Review of the final of a London new act competition

It is an unusual prize for a new act competition, but could – potentially – be more valuable than a cash handout in the long term. 

The winner of the talent hunt run by London’s Space arts venue gets to run and compere future new act nights at the former church on the Isle of Dogs – giving them valuable stage time and a chance to make their mark on the local scene. But they will also have their work cut out building up the night, by the looks of things, given that only a handful of punters came to the final on Sunday night.

The prize also affected the judging criteria, as the skills needed to compere and shape a monthly gig are so much different from just being able to do a tight seven minutes of ha-has. 

That task will now fall to Kayla MacQuarrie, who brought a lot of personality to the stage. Her attitude is slightly barbed, but also authentic, which the audience could connect with. She’s upfront about the challenges of having fibromyalgia, which has now made her a wheelchair user, without that being the only string to her comedy bow. Other sections feature a lot of snark about podcast-obsessed men, while commenting on the rise of AI from a silly point of view. Her writing’s a little rough around the edges, but that’s just the sort of thing an MC residency might help out with…

The night started with Ohio-born Holly Hudson, who certainly brought an American professionalism to the stage, delivering her well-practised material about being a middle-aged woman on the dating scene without regard to how small the audience was. But that’s a mixed blessing as her performance also comes across as a bit mechanical and soulless, especially as she ploughs through act-outs of unremarkable premises.

Half-Irish and half-Sri Lankan, Stanley Brown defanged material about the racism he suffered at school with an endearing camp. But this isn’t really the essence of his set, as he doesn’t delve much beneath a predictable ‘…and that was just the teachers’ payoff. Instead he prefers puns, ideally laboured ones, though that wasn’t a love shared by the room tonight. Sensing that, he bailed before his time was up. 

Lewis Howard describes himself as looking like ‘every builder in Wetherspoons’, though he makes some attempt to defy the stereotype by mentioning his upbringing as a Jehovah's Witness. But there’s precious little of that, instead he reaches for a grab-bag of ‘edgy’ comedy topics – Epstein Files, Bonnie Blue etc – with often harsh payoffs. Just a few of these have an unpleasant undertone, and he’s very combative with the audience, making him rather too close to the archetype he says he doesn’t want to be.

Initially, Dave Vaughan seems like he has the makings of a useful compere, full of chat and hyperactive energy befitting the London geezer image he leans into. The buoyant banter grasps the audience, but it slowly becomes apparent he hasn’t got particularly strong material to back it up. There are a couple of good lines, but oftentimes he shares a universal observation only to go nowhere with it – or more bafflingly drive it into an odd cul-de-sac.

Myu Mano was the polar opposite – the strongest writer on the bill, but a slightly awkward, deadpan stage presence, made even lower status by the lisp he jokes about. Sometimes he uses that muted approach to his advantage, – such as telling a ‘yo mamma’ joke in his meek voice to make it sound ridiculous, for example. He has proper jokes on a wide range of topics – from separating the art from the artist to Sri Lankan parenting – with an appealing offbeat twist.

Ben Tulloch showed a good ability to work in the moment, kicking off with a callback to Mano’s material before addressing the obvious elephant in the room: that he’s got something of the Russell Brand look to him. Hopefully that’s where the similarities end – though his comedy is slightly fixated below the belt, with a large portion of his set here dedicated to a meandering tale about a bumhole wax. However, even on quite a hack subject like that he found some new, amusing imagery, even if the writing could be tighter.

Finally came Judy Harris in character as Gel Shitty, the toxic archetype of the manosphere tech bro podcaster, here to tell the audience how they can be their ‘most elite selves’ through the power of triangles. Such bullshit is easy to parody – and many have – and while some of Harris’s bluster is generic, she frequently alights on sharp jokes, too, while also having a delightful line in malapropisms. Having her host an open mic night would certainly have meant a shift away from straight stand-up – but even without landing that job, she showed herself capable of above-par character work tonight.

Review date: 9 Jun 2026
Reviewed by: Steve Bennett
Reviewed at: The Space