Review by Steve Bennett

That is barely enough, you would have thought, to separate him from almost every other bloke on the planet (there’s a very good reason why there was never a quirky Mel Gibson comedy called What Men Want), let alone every other comic.

But what does stand Wilmot apart – and so far apart he’s in a league of his own – is the devastating accuracy of his observations; the gruff, no-bullshit way he cuts to the chase and his triumphant combination of self-deprecation and unrepentant insolence. As a civilised, cultured human being, he’s shit and he knows he is. What’s more he cares so little about the fact that he’s going to tell you about his every failing in cringe-inducingly acute detail.

There is plenty here on his favourite topic: bad sex. Or perhaps it’s just honest sex, in line with his tell-it-like-it-is principles, no matter how crude. Yet there’s a cheeky twinkle behind his stance, too, which means even his own special vagina monologue manages to be both filthy and surprisingly inoffensive at the same time.

It’s not all below-the-belt, though. Wilmot has great fun with just about every aspect of life. He starts by building some empathy with the locals by drawing comparisons with Australia and his Canadian home – and, more crucially, knocking cramped, miserable London. Even his flight over to Melbourne provides a brilliant routine – and he slept for most of it.

His use of language s faultless; employing the perfect descriptive word or exaggerated metaphor every time to communicate his from-the-heart opinions about the world’s failings to unremittingly hilarious effect. Yet even when this skill with English temporarily fails him, sometime during his fourth on-stage beer, even the stumble is funny.

Wilmot is, quite simply, one of the best stand-ups in the world. He needs no gimmicks to cement that status, just brilliantly funny shows like this.

Reviewed by: Steve Bennett
Melbourne, April 2005

Review date: 1 Jan 2005
Reviewed by: Steve Bennett