Seann Walsh - Live Review

Seann Walsh’s most successful routine is very much in the vein of the Michael McIntrye as he re-enacts those moments when you stumble in the street, or suddenly need to perform a U-turn while strolling.

The rest of his set was a similarly affable mix of everyday observations and admissions of the stupid things he’s done. Sometimes the material is slight, with a reduced laugh rate to match, though Walsh has such charisma and innate, underplayed command of even the largest stage that it’s enough to simply enjoy his company.

Tim Vine - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Nick Helm - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Ben Target - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Vikki Stone - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Rob Rouse - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Naz Osmanoglu - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Jason Cook - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Keith Farnan - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Tom Rosenthal - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Chris McCausland - Live Review

Tricky job, compiling a showcase spanning the full range of the comedy circuit to a largely conservative audience. They came for Tim Vine; they got Nick Helm.

It was a juxtaposition too severe – especially at the very start of the show – to lurch from compere Vine’s silly U-rated puns to the sinister, desperate aggression of a man who’s opening gambit is ‘good evening cocksuckers’, and gets harsher from there.

With a persona that mixes menace with Johnny Vegas-style insecurities, Helm is one of the more exciting recent additions to the circuit – but this was not, generally, his audience. Pockets of hearty laughter could not cover the more general consensus of discomfort.

It’s a shame he didn’t score more universally, as his distinctive act could have provided the opening gala of Dave’s Leicester Comedy Festival with the moment of memorable, inspired lunacy it otherwise lacked, despite featuring a line-up of good stand-ups doing good work.

In that context, Vine made the show. His ‘dad jokes’, daft singalongs and cheesy prop gags benefited from being broken up into smaller sections. And his ‘pen behind the ear’ party trick is almost as pure as comedy gets, with its repeated attempts at the most futile of achievements. The optimistic determination induces so much empathy, that it’s a genuine triumph when he pulls it off. Maybe this is some profound comment on the Sisyphean nature of existence. But probably it isn’t.

Following Helm in the comedy lucky dip was sketch trio WitTank, who evoke that old cliché of the genre: ‘a little hit-and miss’. A quickie spoof on Raymond Brigg’s The Snowman got an immediate laugh, while skits on the origin of the baked bean and a fly’s-eye view of the world proved more esoteric. Their triumph, though, was their take on the death of Nelson, which saw Naz Osmanaglu crawling around the giant onstage letters spelling out the sponsor’s name begging sexual favours from his Hardy, in a greatly effective bit of extended, exaggerated improv.

More sober, intellectual musings from birthday boy Tom Rosenthal – which meant a more muted response to match. But while he’s no quickfire funnyman, he is a smart and quirky writer constantly seeking an original route. Such analytical approach means that even his take on Strictly Come Dancing or Destiny’s Child takes on a geekish air, but there are some fine lines in the mix.

Next, Vine introduced a special guest, the latest of the BBC’s entrepreneurial Dragons, Hilary Devey – so convincingly that he temporarily hoodwinked most of the audience. In the event, it was Vikki Stone pulling in a more than passable impression of the wide-shouldered businesswoman. Mimicry aside, there was little more to this set that a spirited, rasping song-and-dance number in character – but the music and energy is a fillip.

Chris McCausland was the revelation of the night. I have to admit previously seen him very much as a journeyman comedian, competent but unexciting, yet here he shone. The material remains rooted firmly in the everyday, from the ups and downs of relationships to the far-from accurate nicknames acquired by his drinking buddies, but it’s told with real skill, endearing charm and a perfect sense of timing. Combine this with the potency of recognition that’s worked so well for the likes of Michael McIntyre, and you have the constituents of a very assured mainstream comedian. The irony that such astute observational material comes from a blind bloke is something he’s previously joked about.

After the interval, and making his second appearance on this show in three years, Rob Rouse continued the domestic theme, with tales from the front-line of fatherhood. There’s not much that sets him apart from the myriad of other comics who mine this experience, but a affable demeanor allows him to put a little edge to his material. It’s a solid, rather then spectacular performance, but goes down well.

Ben Target, who won this festival’s ‘comedian of the year’ title last year, comes on in silly hat and brandishing two fire extinguishers. His heart seems in the right place in trying to create some sort of ‘happening’ on stage, but the execution is ill-thought through. He spent half of his ten minutes crowd-surfing his spindly frame across the auditorium, but the stunt was too calculated, deprived of any sense of excitement or comedy of the unlikely, as you might get when Mrs Barbara Nice (mild-mannered, middle-aged housewife) or Johnny Vegas (lard-arse) tries it. I suppose you could say he went over the audience’s head…

Stone then returned as herself for the second half of her set, which again displayed a strong voice and solid musicianship -– but was comically sparse. She spoke a lot about condoms and lube, mistakenly assuming the topic was funny enough not to need jokes, before employing that old cliché: a love song from the point of view of a disturbed stalker – in this case aimed at Phillip Schofield.

Jason Cook brought a friendly spark to the night, chatting away to the audience about love – the chosen topic of his festival show that he’s performing on Valentine’s Night. He’s always a strong, affable storyteller and ten minutes of good company went down very well, even if he offered more fast-paced banter than really sinking his teeth into the topic. But he’s naturally funny at badinage, so why not?

And to close, Keith Farnan, full of what he himself describes as ‘twinkly Irish bollocks’. His gags about the parlous state of the Irish economy, or the aphrodisiac nature of his accent, were far from revelatory, and the writing was similarly workmanlike. But the man is eminently watchable, providing a reassuringly soft and friendly conclusion to wipe away the memories of that nasty, angry Mr Helm at the start.

Shappi Khorsandi - Live Review

Shappi Khorsandi is smart, vivacious, innately funny and eminently likeable – tipped only this week as a rising star of the BBC as it seeks to promote more entertainers who are neither white nor male in the shake-up Jonathan Ross’s departure will trigger. Tonight, while all those attributes were on obvious display, she was also unfocussed, never quite convincing that she knew where her set was heading, and sidelining into blether when material was needed.

She would intermittently remember where she was and dole out one of the corking gags that made her reputation (including a fantastic new one about the Iranian equivalent to the ‘Cheers!’ toast) – but this wasn’t the sharpest set.

She blamed the twin strains of being a single mum and the strain of appearing on Question Time the previous night. That all sounds feasible, but let’s hope she’s not stretching herself too thin to achieve all she can in stand-up.

Patrick Monahan - Live Review

Irish-Iranian Patrick Monahan is all generous bonhomie, making the audience feel warm and toasty as he liberally spreads the goodwill like a professional meeter and greeter. But everything he said is so forgettable, I had to refer to the footage to remind myself of his material just a few hours after the show.

There’s a bit of bar-room banter about ‘who would you rather sleep with…’, an unlikely premise that Mujahideen is a Scandinavian brand of food processor and some lightweight comments about women’s magazines such as Chat.

A couple of good gags lie within, but it’s mainly banter – unmemorable, but sure to cheer you up.

Angelos Epithemiou - Live Review

Though I’ve since revised my view, the first time I saw the morosely deadpan Angelos Epithemiou, I wasn’t convinced by his tortured reluctance, drawn-out pauses and over-indulged repetition. Luckily the audience here saw the gag quicker, and instantly bought into his brilliantly executed anti-comedy shtick. Jokes he doesn’t understand, songs he doesn’t know the lyrics of, and an inability to show any positive emotion makes Dan Skinner’s creation beautifully distinctive, and a welcome change of tone to comedy, let alone this bill.

Marlon Davis - Live Review

Relative newbie Marlon Davis is a joyous performer, with his infectious grin, animated delivery and mischievous sense of humour proving so irresistibly disarming that Leicester was more than prepared to overlook the London-centric nature of his routine about Boris Johnson and the buses.

Rob Rouse - Live Review

Over the years, Rob Rouse has evolved from a manic force of effervescence into a more anecdotal style of comedy – ie he’s actually starting to get some material now. He still delivers with force, but reining in the exaggerated excitability. Here, he covered buying diarrhoea medication, babies and their unsuitable names and his sexually experimental dog – in a consistently funny 20-minute set.

There’s not quite the killer instinct that sets the very best comics apart, but he’s a very personable performer, turning explicit material cheeky and spreading the joy with regular laughs. The, erm, climax of his canine routine was especially effective.

Jim Smallman - Live Review

Nina Conti - Live Review

In Nina Conti’s well-crafted ventriloquism act, her simian sidekick placed her under hypnosis so he can do his song… how many speciality acts do you want in one performer?

Conti continues to bring her artform up to date, with a deconstruction that goes beyond the usual gags about where the performer’s hand has been placed. She mocks the ridiculous artifice of ventriloquism, then turns it back on its head by making Monk such a credible character, you might just believe he has his own personality. And all this done with the incredible technical skill needed to pull off a baritone Nessun Dorma through unmoving lips.