Our look back at the 2012 Edinburgh Fringe

In 2012, James Acaster made the first of his five appearances on the Edinburgh comedy shortlist, though he has never taken the top prize. This year he was beaten by Doctor Brown and his catchily-titled Befrdfgth. N

orway’s Daniel Simonsen took best newcomer ahead of Joe Lycett and The Boy With Tape On His Face won the panel prize for embodying the spirit of the Fringe. He was playing the 700-seat Pleasance Grand, and the judges said the way he built his act and his audience up over years at the festival was what the Fringe was there for.  Criminally overlooked for any sort of nod was Luisa Omielan, for her soul-soaring What Would Beyonce Do?

Here are some of Chortle editor Steve Bennett’s reviews from the 2012 festival.

Luisa Omielan: What Would Beyonce Do?

If Beyonce were to do a Fringe show, she would be lucky to capture half the energy newcomer Luisa Omielan brings to this intense, funny and manic hour of soul-baring comedy.

The premise, roughly, is that Omielan admires and envies the ultimate diva – not a dirty word in her lexicon but an empowering one – because of her success, her modern brand of feminism, her stable relationship and her near-universal popularity. Dumped by her boyfriend and finding herself living back at home with Mum and unclogging a toilet with a stick, the struggling comedian wonders just where life went wrong over her 29 years.

But such a straightforward description of this show cannot hope to do justice to the onslaught of demented, passionate stand-up she serves up, punctuated with snatches from Beyonce’s back catalogue that have the audience pumped up for a party.

Omielan dances around to the hits, too, sacrificing any professional detachment  to actively make sure the room is full of life. Scenes from her blighted life are acted out with hugely exaggerated physical and vocal quirks; depending on context, she squawks lines outrageously, or adopts coy ‘Southern belle’ tones to play the innocent. It’s a form of semi-controlled madness often missing from the careful stand-ups that are so in vogue thanks to risk-averse telly folk.

The show’s a bit raw, a bit rough around the edges, but that only serves to make it more exciting: a comic performing from the heart not from her seven-year business plan. Although the performance is irresistibly full-on, bordering on the demented, it’s entirely natural… you have some sympathy for the ex, if she’s anything like this in real life, ‘high maintenance’ wouldn’t begin to cover it.

Superficially, the subject matter sometimes covers familiar ground: break-ups, the etiquette of texting after a one-night stand, the linguistic faux pas of her Polish mother… but it’s never been done like this before. And lest you think this is all about daily problems she dumps a load of depression on to the show, yet discusses it with a lightness of touch that doesn’t trivialise.

Big topics covered with showmanship, oomph and lively  tunes – this is exactly what Beyonce would do. There’s only one word for it: Bootylicious.

The Boy With Tape On His Face: More Tape

For all the cleverness and mental stimulation of comedy,  it’s all an artifice. No sitcom can be as funny as sharing a in-joke with your mates; no Edinburgh show can hope to transport you back to the unfettered glee of being a child, revelling in the possibilities of your imagination.

No Edinburgh show, that is, except The Boy With Tape On His Face – a sparkling celebration of the joy of play. With inventiveness, wit and a refreshingly uncynical approach, New Zealander Sam Wills regresses the entire audience back to the happiest days of their lives, without saying a word. It is impossible not to leave this merrily uplifting show without a cheer in your heart.

Back in the playground, a twig might have doubled for a laser death ray… here Tapeface raids Poundland to fashion tape measures, novelty chattering teeth, shower attachments and oven mitts into whatever his fertile mind wants them to be.

But he’s also scaled up the relatively intimate act to fill the 700-seater Pleasance Grand. There’s often consternation that comics playing such big venues are betraying the spirit of the Fringe, but if anyone has earned it The Boy has, building up this original act from a street show, up  to this stunning fun-fest. His homemade props no longer fit in his trademark satchel, but litter the stage and beyond.

There’s something about his mute, innocent presence that brings out the best in people, and everyone plays along with the imaginative games, even though it’s never immediately clear what he is asking of the volunteers he selects. One ‘victim’ tonight was a little bit cheeky with our benevolent leader, and the remonstration he received, entirely in the form of a pointed stare, was more withering that the harshest expletive-riddled heckle put-down. He was dispatched back to his seat well aware he’d let himself down.

The co-stars who did pass muster to remain on stage tend to be laden with household objects, looking baffled until that lightbulb moment when it’s clear what’s going on – whether it be recreating Hollywood blockbusters on a budget or engaging in some pointless game that engenders the true spirit of friendly competition more than any corporate-driven Olympics.

Some of the scenes have a ‘will they or won’t they’ tension akin to watching a juggler – or Tim Vine’s sublimely silly ‘pen behind the ear’ trick. The Boy With Tape On His Face is such a charismatic manipulator of the audience that it seems perfectly reasonable that 700 people become fully invested in precisely where a ping-pong ball lands. When it hits the target, there’s mass elation that sweeps all up in its wake.

He occasionally mixes things up with a duff magic trick or a surprising balancing feat featuring four members of the audience – but mainly he sticks to the winning formula. And it’s family-friendly, too, the odd visual cock gag aside, and that’s fairly childish, too, in the best possible way.

His power is that the whole audience become immersed in this world of fun, with every sketch ending on a high, with the simple aim of  making the audience feel happy. The cumulative effect – and impressively large-scale show-stopper – creates a euphoric rush of joy.

How best to describe Wills’ incredible, uplifting talent? It’s beyond words.

Trevor Noah: The Racist

The Racist is going to get Eddie Izzard rave reviews – and he’s not even in it. But he has helped make it happen, bringing over to Edinburgh one of South Africa’s most exciting stand-ups as part of his vision of a more international comedy circuit.

Trevor Noah is a fascinating and funny new voice on the nature of race, thanks to his unique perspective on the world. He was born in the apartheid era to a black mum and a white Swiss father – even though such relationships were illegal at  the time. The racial pecking order was so instilled in society that his own maternal grandfather called him ‘master’, even if it was tongue-in-cheek.

There are the inevitable lines about his twin heritage, but it’s true he’s inherited both the ballsy approach of his mother and the bone-dry sensibilities of his father. His best routines are not afraid to raise interesting points on contentious topics, but he tells them in a soft way, which makes them as thoughtful as they are funny.

The show is mainly about his – and other people’s – identity. He was drawn to America because that’s where the black people he wanted to be liked lived (and he does a brilliant impression of terrible Def Comedy Jam comics screeching about various ‘crazy-assed shiiiit’ observations), while many black Americans see Africa as some quasi-mythical spiritual homeland.

It’s in the States where Noah’s strongest routines are set. Simple descriptions of people approaching him in the street are made brilliantly funny by spot-on re-enactments, while he raises valid points about the categorisations of African-American and other hyphenates – not to mention how being half-black seems to be a hell of a lot more important part of his make-up, as far as other people are concerned, than being half-white.

None of this is serious as it might sound written down; Noah’s playful with his comedy and raises this as quirky or ridiculous behaviour that ought to be laughed at, rather than pushing any great message or agenda. Nor is it all about his own race; he also messes about the Scottish, by way of icebreaker, and takes on the Japanese accent without being offensive, though this is not the strongest section, despite being his closer. Heck, he even does a gag referencing the Holocaust within the first five minutes, and even that manages not to cause consternation.

It’s all intelligent, classy and savvily-observed comedy from a warm and genuine performer – a fine way to say ‘Sawubona!’ to the Fringe. The only slight anticlimax is that he closes his long set in the American way – simply by ending a routine, saying ‘thank you Edinburgh, you’ve been great’ and leaving – as opposed to the way British festival-goers have come to expect; of having a conclusive segment that the whole hour builds towards.

Nish Kumar: Who Is Nish Kumar?

What an assured debut this is from Nish Kumar. A calling card which proves beyond doubt that he is already a skilled comic, preloaded with an hour of polished, gimmick-free stand-up guaranteed to do the job.

Although he’s been mistaken for pretty much every non-Caucasian nationality under the sun, Kumar is a British-Asian man, and this, indeed, informs some of his act. But it’s in the context of what he largely sees as a post-racist world: while his  immigrant parents feared the feral nationalists, for his generation they are figures of fun. The incredible self-sabotaging racist in a North-East pub – one of the most memorable of Kumar’s anecdotes – is certainly a ridiculous laughing stock, and Kumar eloquently covers his roots in a smart conclusion to the show.

But this is only a small part of his confident repertoire. The show is about identity, but not just racial identity. He’s got plenty of amusingly self-effacing stories about what a dick he was at school… and how he hasn’t really grown out of that at the age of 26. A notional adult, he’s still sexually intimidated by women, useless in a fight, and still holding a torch for Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

Tales of social impotence are bread-and-butter in stand-up, as is life in a grotty town – another of this Croydon resident’s staples – but Kumar delivers with a warmth, openness and eye for quirky observation which mean his routines feel fresh.

He races through the material, but doesn’t let the pace stop him from enjoying the language. He’s a man who knows how the mere sound of words can affect their meaning – as proven in a playfully edgy section about some of the most offensive racial slurs – while he lets phrases such as ‘a Proustian wank’ roll around the room, too, as he combines his obvious smarts with a knob gag, about his failures in the bedroom.

Although he’s relatively new to stand-up, Kumar is not a stranger to the stage, having appeared in the inventively silly sketch duo the Gentlemen of Leisure, and his ease in the spotlight makes for a relaxed but sure-footed performance.

There’s not, perhaps, a stand-out virtuoso routine or strong unique selling point that would give Kumar an extra edge. But equally this is a show that proves he can do the job with panache, and open many doors.

James Acaster: Prompt

At first, James Acaster seems like one of those newer comics who are steeped in ironic detachment, a convenient cover for their own shyness. He comes on stage with no enthusiasm, talking about this brilliant show that is going to blow your mind in an awkward, hesitant style that doesn’t match the braggadocio.

But it soon transpires he’s not only a quirky, inventive writer, but also a comedian who’s not afraid to ‘commit to the bit’. Taking the mickey out of repetitive football chants, for example, could be easy pickings – but he extends his spoof to such ridiculous levels that his determination to see it through becomes funny. And even more so that he directs his entire performance at one poor punter who happened to catch his eye. There’s a touch of Stewart Lee in the way he hammers home the point repeatedly, but without joining the army of clones.

Over the hour he mixes observational stand-up with more deliberately eccentric set pieces. For the former he has a meticulous eye for the most minor detail – but it is not detached study; the best moments are when he articulates common reactions to situations, such as the uncomfortable forebodeing he feels about having to share a platonic bed with another man.

Nor does he try to be an everyman, he’s just odd enough that you could believe he gets excited about Pancake Day or that he’s genuinely interested in cow-based meteorology or conducting research on bread. This latter topic gives him an excuse to bring out the obligatory nerd-comic charts and graphs explaining his research among both humans and ducks, but it’s more than a gimmick.

Acaster has put as much attention to the structure of the hour as he has to his distinctive jokes. There are some long-range callbacks, an unlikely source of poignancy, and ideas that cleverly resurface in unusual ways  to make this a satisfying experience, not just a string of unrelated jokes and offbeat comments.

Although he might not immediately seem confident on stage, that’s exactly how you’d describe his writing… and there’s much more to him than meets the eye. Like his beloved ducks, beneath that placid exterior there’s a lot of work and energy being invested.

Pappy’s: Last Show Ever!

With this spectacular return to form, Pappy’s have set the bar for sketch comedy this Fringe. This is a beautifully constructed pyramid of lunacy in which physical and verbal gags fly around at a dizzying pace, maintaining a constant level of laughs that occasionally explode into almost uncontrollable guffaws when a perfectly-timed line of exquisite power hits home.

They perform a script that doesn’t Have a Word out of place, with such genuine gusto and lightness of touch that the Queen Dome is soon fizzing with a shared enthusiasm. They have great chemistry and not a jot of cynicism in their bones. They might occasionally trade insults with each other, even slipping the naughtiest words past the censor, but its done with an infectious joie de vivre.

The writing is a joy. Even scenes that merely seem ‘pretty good’ when you first encounter are subsequently revealed to have a pivotal role in this multi-layered story. The premise is that Matthew Crosby, Tom Parry and Ben Clark are in their dotage, revisiting the venue where they performed their last ever show. But their memories are fading, and they can’t quite figure out what it was that pulled them apart, so they piece together the night sketch by brilliant sketch.

You may know this trio used to be a quartet, and here they have really found the perfect vehicle for their new set-up. Comedy is built on rules of three, after all, and here they reinvent the centuries-old ‘set-up, reinforce, subvert’ format to ‘set-up, subvert and subvert again’. That way you get 50 per cent more laughs.

The narrative builds up pace to match the performance as we are introduced to recurring ideas, such as the real relationship between the friends of Dorothy  in the Wizard Of Oz, a Britain’s Got Factor style talent show that gets stuck in a paradoxical loop, and a series of transmogrifying holy men, in what provides the most deliciously politically incorrect moment of the festival, which could nonetheless  only offend the most preposterously touchy.

You see there’s something incredibly endearing about this lovable trio that makes everything all right. Normally the appearance of a dildo on stage is the last act of the desperate, here it’s an integral part of the fun. And how they can maintain their – and the audience’s – levels of energy for the full hour is a mystery, since it’s a secret that eludes even some of the best comics.

Callbacks abound, subtly showing the knockabout silliness is underpinned by incredibly sharp minds, appeasing both the head and the heart. If this doesn’t put a broad grin on your face, you might be malfunctioning in one or the other.

Pappy’s were also nominated for the Edinburgh Comedy Award this year.

Sean Hughes: Life Becomes Noises: Fringe 2012

The ‘dead dad’ show has become such a cliché of comedy, that even mentioning it has become another cliché of comedy, so aware are all concerned that the terminal ending lends pathos and heartfelt meaning to an hour of ha-has.

Nonetheless, Sean Hughes’s contribution to the ever-expanding genre is a welcome one; a strong piece of stand-up storytelling with laughs hewn from his family life. He fears this Fringe audience might be depressed by the prospect of an hour about death. Au contraire, we are anticipating it. Less expected are the more jovial elements of the show.

The familiar, if necessary, dramatic elements are all present and correct. Hughes never communicated properly with his dad – a hard-drinking gambling man – and proved a disappointment to him when he chose a career in comedy. Hughes Sr had his heart set on his son becoming a jockey, as if Sean ever had the figure for it.

However, Hughes is more matter-of-fact about his father’s passing than some of his more emotional colleagues, and the end passes almost incidentally… though the smart Irishman knows how to manipulate feelings if needs be; it’s all in the soundtrack.

Instead, the hour is more an honest assessment of a dysfunctional father-son relationship. There’s also some mention of chain-smoking, dim-witted mum, another far-from sympathetic character – but that dynamic seems destined for another show.

As seen in therapy rooms everywhere, Hughes employs glove puppets to describe uncomfortable situations, with dream sequences and unrealistic suggestions adding a mordantly surreal edge. Elsewhere his pin-sharp commentary and often lyrical use of language add a touch of classy, literate humour to the story.

But it’s not so poignant he forgets the funny, and for a comic who’s more recent outings have sometimes wallowed in middle-aged self-pity, there is a lightness of touch here, even when the subjects are heavy, such as musings why untested ‘miracle’ cancer cures aren’t given to the terminally – though, perhaps,  like many a distraught relative, he places rather too much hope on the pseudo-science of newspaper headlines.

The production is slick, with a few unexpected elements to match the unexpected sly playfulness which he couples to the thoughtful subject matter. In short, this is something of a return to form for Hughes.

 • Click here for all our reviews from the 2012 Edinburgh Fringe.

Published: 20 Aug 2020