to read a map.

It’s all gross generalisations, of course, and a couple of times she even says: ‘You know what’s coming next’. But there’s a reason such things resonate, and if there’s one thing that always proves popular in comedy it’s reinforcing assumed common knowledge. Not that it has done much good for Rudner’s ticket sales yet; opening night in London’s intimate Leicester Square Theatre was only half-full.

Her banter about the genders is the sort of gentle ribbing that partners might readily exchange every day, but with the benefit of ten years in Vegas to make each dry line as smooth and slick as they can possibly. Rudner’s no longer the ditzy Yank she was on her last British visit, but the archly professional mainstream entertainer.

Her set is the comic equivalent of a glossy fashion magazine, beautifully put together with such so much care and attention, all designed to distract you from the fact the contents are ultimately utterly inconsequential. And that emphasis on presentation extends to her now trademark glamorous stagewear, in tonight’s case a red evening gown, that says, albeit understatedly, ‘class’.

There is nothing that might ruffle feathers as she discusses such everyday concerns as supermarkets’ self-scanning machines, DVD anti-piracy messages or restaurants so expensive they daredn’t put the prices on the menu. When, in a Q&A session at the end, Rudner is asked about the Royal Wedding, she can only ponder how the Middleton sisters can both be so perfectly beautiful. But then that elegant fairytale world fits so snugly with her apparent ideals, you would expect nothing less.

That the show works at all is down to her vast reserves of modest charisma and the pithiness of the writing. Jokes, or rather witticisms, flow freely, and often convey such delightful imagery… such as swallowing wasabi so hot that she could ‘see her own nostrils’. Though it’s often the more straightforward, and often none-too-imaginative lines such as ‘the waxwork of Joan Rivers looks more realistic than the real thing’ that earn her the applause breaks.

The closing questions session allows that charm, not to mention her quick-wittedness, come to the fore in a more relaxed construct that the stand-up monologue; and the more you see of Rudner the person, rather than the deliverer of wry, polished commentary, the more there is to like. Because she, as a presence, is an utter delight.

Richard Herring - Live Review

Ah, what more festive way to mark the birth of Christ that with a comedy show questioning the very tenets of the religion set up in his name?

This a resurrected version of the show Richard Herring first performed at Edinburgh almost a decade ago, when he was the same age Jesus was when he was crucified. The key premise then, as now, was whether Herring had achieved as much in his life as the Messiah did in his, concluding that not only was a it close-run thing, but that this comedian-wastrel might indeed be the Second Coming. ‘I'm not saying I'm Jesus,’ he counters. ‘That is for other people to say.’

In the intervening years, atheism has risen exponentially in stand-up to become comedy’s de facto stance. In this audience of maybe 150, Herring could find just two people who thought Jesus was the son of God.

In a mostly successful attempt to stand apart from the crowd taking pot-shots at this easiest of targets, Herring has at least done his homework; highlighted in a particularly impressive routine demolishing Matthew 1 – that tedious list of all the ‘begats’ showing Jesus’s genealogy which he has, impressively, committed to memory – and offering a withering literary criticism of the Ten Commandments. They may be the literal words of God, but Herring makes them appear the verbose ramblings of a madman, as once again logic proves the enemy of the wildly inconsistent Good Book.

The fact we can’t treat the Gospels as, well, gospel is just one strand of his narrative; alongside his own Messianic ambitions, and the thought that although Christianity has caused so much conflict, it can’t be all bad since such faith made people such as his father, the reigning Cheddar Man Of The Year, lead such a virtuous life. These various trains of thought are all hung on a dream that Herring had in which he had a cycle race with Jesus – hence the title – to prove who was the best.

Some of these threads are left loose, while that narrative device proves a slightly awkward one – possibly due to rustiness, since tonight is the first time Herring has performed the redux show since August, beginning a London residency ahead of a national tour. But what can’t be doubted, even by Thomas, is the succinct wit and intelligence that goes into some of his cocky lines. The Bible may have coined some smart phrases, but the atheists have some too. How many weeks would you have to attend Catholic Communion, Herring ponders, before you had consumed an entire Jesus?

The delivery is more in the formal manner of a sermon than fluid stand-up, and would benefit from being a little looser, but Herring maintains an impishly irreverent tone towards his subject rather than cruel savagery. No one’s faith should be too insulted, thought they might want to take the scriptures with a pinch of salt.

Ultimately, it’s not as incisive or iconoclastic of some of Herring’s other work – and he’s got a lot of shows to his name – so can feel a little safe, especially in an already sceptical world. But the writing is often excellent in this reliably entertaining show. Praise be.

Bill Bailey - Live Review

Comedy-goers, you’re in for a treat. Even at this stage, Bill Bailey’s next tour is about as perfect a stand-up experience as you could hope to get. And this at merely a ‘work in progress’ gig, before a month-long run of preview shows in the West End’s Wyndham Theatre, announced this morning, and the tour itself.

This is a show that has everything: politics, whimsy, music, passion, fun, rap, poetry, speed bazuki, a history of art lecture about the various interpretations of The Incredulity of St Thomas… all performed with the skill, wit, intelligence and originality of a true maestro of comedy.

There’s surprise at every turn, with such an embarrassment of exquisite jokes, imagery and ideas you can’t help but be enchanted. While the show title suggests a flighty brain (‘one pffft and it’s gone’), there’s no doubt that behind that acid-casualty exterior lies a super-sharp operator.

If, as the aphorism goes, a comic says funny things, while a true comedian says things funny, them we’d better make a new category for Bailey. Not only can he get a laugh just from mumbling ‘Thank you for coming’ at an unusually brisk pace, getting the ball rolling straight away, but there’s a richness and depth to all his material, which means that each one of his plentiful laughs is uniquely earned.

Following his previous, diluted, escapades with a full orchestra, here’s back to what he does best – even if it’s not exactly pared-down basics. The stage with littered with musical detritus, from the Iranian oud to the Tenori-on, an electronic gizmo that translates patterns into sound. You would expect him to put this one-man band to use for some of his trademark mash-ups; and he doesn’t disappoint, especially with his joyous French pop version of Cars. Bailey doesn’t need to change the words of a song to get a cheap laugh, he can change its speed a get much stronger ones.

However, the music – plus the classy videos that accompany some of it – is an adjunct to his sharp wit, not a replacement for it. Despite battling a rasping throat, Bailey is on top intellectual form tonight, his rationalist point of view perhaps more tightly focussed by the Pope’s visit, which gets plenty of tongue-in-cheek mentions. Bailey has a plan to get close enough to lunge at the Pontiff, by disguising himself as a badger, the perfect illustration of his mix of surrealism and sharp opinion.

In fact, Bailey’s whimsy is singularly grounded. He doesn’t string random ideas together for the sake of it, but has such expert command of the language that he can succinctly demolish anything he sees as ridiculous with the perfect heightened of its extremes that may seem bizarre, but makes a point.

Brevity is thus at the heart of his wit, with the Saw films boiled down to one or two brilliantly bizarre horror scenarios, or florid gastrobollocks perfectly parodied with flamboyantly imagined menu description . While spoofs of such things as cosmetics ads or James Blunt songs – easy comic targets by any measure – are so devastatingly accurate they transcend the ordinary.

Bailey’s in playful mood tonight, too, the intimate confines of the Leicester Square Theatre perhaps allowing him to be especially relaxed. Typically oddball hecklers, prompt his usual disclaimer: ‘I should warn you, I do attract a lot of nutters.’ But they give him rein to spin off into a mix of improvised silliness and snippets of back-catalogue to make for an irresistibly fluid performance.

Keen Bailey-watchers will spot a few of the prime routines from his last Tinselworm tour making their way into this set. This may be a part of the ‘in progress’ nature of this gig, but they sit seamlessly alongside the vast majority of new stuff, and are a delight to hear again in a show that’s perfect. Just perfect.

Doug Stanhope - Live Review

Misanthropic grouch Doug Stanhope has cornered the market in bilious contempt, expressing his frustrations at everything from minor irritations to global concerns in resentful rage-fuelled rants – and his slowly-growing army of hardcore fans love him for it.

He is the embodiment of acrid scorn, barking out the darkest sentiments we all sometimes feel in our most petulant moments. But his appeal is also that he is a screwed-up, bitter drunk with a mind full of extreme vulgarity. He is not only an outlet for shared exasperation, but a reminder we shouldn’t let annoyance eat us up, lest we end up like him.

Because of all the things Stanhope hates, himself seems to be top of the very long list. ‘I’m a horrible intolerant cunt of a person,’ he says, ‘and I can’t change it.’ All he can do is funnel it into comedy, for which we should be thankful.

He is brutally self-critical, drawing attention to his ‘shitty work ethic’ – even though he’s turned over a new 80 minutes of material in the 12 months since he was last here; pointing out the moments when he doesn’t have a neat segueway to get from one routine to the next; berating himself for telling a story that is more anecdote than a ‘bit’; or analysing how the energy is ebbing and flowing, very conscious that he needs to be on top of his game for this show, as all the reviewers are in.

He appears to envy tonight’s support act Hal Sparks – a polished, professional comic with strong material picking at Biblical hypocrisy. But the very reason Stanhope’s the draw is the fact he’s not that man. His rough-around-the edges performance is more genuine, the perfect approach if your job is to blast apart bullshit.

Not that his tirades aren’t typically virtuostic displays of comic brilliance; but afterwards he seems to wish they were more spontaneous. However it would be hard to top his impassioned take on the whale ‘trainer’ killed by an orca at SeaWorld or his take on manipulative rows within relationships that exposes almost every other stand-up routine about how men and women argue differently for the superficial nonsense it is.

The routine about how the recession will hit those already at the bottom of the economic chain makes a catchphrase out of the most unpleasantly vulgar image and repeats it with increasing audacity; while his reaction to the minor inconvenience of being caught behind a dawdler in a queue is so full of disproportionately extreme imagery that exposes the depths his diseased mind, while drawing huge laughs for its twisted extravagance.

Stanhope frets that he no longer has a social relevance; that over his 20-year career he’s stumbled on a handful of good ideas about overpopulation or drug prohibition – and is now frustrated that the problems haven’t yet been solved, as even his most devoted fans blithely ignore his message. Of more concern is that he doesn’t want to repeat himself as a comic, and he’s running out of places to go.

But on the strength of another impressive London show, full of astute opinion, gratuitously over-the-top mental pictures and the ceaseless passion that adds power to his already strong punchlines, Stanhope is far from being a spent force.

Bill Burr - Live Review

It’s a good job visiting American comic Bill Burr has comedy as an outlet for his simmering frustrations. Without it, this highly-strung misanthropist would surely be only one minor irritation from a killing spree.

Indeed, he freely describes himself as a psycho, the sort of person who sidles up to you in a bar ‘seems all right for a few moments’ as he trades small-talk about the game on the TV – until he unleashes his vitriolic opinions and left-field theories. The ever-present annoyance with life means Burr tends to talk in short, pointed phrases, which gives his comedy a lean muscularity, efficiently packing in lots of sharp jabs to batter you down.

On his first visit to these shores, playing only London, Dublin and the Glasgow Comedy Festival, he proves himself to be a formidable comic. Hopefully it’s the first of many visits, as those lucky enough to catch him – the 400-seater Leicester Square Theatre was less than two-thirds full of a mixture of fans and the curious – will certainly be queuing for tickets should he ever return.

The only indication that he’s not been here before is his confusion over the audience’s reticence about talking back. But it’s not just shyness. The assumption would be that questions such as ‘You guys have squirrels here, right?’ are rhetorical – but they’re not, he really needs to know, having been too lazy to Google the reference before he came.

Such typically blokish slothfulness – that faithful comedy staple – is a central plank of his persona. He’s angry about everything from Seaworld theme parks to religion, the phoney media ‘outrage’ over Tiger Wood’s philandering to the banking crisis – but is too damn apathetic to do anything about other than spit impotent fury. But the swipes he takes at his targets are devastatingly accurate, and hilariously expressed.

If you thought something like ‘fat Americans’ was a hack subject, Burr conclusively proves you wrong – showing that if you attack from a new direction, with enough ferocity and tenacity, there are still original belly-laughs to be found in any topic.

But there’s a strong sense of fun as well as the passion, thanks largely to a playful self-awareness. His ill-informed intolerance is the butt of many jokes, while between his tighter routines, he’ll ease off the accelerator a bit to get more chatty, reveling, for instance, in Britain’s casual use of the c-word that’s so taboo in his homeland. And that;s even before he got to Glasgow.

Then we’re off again, on yet another powerful routine, building purposefully to a climax. Almost any one of them would be the untoppable closer in another comic’s repertoire, but Burr can keep them coming one after another.

The longest routine he has involves him reluctantly becoming a dog-owner – picking up a pitbull from the rescue centre, or ‘dog jail’ as he depicts it. This showcases another of his talents, for vivid metaphor. He humanises the pooches as hardened cons – a grittier version of those pups-playing-pool prints, perhaps – and although the idea seems straightforward, the execution is masterful.

He’s more often known for tackling more contentious issues such as racism, but largely stayed off such topics tonight. However, he proved he can make even the most domestic of tales a comedic tour de force, even without the extra edge of controversy.

Despite the usual role-call of TV credits, Burr has never quite hit the big time in the States, remaining a trusted road comic more than acclaimed great. His greatest success is probably the blurry YouTube clip showing him furiously berating a Philadelphia crowd for ten for booing the act before him, Dom Irrera. But if American audiences won’t appreciate him, Britain is surely ready to welcome him with open arms.

Stewart Lee - Live Review

Stewart Lee is past it. Ensconced in comfortable middle-age, the essential anger of comedy has deserted him. It’s time for him, at 41, to retire gracefully.

Or so Frankie Boyle would have you believe.

The Mock The Week star’s comments that no stand-up over 40 is funny was the spark that ignited these 90 unforgiving minutes of perfectly-measured sarcasm, using deconstruction, repetition and moral superiority as the sharpened tools with which to slay the very idea.

Boyle’s proposition is conclusively refuted, while he becomes the object of Lee’s scorn, his supposedly controversial line about the Queen’s vagina being meticulously picked apart, revealed as ridiculous under the scrutiny. This is Lee’s usual MO, and it’s as effective today as it has ever been.

The show’s title, as well as serving as a warning for those who like their humour lass challenging to stay away, comes from the sign behind every Caffe Nero counter. It was there that Lee was embarrassed when his loyalty card was refused because of an irregularity in the accumulated stamps.

The incident is typical of the sort of minor irritant that middle-class comics of a certain age – the very people Boyle was presumably thinking about – often build routines around, getting laughs from their impotent fury. Lee proves he can easily fit into this category, though it soon becomes apparent his heart is not in it. He berates us for chuckling at the ‘wrong’ places and subtly highlights the artifice of the supposed rage behind the genre. Never mind the free coffee, he’s certainly having his Danish raisin swirl and eating it….

This show of extended set pieces then moves on to the life expected of a fortysomething parent, skewering the bucolic idea of moving to the country with its cultural malnourishment before moving on to an attack on the unedifying ‘politically incorrect’ ideology as espoused by Top Gear that culminates in a daring piece about Richard Hammond’s near-fatal crash. Here, Lee moves the audience between discomfort and laughter with deceptive ease.

Because they are so distinctive, it’s easy to focus on Lee’s techniques; the deadpan delivery, the constant reiteration of his themes, the aloof demeanour. But there’s also a playfulness that imitators often miss, while the intelligent but unpretentious writing builds skilfully to make punchlines out of the most unexpected places.

Only in his final routine, based on the artistic bankruptcy of advertising executives, is in danger of becoming a parody of his own methodology – but the payoffs are certainly well worth it, and you’ll never watch Mark Watson’s Magners cider ads in quite the same way again.

Comedy in-jokes are, of course, an integral part of the show’s fabric. As well as Boyle, Lee takes pot-shots at the easy target of Michael McIntyre and creates a whole new genus of stand-up: the ‘Russell comedian’. But such asides hit a wider audience, not just the comedy cognoscenti.

In what will come as a surprise to long-term fans – though it’s entirely in keeping with his compulsion to keep the audience out of their comfort zone – Lee ends with a sincere song. It’s a cover version of a Steve Earle track, not a schmaltzy Lee Evans-style number; but it’s enough to show that he still has the capacity to surprise – even at a positively geriatric 41

Topping & Butch - Live Review

Cheekily camp Topping and Butch have such innate warmth and charm that they could be Morecambe and Wise on Poppers… even if they’ve yet to find their Eddie Braben to mould their appealing personalities into comedy gold.

In Sex, Drugs & Harriet Harman, the duo even ape Eric and Ernie’s use of an aloof guest star, in the exquisitely vampish form of Maria Tecce, a mesmerising mezzo-soprano who gamely plays sultry straightwoman to their frisky shenanigans. Four Poofs And A Piano also do a guest turn, but with no such attempt at integrating their outré ditties into the greater show.

These days Topping and Butch leave their leather bondage gear back in the dungeon, and perform instead in stylish smoking jackets, reflecting their debt to Noel Coward, whose pithy, barbed intimate revue songs they clearly hope to emulate.

Their constantly updated signature tune, Never Mind, is probably the best example of this; limerick-like couplets applied to the news of the day with a cheerily old-fashioned piano accompaniment. The emphasis is on the playfully silly, rather than any sharp satirical points, but they score full marks for topicality.

That lightness of touch lets them get away with utter filth, such as a song about picking up rough trade in a taxi, yet make it seem little more than cheekiness. Even any passing maiden aunts are more likely to shriek in delight than disgust. Another highlight is their catty assault on Lily Allen – employing the same talking-singing style, naturally – which is fun even for fans of the LDNer’s work.

But as a whole this show – the second of four, weekly residencies at the Leicester Square Theatre – is rather slipshod. The duo stumble over their words several times in the first half, and much of their energies seems to be directed at remembering their material, rather than best performing lines they know backwards. The whole Harriet Harman idea is a red herring, too; with an occasional mention of her allegedly being on the phone while driving thrown in to justify the title, even though they have no apparent interest in Harman as any sort of theme.

They’ve got the charisma not to let any of the flaws drag them down, of course, performing with a merry impudence and a glint in their eyes that’s largely irresistible. But there’s still the feeling that they’re falling short of the heights their talents could take them for want of more preparation and firmer direction.