Edinburgh Fringe comedy review

When developing a show, every stand-up might hope for that big psychological shift which unlocks a part of their brain and really opens up their potential. Amy Matthews' has been a long time coming. But this is one of those delightful Fringe hours accompanied by the sound of everything clicking into place.

Or rather, popping out of the toaster. Likening herself to one of those hotel, conveyor-belt appliances that take an age to deliver your breakfast, Matthews suffers from alexithymia, a condition that means she experiences lag in expressing anger.

To make matters worse, she's a young woman, so hasn't enjoyed the middle-aged male privilege of suppressing every other emotion to give full vent to fury. Not even a terrible misfortune at her grandmother's funeral elicits more than an intellectual acknowledgement that she's been cosmically wronged.

In an age of rage, she realises that she's a woman out of time. OK she dabbles in the observational comedy of petty irritation, internally seething at a chi-chi coffee shop that patronises her with its weaponised whimsy. But when, in the Great British crucible of an oversold, overcrowded train, she can't bring herself to let rip at the stranger taking up a seat with their bag, something needed to change.

Partly this involved an autism diagnosis and Matthews belatedly acting on her bisexuality to date a woman. But the driving factor has been recognising the destructive pattern in her exes' infidelities, their addictive personalities and her people-pleasing tendencies that accommodated them. 

Recalling the scales falling from her eyes, the show gains a revelatory momentum as Matthews builds up a head of steam that's more a singing kettle of realisation than one abrupt pop of fibrous self-knowledge.

She's not relinquished too much control, though. And the hour is low-key but elegantly hung on various definitions of 'toast' - of death, of transformation by fire and of celebration, a routine about the imprecise vagueness of English not preventing Matthews from being slick in her use of it.

She persuasively argues for the incongruous hilarity of break-ups, then reinforces it with a lovely observation on the rapid switch from intimacy to formality in dead relationships, displaying vocal dexterity as she speed-reads though a lengthy list of terms and conditions for moving on. Similarly, the dining metaphor she employs for marking her transition from dating men to women is perfect, even if it might make uncomfortable listening for straight males.

Visually, the adapted toaster prop is a tad confusing, though it hardly distracts. And there are some vivid mental images, of Matthews' grandmother wreaking havoc in reincarnated animal form, and a childlike bit of self-regulating escapism that belies the comic's assessment of being 'an old soul' (on the spectrum), both called back to with fine effect.

Matthews ends with a tuneful homage to Lily Allen, the patron saint and poet of offended women. The comedian’s revenge has been a dish served with smart, clinical wit, emotional vulnerability and ultimately, the feeling of a performer fully articulating their own feelings for the first time.

Review date: 9 Aug 2026
Reviewed by: Jay Richardson
Reviewed at: Monkey Barrel Comedy at O'Neill's (The Tron)