Review – Raphael Wallfisch Performs Elgar’s Cello Concerto, Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 12th March 2017

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Circumstances have conspired against our attending the two most recent Royal Philharmonic concerts in Northampton, but on Sunday we were back with a vengeance to see a rousing performance of German and British music. Our conductor this time was Jac van Steen, new to us; an enthusiastic Dutchman who has the air of a kindly dentist; he seems extremely affable and wants you to be at your utmost ease, but if it calls for it, he’d be in for the kill like nobody’s business.

Our opening piece was the Prelude to Act One of Lohengrin by Wagner. I was expecting that stirring, arresting introductory brassy tune that puts you in mind of Valkyries and big fat sopranos – but no, that’s the Prelude to Act Three. Act One’s starts far more gently, with violin strings all a-quiver, but nevertheless building up to a major frenzy, perfectly representing the search for the Holy Grail which is what the programme notes said it was about. The orchestra were obviously champing at the bit and it was a very exciting and enjoyable start to the concert. Quiz question: what’s the difference between a prelude and an overture? No, I can’t work that one out either.

Next it was time to meet our soloist, Raphael Wallfisch, to perform Elgar’s Cello Concerto. We’d seen Julian Lloyd Webber perform the same piece nearly six years ago, but it’s hard to recall one performer’s interpretation of a piece after such a long time. Mr Wallfisch is another avuncular looking fellow, but with a rather serious, workmanlike attitude to his playing that belies the immense passion of the music he produces. Without any reference to any sheet music, he plunges his instrument into the deep gravitas of the opening movement, making his instrument take centre stage so that you watch the bow attacking the bridge of the cello rather than looking at the intent concentration on Mr Wallfisch’s face. In juxtaposition, Mr van Steen is sometimes up on his tippytoes coaxing all the emotion out of the strings, at other times thrusting himself downwards in the conclusion of a bar. There’s an electrically exciting sequence in the second movement (I think – I’m fairly unfamiliar with this piece and the boundaries between the movements were hard to identify) where Mr Wallfisch plays the cello with such vim and vigour that from our seat it looked as though he was whittling down some wood to fashion a set of cricket stumps. I’m not sure it was spiccato, more like old fashioned twiddling. Suffice to say it was an extraordinary performance and it was clear that everyone loved it.

After the interval, we returned for Beethoven’s 7th Symphony. We’d seen the RPO perform this before as well, a full seven years ago, conducted by Garry Walker. Then, as now, I can never remember what that special tune is that dominates the second movement. But as soon as it kicks in I remember why I love it so much. It has a sparse melancholy about it; a sense that happiness may be just around the corner but you’re never quite going to achieve it. And I love how Beethoven gives it just the one proper airing, building from a quiet start to an emotional fulfilment, but never ever going back to it, no matter how much you yearn to hear it again. Mr van Steen had to apply a reverse coaxing mechanism, where, rather than draw the passion out of the orchestra, he actively suppressed it, making those sad echo moments in the movement even softer than usual, creating a despairing exquisiteness to the whole thing. It was just sensational.

In many respects, the symphony is Beethoven’s Greatest Hits, with the brightness of the first movement, the playfulness of the third and the overwhelming victory of the final movement. The orchestra gave it a superb performance, and yes, excitable man in the Upper Circle Box, we all saw you on your feet conducting away to your heart’s content. We were blown away by the sheer vitality and force of the Royal Philharmonic’s performance. A great concert!

Review – Rob Brydon, I Am Standing Up, Derngate, Northampton, 4th March 2017

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We’d seen Rob Brydon before, back in 2009, when he last toured the UK – it was just before I started blogging so I can’t easily check back to see how much we enjoyed it – but I do remember thinking he was good fun and so I was perfectly happy to see him again almost 8 years later, to see how he’s getting on. Of course, his career has gone from strength to strength since then, with endless panel games, guest appearances, loads of voiceovers, and so on; when we first saw him, the third series of Gavin and Stacey was still getting its first airing on TV. Even so, he’ll still break into a rendition of Barry Islands in the Stream at the drop of a laverbread.

But before considering Mr Brydon’s role in the show on Saturday night, the first twenty minutes were spent in the company of a supporting act – Scott Bennett. He’s a bright and breezy Yorkshireman who wasted absolutely no time in making the most of his introductory slot, with lots of very good material about family relationships – especially with his dad, Roy. Roy’s the kind of guy who has a structural plan about how to get the most food onto your carvery plate (start with the meat first as your base layer and work your way up). Good comedy of recognition that – because if we ourselves are not the person who tackles a buffet strategically, we all know someone who is. I also liked Mr Bennett’s observation of people out on a romantic meal date night – each on their separate phones, Facebooking the people they should have married. He was very funny and got a really good reception, despite the fact that he wasn’t Rob Brydon.

Talking of whom, Mr Brydon is essentially a very funny man, with a delightful sense of comic joy about almost everything he does. He’s so self-deprecating which is always an attractive trait – like when he’s asked if James Corden still rings him; answer, yes he does, which gives rise to a joke that’s both anti-Brydon and anti-the town in which he’s performing; but it’s very cleverly done. When something particularly funny happens or someone says a great one-liner – even if it comes from the audience – he will break off the routine and rush over to a little table and write the joke down in a notebook, saying that next week’s show will be amazing with all this new material – thereby implying that this show, and his comedy hosting skills, aren’t as good. It always gets a laugh when he returns upstage to jot it down.

He has that ability that the best comics have of being able to weave together separate strands from different members of the audience and come back to them later in the show from a new angle. Towards the end he creates songs that mention all the individuals with whom he’s spoken earlier on. Again, very cleverly done, very inventive and always very funny. In our show Mr Brydon explored comic possibilities with George and Lucy – clearly the young middle class couple – and encouraged them always to close the loo door if they want to keep romance alive; we met Cynthia, the Elvis fan who’s not as young as she said she was, and who was in for a particular treat right at the end; and we met Tim and Lisa, bravely sat in the front row; she’d stoically worked for Mr Kipling for 32 years, woman and girl, never complaining and always ‘umble, which gave rise to Mr Brydon from then on referring to her as a Dickensian Woman, doing wonderful impressions of a dowdy drudge with mock-19th century language. Totally bizarre, but it really worked.

As you might expect, he does a prolonged sequence when he’s impersonating celebrities out in the jungle, Ant and Dec style, which is very good but I think he overplays the Tom Jones impersonation. It isn’t really quite as good as he seems to think, and he makes him into a grotesque that I don’t really feel is justified (but, hey ho, that’s just me.) He did a Ronnie Corbett as a request from the audience, brilliantly conveys the essence of Ken Bruce by just mumbling with the occasional 88 to 91 thrown in, and tells very funny stories involving Steve Coogan (roar). Towards the end he gears the subject matter towards the Welsh language so that he can sing All Through the Night in the original Welsh, Ar Hyd y Nos. Where’s the comedy in that? It’s when he then gives you the Google Translate version; thus proving it’s always worth paying for a proper translator. There were reminiscences about Uncle Bryn, and dealing with how weak your wee stream is when you get to his age (I’m five years older, so I totally sympathise), and there was even a charming brief hark back to the golden days of Blockbuster. It was all very lovely.

But, do you know what, gentle reader? I kind of wanted more. I needed something a little more challenging. It was incredibly cosy, incredibly comfortable, a veritable Black Forest Gateau of delectation; and if that’s what you’re after, you’ll get it in spades. Maybe I ask too much. You don’t expect Rob Brydon to be all caustic and cynical, and I don’t think I wanted that either. It was all just a little too easy. I’m probably way out of synch with everyone else on this, because he went down extremely well. It was just, ever so slightly, insubstantial. He’s clearly a really nice guy and extremely funny, so I feel a bit mean criticising him like that. But I have to be honest, don’t I? His tour continues throughout March all over England – and if you haven’t already booked your tickets, it’s probably sold out.

P. S. Either inflation is higher than I thought, overheads have gone up, or someone’s stock is rising; top price stalls seats for Rob Brydon in 2009 cost £19.50 each. In 2017, virtually the same seats for the same show in the same theatre cost £32.50 each including my friends’ discount. Interesting, no?

Review – Screaming Blue Murder, Underground at the Derngate, Northampton, 3rd March 2017

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We’ve attended 77 (yikes!) editions of Screaming Blue Murder over the years but this one was something different for me at least – because instead of being accompanied by Mrs Chrisparkle, I was one of ten guys out on a stag do, in honour of my future stepfather-in-law (Sir William) in preparation for his forthcoming nuptuals with my mother-in-law (Lady Duncansby). As well as some of Sir William’s old pals, also present were my three stepbrothers-in-law-to-be, and one of my future stepnephews-in-law. Debrett’s are going to have a Field Day. Naturally, like all good hen and stag parties we hogged the front row, placing Sir William in the centre so that he could get the full attention of the comics. However, unlike most hen and stag parties, our groom is the fine old age of 74, and at least three of the four people on stage that night did a double-take when they saw him. Good on him for taking it all in the best possible spirit, which is what he’d been drinking solidly since 5pm.

Dan Evans was in charge as usual, and on fine form as he traded banter with some vociferous youngsters on our left, explored hairdressing options (like his follicles, few and far between) with a young female barber, and got thoroughly confused as to the ages of Sir William’s sons. Towards the end he revealed that he hadn’t made one member of our party crack a smile the whole evening, to which the latter responded that he had enjoyed the show, but as Dan noted, just kept his enjoyment to himself. We could have told Dan that he always looks like that.

Our first act was Wendy Wason, whom I’ve seen once before and she’s a thoroughly enjoyable act. She’s bright and breezy, just a little bit posh, and full of confidence as she shares her parenting experiences and a host of middle class neuroses. She had lots of good material involving sex but I was grateful that none of it was too rude; after all, sex humour doesn’t always have to be in the gutter. Last time we saw she was absolutely filthy! She gained an excellent rapport with the crowd and went down very well.

Our second act, in a change to the advertised programme, was Robert White. Mrs C and I have seen Mr White several times and there is possibly no better comic to handle a stag do. I say handle advisedly, as he combines his Asperger Syndrome with his continuous gay double entendres, some of which he converts into on the spot made up songs. At his best Mr White can be unbeatable; and indeed he was last Friday night. He got Sir William up on stage and, after using subterfuge to check out his backside, they shared a joint rendition of I’d Do Anything, where – well you can guess the shenanigans that Sir William agreed to get up to with Mr White. Fortunately, it wasn’t just the stag party who found him fantastic, he gauged the mood of the room perfectly and we were all shaking with laughter. A brilliant set.

Our final act, and also one we’ve seen do successfully many times before, was Nick Wilty. Unfortunately, when Mr White is on fire like he was last Friday, any act that follows him is at a disadvantage, and Mr Wilty’s understated self-deprecating delivery, like Ray Winstone with a headache, just didn’t have the attack required to make an impact. If he and Mr White had swapped places it would have worked so much better, because Mr Wilty’s material is really funny once you “get” his style. We still laughed – but just not as much we’d have liked.

For various inconsequential reasons, we can’t go to another Screaming Blue now until 21st April. You’ve no excuse though – the best value comedy around!

Review – Shazia Mirza, The Kardashians Made Me Do It, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 28th February 2017

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As you may know, gentle reader, I am always willing to risk a punt on a comic I’ve never heard of in the hope that they might create some comedy gold. I’d never heard of Shazia Mirza before, although one look at her Wikipedia page tells me that I am out of kilter with the rest of the world – she’s done so much! I must have been living in a hole in the ground.

I had read in advance that an evening of comedy with Shazia Mirza is not necessarily a fluffy one. She has both challenging material and a challenging style. If you’re seated in the front row don’t expect her to pander to your ego, or whisper sweet nothings in your ear – although, to be fair, at the beginning of the second half she brought a little warm air heater onto the stage and pointed it into the auditorium as we’d all spent the first half in our scarves and coats – the Royal auditorium is a Victorian delight but sometimes it can be bloody freezing. That was a kind act – it didn’t actually make us any warmer, but that’s beside the point.

Apart from that, Ms Mirza harangued the two ladies in the front row for being Guardian readers (she’s no time for such wimps) and lesbians (even though I’m pretty sure they’re not). Every time a subject matter arose that related to left-wing politics or liberal thought she’d turn on the two women and blame them for the state of the nation. She also pointed out a gay couple in the second row, who looked decidedly uncomfortable at the recognition; and then at a straight couple accusing them of being the weird ones – in London where she lives, it’s lesbians and gays all the way. So, an interesting, if not entirely conventional, start to a comedy gig. It’s almost as though she’s been to see Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf (we’re going in April) and has already started to play Get the Guests.

This is definitely a show of two halves. The first part consisted of the usual comic/audience badinage, with the added spice of Ms Mirza being the type who doesn’t hold back from criticising her audience if she thinks we deserve it. Much of the discussion was about Brexit and fortunately I was on the right side of the argument as far as Ms Mirza was concerned. In fact, when asked, no one dared put their hand up to confess they were a Brexiteer. To be honest, I don’t think I’d have put my hand up either, you’d probably have been subjected to a tirade of totally justified humiliation. There were times when things became a little uncomfortable – when Ms Mirza would ask the audience a question and we were reticent in replying; it didn’t help that we were a very sparse audience – it would have worked better in the relative informality of the Underground at the Derngate rather than the formal Royal theatre.

The second part (an hour and a quarter to be precise) was really where Shazia Mirza got into her stride with her subject matter. She talked about her own family background, the racism she has encountered (we all admired the intelligence of the line “Oi, Paki, why don’t you go back home to India?”) and the time she was asked to “Muslim up” her Radio 2 Pause for Thought. But her main topic of discussion is the three girls from Bethnal Green who flew out to Syria a couple of years ago to be Jihadi brides. Their motivation, their method, and the overall outcome of what they did have all been the subject of much debate and indeed much fascination. Ms Mirza has a simple hypothesis for why they did it – they were horny. They’d had a very protected and traditional (and decent) Muslim upbringing, so weren’t allowed to go out and let their hair down (so to speak). Ms Mirza thinks they probably saw one of those ISIS videos and thought to themselves, those guys are hot.

We know for a fact that two of the girls are now dead – the probability is that the same fate has met the third. Their parents, their families, their friends will never be able to get over the awfulness of what happened to them. So, as Mrs Chrisparkle asked as we were walking home, is it entirely tasteful to base a comedy show on three underage children who made a tragic misjudgement and died as a result? Good question. The answer lies in Shazia Mirza’s own approach to the show. She herself says that we’re used to exonerating children because they know not what they do, and we normally blame parents or bullies, online grooming or peer group pressure; but, in her opinion, sometimes the children are to blame. She also describes her show as part jokes, part truths – and our job as the audience is to sort out the jokes from the truths, laugh at the former and consider the latter. And, as pointed out earlier, she’s got no time for the lily-livered Guardian reading do-gooders; so to conclude, I don’t think Ms Mirza believes the show is tasteless in any way.

It’s a very interesting and thought provoking performance; in the final part she reads texts from the Koran that describe the kind of people who work against Islam, who are evil, and who are not following the word of Allah. Then there’s a video that shows the ISIS terrorists, doing precisely those things that the Koran says are wrong. It’s an extremely effective piece of theatre that damns ISIS to smithereens without actually having to say a word.

Somewhere during the second part of the show it stops being stand-up and starts being something of a lecture – and the join between the two is imperceptible. Whilst I found there was a lot to laugh at in this show, there was also something lacking on a personal level. It lacked a sense of performance joy, that indefinable something that passes from the performer to the audience that lets you know that both of you have had a great time. I didn’t sense that Ms Mirza did have a great time; maybe she sees her mission is primarily to impart her serious subject matter so that, in the end, levity is of lesser importance. Still, she did say the show was part jokes, part truths; doubtless it would have felt funnier with a larger audience. Nevertheless, it was an engrossing show and it sure gives you loads to think about. Her UK tour continues till the end of May.

Review – Just The Tonic Comedy Club with Johnny Vegas, Leicester Comedy Festival, Hansom Hall, Leicester, 25th February 2017

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For our final splurge on Comedy Saturday we thought we’d go for broke and see Johnny Vegas fronting a Comedy Club special, with him as the compere and three or four acts all doing their own thing. None of us had ever seen Johnny Vegas live before and didn’t know quite what to expect. I’d seen him on TV of course – guesting on panel shows, being one of the best things about Benidorm, and playing a surprisingly effective self-combustible Krook in the BBC’s Bleak House 12 years ago. I don’t think I was prepared for someone so eloquent, creative, unpredictable and thoroughly naughty as he proved himself to be on Saturday night!

He told us that he’d already done an earlier show – not compering but proper stand-up – which had gone off at a tangent because of one particular audience member, but which hadn’t really gone well because the audience didn’t come with him on his flights of fancy. That must be a really awkward situation; because just ten minutes in the company of Mr Vegas tells you that flights of fancy are the order of the day, and any pre-prepared material is probably there just as a backup if all else fails. He’d barely been on a few seconds when he started picking his way through the front row looking for suitable quarry – and there were two guys. The first guy started to bat back the questions in that semi-confident, taciturn but I can handle this way; and then he caught sight of his mate. 99% of the audience didn’t get a look at this guy because we were all sitting behind him. But he obviously appealed to Mr Vegas’ sense of nurturing the oppressed, because this guy had obviously allowed himself to grow the most appalling, all-over-the-place apology for a beard, so that he looked a disgrace and Mr Vegas was not going to let him get away with it.

Whilst this was not Mr Vegas’ only comic tack of the evening, everything did seem to revolve around Useless Beardy Guy. There was no end to the gentle humiliation heading his way during the course of the night, which grew in complexity and status as Mr Vegas ended up encouraging a member of the audience – a rather mouthy lady (perhaps not inappropriately) – to (and I quote) w*nk him off for £500. Others, not all of them with female voices, attempted to undercut this offer, but Mr Vegas wasn’t holding a Dutch Auction. After the next act, the original volunteer had slumped forward in her seat in a paralytic stupor** but Mr Vegas had made an onstage promise that the w*nking would take place. Naturally troubled by this, it culminated in Mr Vegas holding an uncomfortable phone call with his late-night lawyer, where he was concerned that he might now be contractually obliged to cause Beardy Guy to climax in his (Mr Vegas’) hand, in a council-run property (and he admitted sotto voce that he didn’t really want to) and would he need a licence for this? The whole thing was absolutely hilarious and I was shaking with laughter.

In amongst all that shenanigans Johnny Vegas introduced three special guests, all of whom were on absolutely top form. First up was Kevin Dewsbury, whom we have seen many times before, most recently about four hours earlier as the TV chef-cum-walking disaster in Kev’s Komedy Kitchen. Mr Dewsbury took us through his embarrassing St Patrick’s Day moment and his marvellous routine about enunciating foreign words perfectly – I’m so guilty of that myself. He had a whole load of new material as well, perfectly suiting his matey, blokey persona and he got a great reception from the audience. Our second guest was new to us, Guz Khan, still a teacher until two years ago. He is a real find, with a superbly confident stage presence (I bet his kids paid attention to his lessons) and great material that didn’t shy away from the tough subjects like ISIS and Morning Assembly. He absolutely aced the crowd. Our final act, also new to us, was Paul McCaffrey, with some great observations on the wisdom of the fitness guru who recommends replacing chocolate with raw veg, and, whilst on holiday, eschewing licking shots from a nymphette’s belly button in Ibiza in preference to playing cards on the balcony with the wife (“after all, we went to the pub last night…”)

But it really was Mr Vegas’ night. He has such a quick mind and the ability to winkle something humorously ridiculous from the most banal of situations. He’d have you believe he was raising money for some spurious charity, or that he needed to quickly nip backstage to check he hadn’t left a camp stove on whilst leaving Useless Beardy Guy singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for our amusement. He created a wonderful visual image of applying his backside to the TV screen during This Morning so that it looked like Piers Morgan was rimming him; and he had a battle with his braces, before the third act, causing slowly descending trousers, from which he produced tons of hilarious physical comedy. The next morning all six of us kept on remembering varied elements of his reckless night’s entertainment; it was officially fabulous. As was our entire Leicester Comedy Festival experience, and we’re hoping to make it an annual event, when we all return and throw ourselves at the festival for an entire weekend. Here’s to 2018!

**She said she was a teacher so Mr Vegas wondered if it was the SATs and not the alcohol that had sent her off to sleep.

P. S. I discovered later that Mr Vegas doesn’t really have a late-night lawyer with whom he can discuss such delicate topics – it was Kevin Dewsbury on the other end of the phone. I’m embarrassed to say though that it didn’t occur to me that this was a stunt; if anyone is going to have resort to a late-night Comedy Lawyers 4U contact it would be Johnny Vegas. He must need this kind of advice all the time.

P. P. S. The show started at 8.30pm and was due to finish at 10.30pm. Shortly before midnight you could see the promoter agitatedly standing near the stage trying to get Johnny Vegas’ attention so that he would wrap it all up. I did tell you he was unpredictable.

Review – Kev’s Komedy Kitchen, Leicester Comedy Festival, Hansom Hall, Leicester, 25th February 2017

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For our second show on Comedy Saturday, Mrs Chrisparkle and I took the gang to see Kev’s Komedy Kitchen, a show we’d already seen in Edinburgh last summer, which we both found knock-out funny, and was in fact the recipient of last year’s Chrisparkle Award for Edinburgh Best of the Rest – which is rather a graceless title that I think I need to alter. It appears that this was probably the last ever performance of the show in this format, so any spoilers I reveal in this review, aren’t really.

You’re greeted by Floor Manager Will who explains that it’s a recording of a TV show and warns us not to wave at the cameras. As if we would. He also advises us to laugh at anything Kev says that’s funny – or thinks is funny; and whilst happily reminiscing over Kev’s successful tours in the past, he reminds us not to mention 2012… as it wasn’t a good year. Naturally, the only person who mentions 2012 as the show progresses, is Will; but there is a limit to which even he can keep up that chirpy positivity when you’re dealing with a bunch of pensioners watching the recording of a show that is pure bumf, and featuring guests with the social graces of Sooty and Sweep but with none of their sense of humour. By the time the show’s started he’s already dissed Kev for attracting nothing like the number of punters as Stephen Bailey had the previous night, and as for that Romesh Ranganathan….

I digress (like he did). Will’s introductory speech totally sets the scene for what’s to come. Even before we’ve met Kev we know a) he’s not as funny as he thinks he is, and b) his life and career had a big tumble which he hasn’t come to terms with. You just know that during the course of the next hour we’re going to see this guy start to (apple) crumble and watch his career go down the (hot) pan. If that sounds rather sad – well, it is! But that’s the strength of the show: watching Kev kling to the wreckage as his guest celebrity turns out to be po-faced, patronising and thick as two short fish fingers, as his guest comic gets more laughs than he does, thus building up Kev’s resentment against him, and as his high-flying guest chef lets him down at the last minute to be replaced by Marco Pierre Shite. It is the comedy of cruelty, played straight to emphasise the seriousness behind the laughter, but always with the accent on the comic rather than the cruel – until it descends into a semi-apocalyptic free-for-all at the end.

Rather like when I worked in Contracts Management for the local council, anything that could go wrong in the recording of Kev’s Komedy Kitchen, does go wrong. The pre-prepared meal for them to taste is inedible because Josh the assistant forgot to put the oven on, (or rather, in the case of Saturday’s performance, he says he did put the oven on, much to Will’s surprise – nicely handled, sir) the po-faced celebrity refuses to try any of the food, the celebrity chef’s cordon bleu creation is a Sainsbury’s Scotch Egg and the guest comic returns at the end to physically assault Kev for being such a knob.All the while Kev is progressively getting more and more inebriated as the po-faced celebrity refuses to sample the Chardonnay, which is really all the excuse he needs to gulp it all.

It’s a genuinely hilarious comic creation that, once started, is a crash course to oblivion for our Kev with no way out.Beautiful performances from everyone, with Will Hutchby positively effervescent with enthusiasm until the sequence of disasters makes him tear his hair out, and Hannah Blakeley is spot on as the ghastly Grace Loretta, whose freakish Orwello ends up writhing all over the stage mad as a box of frogs. She had me at Halloumi (you had to be there). Mike Newall brings all the vibrant personality of Liam Gallagher on a downer to his dour celebrity chef, and, as the guest comic, Liam Pickford wiped the floor with his erudite gag about how a Southern fried chicken baguette mixes cuisines of two origins and therefore could be seen as cousins who might kiss at a Christening.He also wiped the floor with Kev once he’d slung him a few left hooks. Plus, of course, Kevin Dewsbury brilliant as the eponymous Kev, brave in the face of adversity, prickly when his professionalism is doubted, conducting hilariously awful interviews, pushing old puns to the limit and beautifully portraying that day in a person’s life when, as one disaster follows another after another, they just reach the conclusion: f*ck it.

As suspected, our fellow comedy-goers loved it too. Even though the original Komedy Kitchen has now gone to that great Aga in the sky, it will be back in a new format as The Second Cumin and I for one can’t wait to catch it in Edinburgh later this year!

Review – Lucy Pearman, WIP and a Cabbage, Leicester Comedy Festival, Heroes @ The Criterion, Leicester, 25th February 2017

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Having seen a motley collection of the great and the okay in Pick of the Fest and the unforgettable ultimate therapy performance by Mr Richard Gadd, we thought we’d give this year’s Leicester Comedy Festival a gala send-off by seeing three productions on the final Saturday. To make it go with a swing Mrs Chrisparkle and I were accompanied by Lady Duncansby and her butler Sir William as well as my noble Lord Liverpool and the Countess of Cockfosters. Six Characters in search of Comic Relief, one might say.

I’d recognised Lucy Pearman’s name from the Edinburgh Fringe schedules but we didn’t see her show last summer. You can find some rather wry videos of her doing comic things online and I thought she would be worth a punt, if you’ll pardon the expression. WIP and a Cabbage, I’m sensing, was taking her show about a Cabbage (stay with me) and adding some WIP to it – but I’m not entirely sure. This description is all you need to know about the background to the show: ‘Traditionally, unmarried girls were sent into the veg garden to choose the ‘perfect’ cabbage’. Who knew?

Lucy is the new maid who has to escape the clutches of the lascivious Lord Wynd and has three things that she must do: avoid kissing him, find the best cabbage, and make sure she doesn’t reveal her bad side. I know this for a fact, because she asked me to read these instructions out to her. It could have been worse; she got Lord Liverpool to hold up a piece of paper that read “New Maid” for ages and then made him sit on a collapsible chair. We always knew where she would find the best cabbage, because she handed it out at the beginning of the show; in feeble comparison, others, like my namesake Chris (fistbump), Lord Liverpool and a distinguished looking chap in the second row were all given (let’s not pretend to be proud) a Brussels Sprout each. How it shamed our manhoods.

I realise as I’m telling you all this, gentle reader, that probably none of it makes the remotest sense. However, the proof of the pudding in a comedy show is how much you laugh, and I have to say we all laughed an awful lot. Ms Pearman has a lovely stage presence and is a gifted comic and clown, using a sotto voce delivery that can reduce a grown man to pure humiliation. “I’m beginning to regret you” she quietly admitted, as I failed to keep up with her dictation, much to the amusement of everyone else. Having established earlier on if I could read (I could), she also found out I could write. “Show off, aren’t you” was her only response.

Ms Pearman embodies gentle lunacy with a withering touch. She reminded me of what an extra member of Spymonkey might be like as she sprang from innocent maiden to red-raw monster and back again (you had to be there). Very assured with any curved balls the audience sent her way, it was forty minutes of pure silliness and I absolutely loved it. I’ll definitely keep an eye out for what she’s doing next. And next time, I’ll bring my own cabbage.

Review – Jimeoin, Renonsense Man, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 24th February 2017

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With Mrs Chrisparkle having been stranded up north the night before due to Storm Doris, and me soggy with cold, we weren’t in the best frame of mind for going out to see a comedian that neither of us knew anything about. I know that Jimeoin has been going a long time, but our paths simply never crossed. I didn’t even know how to pronounce him – indeed, he doesn’t either, as he confesses early in the show.

However, within a few minutes of his ambling on, mumbling a few hellos, chucking a few quirky glances here and there, I decided that this guy is probably going to be someone I’ll really get on with. He’s like a mischievous uncle, or an office prankster who can’t take anything seriously. He’d probably drive you completely nuts if you had to live with him, but as a colleague or a mate he’d be comedy gold. What’s really extraordinary is how much he can convey with just his facial expressions. As he says, he and his wife have been together for such a long time now there’s nothing much left to say so they just communicate by glances. Thus they have a series of wordless exchanges that include the useful stop talking you’re making yourself look a fool, the dishonest who farted, and the don’t you dare think of sex routine.

Of course, this isn’t a mime act. For two hours, Jimeoin takes patches of his life, seemingly randomly assembled, and presents us with a combination of wry, silly, insightful and just plain hysterical observations about what life is really like. And, for whatever reason, his humour just resonated perfectly with us. It must have been one of those rare occasions when we were the absolutely perfect demographic for the show. Whether he was talking about toilet brushes, or impersonating airline pilots from around the UK, or giving us a selection of brief comedy songs on the guitar, we basically just fell apart. Mrs C was literally weeping with laughter and I can confirm that it takes some comedian to make her do that.

If you’re sitting in the front rows and he engages you in conversation, don’t worry, it will all be charming and friendly, but bear in mind he won’t forget your name and you’ll almost certainly be cross-referenced into some other part of his routine at a later stage. His is one of those acts that feels like he’s making it up as he goes along, but I’m pretty sure there’s a well-defined sequence of routines prepared in advance. His wonderfully laconic but communicative style helps the content flow in a totally organic and unforced way, so that you just feel you’re eavesdropping on this old geezer’s meanderings. I say “old” – he’s six years younger than me, so everything’s relative.

There’s also a definite edge to his comedy – it’s not all soft and fluffy by any means. For example, he asks us to admire his new boots – that’s fine – and then he explains where he got them and it’s so outrageous you wonder if you can allow yourself to laugh at it. But it’s also extremely funny and aligns perfectly with the rather irreverent persona that he presents us. It’s one of a number of occasions where your laugh catches in your throat before you feel confident enough to let it rip. Despite what appears to be a perfectly relaxed delivery, the man’s wit is razor sharp and he’s constantly reacting to what goes on around him to create two hours of superbly well crafted material.

We kept on talking about him as we walked home, as we went to bed, as we got up the next morning, as we had dinner the next evening. Definitely a contender for the funniest comedian we’ve ever seen live. He only had a few UK dates on his tour, and now he’s back to performing in Adelaide, Canberra, Melbourne and Sydney before coming back to the UK for the Edinburgh Fringe in August. If you ever get the chance to see him, take it!

The Agatha Christie Challenge – Lord Edgware Dies (1933)

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STOP PRESS: The Agatha Christie Challenge is now available as a book in two revised volumes – details at the end of this blog post!

In which the talented, beautiful but spoilt actress Jane Wilkinson, aka Lady Edgware, challenges Poirot to help her “get rid of my husband”, shortly after which Lord Edgware Dies. Well, the title told you that anyway, so it’s no surprise. Poirot and Hastings investigate this, and other, deaths but it’s only a chance remark that Poirot overhears that alerts his little grey cells to what really happened that fateful night and brings the guilty party to book. Because of this, Poirot counts this case as one of his failures; but Hastings’ narrative shows us that Poirot is being unnecessarily and uncharacteristically modest! And if you haven’t read the book yet, don’t worry, I promise not to give the game away as to whodunit!

The book is dedicated to Dr. and Mrs. Campbell Thompson. Reginald Thompson, eminent British archaeologist, led an expedition to Nineveh in 1930 on which Max Mallowan worked and Agatha Christie was allowed to accompany him. It was during this dig that she wrote “Lord Edgware Dies”, and in fact, when they discovered a skeleton in a shallow grave they named him Lord Edgware in honour of the late, but fictitious, George Alfred St Vincent Marsh, fourth Baron Edgware.

My initial reaction to this book is that it is a brilliant read, full of great characters, an intriguing plot, a misleading denouement and it all hangs together beautifully. Red herrings abound, and, if you’re tempted to play along with Poirot and make your own guess as to whodunit, you won’t see the wood for the trees until the final few pages. Sadly, there are a few racist comments in the text that today hit you as being wholly inappropriate, but those were the times they lived in.

The title to the American edition is Thirteen at Dinner – which was also used as the name of the 1985 film starring Peter Ustinov and Faye Dunaway. Its relevance to the story comes from Donald Ross’ observation that there were thirteen guests at the dinner party, and there are all sorts of superstitions that arise from having thirteen at dinner – arising from the account of the Last Supper in the Bible. It does concentrate on one relatively small part of the story though, and I personally don’t rate it as a title!

Poirot is on top form with all his vanity and egocentric nature on constant display. It reveals itself from the very start with Lady Edgware’s attention – and of course, Hastings cannot help himself from encouraging his friend to look even more foolish: “”You have made a hit, Poirot. The fair Lady Edgware can hardly take her eyes off you.” “Doubtless she has been informed of my identity,“ said Poirot, trying to look modest and failing. “I think it is the famous moustaches,” I said. “She is carried away by their beauty.” Poirot caressed them surreptitiously. “It is true that they are unique,” he admitted.” On another occasion, all detective work comes to a sudden halt when Poirot discovers a tiny grease spot on his clothing and rushes to procure the cleaning materials to repair his appearance. That manicured look is so important to him, and there are occasions when he picks Hastings up on his dress sense and personal grooming, like a bickering old couple.

However, Poirot’s self-obsession does not mean he is not self-critical. Far from it; in this book he is devastated that it takes an overheard conversation to direct his thoughts on the right path. He precedes his denouement speech with a self-chastising preamble: “I am going to be humble […] I am going to show you every step of the way – I am going to reveal how I was hoodwinked, how I displayed the gross imbecility, how it needed the conversation of my friend Hastings and a chance remark by a total stranger to put me on the right track.” His anxiety at not being able to see through the crime clearly makes him behave rather peculiarly at times, which gives rise to Inspector Japp (back in Christie-land since we last saw him in Peril at End House) again suggesting that Poirot is losing it: “”When we got back here I started to question him. He waved his arms, seized his hat and rushed out again.” We looked at it each other. Japp tapped his forehead significantly. “Must be”, he said.”

Hastings is his usual self, loyal to his friend although not beyond teasing him either; talking about the attractiveness of the women at the party like a couple of (admittedly well-behaved) schoolboys, stunned by the beauty of Lady Edgware. There’s no auburn hair on offer for him to admire, just the effeminacy of Lord Edgware’s butler for him to despise in a lightly homophobic way, which comes across as rather tasteless. Together they continue to be a great team, with Poirot on one hand criticising Hastings for any number of failings (as he sees them) yet also being unusually kind to him: “as we sipped our coffee, Poirot smiled affectionately across the table at me. “My good friend,” he said. “I depend upon you more than you know.” I was confused and delighted by these unexpected words. He had never said anything of the kind to me before.” Working together, there are a number of excellently written passages where they both consider the evidence to hand, asking questions and formulating theories – or ideas, as Poirot would have it; these are the real nuts and bolts of the book that make it so satisfying.

As narrator, Hastings offers us a facsimile, as he has done in previous novels – this time of the torn letter that appears to incriminate one particular suspect; and Hastings’ style (as passed on to us by Christie) of having a number of relatively short chapters keeps the pace of the story going at a furious rate, making it a very exciting read. There are, however, a couple of words and phrases that Christie/Hastings overuse, so that they stand out detrimentally. On several occasions, Poirot is described as looking or speaking “dreamily”. The word doesn’t have much of a meaning or much of an impact, but it’s very noticeable through its repetition. Even more annoying, there are at least eight occasions where they phrase “at anyrate” appears. It’s particularly irritating due to the contemporary spelling of “anyrate” as one word – it doesn’t appear in my copy of the OED. However, Christie redeems herself with a nice little joke when the new Lord Edgware is giving his account to Poirot of how he approached his father to ask for money. “”And I went away without getting any. And that same evening – that very same evening – Lord Edgware dies. Good title that, by the way. Lord Edgware Dies. Look well on a bookstall.” He paused. Still Poirot said nothing.” As an aside, I was uncertain in the last book, Peril at End House, whether Captain and Mrs Hastings were back in England for good or if she was still a brave lonely outpost in The Argentine. With the knowledge that a couple of days after Poirot revealed the murderer, Hastings was recalled to The Argentine and therefore missed the trial, we know that he is still only here “on business”.

A couple of interesting philosophical questions are raised during the course of the book. The opening scene shows new stage star Carlotta Adams performing her act which includes an impersonation of Lady Edgware – because to most people she is the American actress Jane Wilkinson. Hastings muses on this point: “Watching Carlotta Adams’ clever but perhaps slightly malicious imitation, it occurred to me to wonder how such imitations were regarded by the subject selected. Where they pleased at the notoriety – at the advertisement it afforded? Or were they annoyed at what was, after all, a deliberate exposing of the tricks of their trade?” We get to discover Jane Wilkinson’s true reaction to the impersonation later in the book. But that’s certainly a question – in a world of celebrities – that is simply never going to go away. There’s also the question of a murderer’s mental state at the time they commit the crime. Can they possibly be fully sane to commit such an act? “”All murderers are mentally deficient – of that I am assured,” said Mrs Carroll. “Internal gland secretion.”” It’s a subject Christie’s raised in the past and no doubt will do again in the future.

There are a few references to Poirot’s earlier cases. When the redoubtable Duchess of Merton pays a call on Poirot, she informs him that it was Lady Yardly who had told her about him. If that name rings a bell, she featured in the short story The Adventure of “The Western Star” which appears in the book Poirot Investigates. Elsewhere Poirot reminisces on a case: ““I found a clue once,” said Poirot dreamily. “But since it was four feet long instead of four centimetres no one would believe in it.”” That is largely taken to refer to a piece of lead-piping that Poirot found in The Murder on the Links. Whilst Poirot is waiting for evidence to turn up, he helps out in a few other cases, including “the strange disappearance of an Ambassador’s boots”. This sounds very much like The Ambassador’s Boots from Partners in Crime, but it is Tommy and Tuppence who solve that little mystery. Some identity confusion, perhaps?

Unusually this story takes place entirely within the confines of London. Only Inspector Japp takes a trip outside, to Paris, which he believes was a wasted journey. Apart from that, the locations of the story are at London theatres and restaurants, Poirot’s flat, Lord Edgware’s house in Regent Gate, Jenny Driver’s hat shop in Moffat Street and Jane Wilkinson’s suite at the Savoy. That magnificent building of course exists; there isn’t a Regent Gate in London as such but Prince Regent’s Gate would be about right for the Edgwares’ stately pile; again there is no Moffat Street near Bond Street; I’m not sure Ms Driver’s hats would sell that well in Moffat Road, Tooting.

A few references took my interest: the first, brash, appearance of young Ronald Marsh, later to become the fifth Baron Edgware, causes Mrs Widburn to declaim: “You mustn’t take any notice of him. Most brilliant as a boy in the O.U.D.S. You’d hardly think so now, would you?” I recognised that acronym instantly as I, dear reader, was also once a member of the Oxford University Drama Society. And Japp uses a delightful image which was prevalent in the 19th century but has really gone out of fashion: “Sorry M. Poirot […] But you did look for all the world like a dying duck in a thunderstorm.”

When the detectives are trying to work out how it could be that Jane Wilkinson was seen in more than one place at the same time, Japp recalls: “Reminds me of the Elizabeth Canning Case […] You remember? How at least a score of witnesses on either side swore they had seen the gipsy, Mary Squires, in two different parts of England. Good reputable witnesses, too. And she with such a hideous face there couldn’t be two like it. That mystery was never cleared up.” The Elizabeth Canning case was indeed real, and concerned a famous kidnapping case back in 1753 that you can read about here.

Jenny Driver recollects how Carlotta Adams would send a letter every week to her sister in Washington. But on this occasion she missed the post. “”Then it is here still?” “No sir, I posted it. She remembered last night just as she was getting into bed. And I said I’d run out with it. By putting an extra stamp on it and putting it in the late fee box it would be all right.” Extra stamp? Late fee box? Indeed, this was a common practice so that you could post a letter after the normal final collection time for an extra fee. The boxes were frequently placed in railway stations. I’m not sure when this practice died out – but it must have been jolly useful.

Also in the world of the hat shop Chez Genevieve, “Mrs. Lester’s coming in about that Rose Descartes model we’re making for her.” Rose Descartes? (Actually my copy reads “Rose Descrates” but I think that’s a misprint). There was an old style of rose called the Rene Descartes – a stunning orangey red. If it’s the same hue, I’m sure the hat will look fab. Anyone of my generation or older will just about remember the wonderful chain of London eateries that was the Lyons Corner House – Carlotta Adams was seen at the Strand branch at 11pm on the night Lord Edgware died. I fondly remember my dad ordering the Super Bingo meal at the branch on Coventry Street, which he enjoyed so much that he had another one for dessert! Apparently they ceased trading in 1977 – I didn’t realise it was that recent. And the evening newspaper that covers the story is called the Evening Shriek. That’s a jazzy title. The London evening papers at the time would have been the Star, News and Standard (as the paper vendors used to shout out). Maybe it’s that shouting that Christie is trying to recreate with this newspaper name.

Regular readers will know I like to convert any significant financial sums into what their equivalent would be today – just to get a better feel for the amounts involved. The £100 cheque that Lord Edgware cashed the day before he died would today be worth about £5000. Moreover, the $10,000 that Carlotta refers to in her letter to her sister comes in at a whopping £146,000 at today’s rates.

Now it’s time for my usual at-a-glance summary, for Lord Edgware Dies:

Publication Details: 1933. Fontana paperback, 13th impression, published in July 1976, priced 60p. The rather creepy cover illustration by Tom Adams shows an ornate dagger with a claw finial plunged high into the neck of a grey haired male victim – presumably Lord Edgware.

How many pages until the first death: 31. A perfect length really; enough to lay some useful groundwork before getting into the meat, as it were. Of course, Lord Edgware’s death is referred to in the first paragraph, and, indeed, in the title. No one will ever be under the misapprehension that Lord Edgware survives unscathed in this book.

Funny lines out of context: as usual, words and ideas that seemed perfectly reasonably in the 1930s have acquired a different sense today:

“You don’t know my husband, M.Poirot […] He’s a queer man – he’s not like other people.”

“He seems to have taken a fancy to me[…] A man like that behind you means a lot.”

“Unfortunately, he has got a queer sort of prejudice against divorce. I tried to overcome it but it was no good, and I had to be careful, because he was a very kinky sort of person.”

“Finally, after various ejaculations, Poirot spoke.”

Memorable characters:

Jane Wilkinson/Lady Edgware is a very well drawn, very lively and very believable over-the-top character who brings the page to life whenever she appears. In his first description of her, Hastings points out her histrionic character; unusually, she even beats Poirot in the self-obsessed stakes. Mrs Widburn describes her as an egoist; Bryan Martin says she’s amoral. I see her as a real life and slightly more unhinged version of the Muppets’ Miss Piggy. Everything has to be about her or because of her. Hers is the only opinion that is to be counted, hers the only needs to be met.

Young Ronald March, the fifth Baron Edgware, is also a live wire; coming across as a leftover from a 1920s Christie novel of Bright Young Things – maybe his natural home would have been in The Secret of Chimneys. It’s a shame that a lot of what he says when you first meet him is considered so distasteful now. I think Christie intended for us to think of him as a rather charming Jack-the-Lad; however, times change (see below.)

The character of Carlotta Adams is based on the real life American dramatist Ruth Draper, who specialized in character-driven monologues and whom Christie saw give a performance that made her think “how clever she was and how good her impersonations were; the wonderful way she could transform herself from a nagging wife to a peasant girl kneeling in a cathedral” (from Christie’s Autobiography.)

Christie the Poison expert:
There is a noticeable similarity to the murder methods in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Ackroyd is killed by an antique silver dagger – Edgware by an ornate pin. In the first book, Mrs Ferrars dies through an overdose of veronal – and that is also the method used for a second murder in this book.

Class/social issues of the time:

Perhaps there are not quite so many references to the social issues in this book as in others, although there is unfortunately quite a lot of casual racism.

Lord Edgware’s housekeeper, Miss Carroll, has firm ideas about the kind of person who would and would not commit a murder. “”Had Lord Edgware any enemies?” asked Poirot suddenly. “Nonsense,” said Miss Carroll. “How do you mean – nonsense, Mademoiselle?” “Enemies! People in these days don’t have enemies. Not English people!” “Yet Lord Edgware was murdered.” “That was his wife,” said Miss Carroll. “A wife is not an enemy – no?” “I’m sure it was a most extraordinary thing to happen. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening – I mean to anyone in our class of life.” It was clearly Miss Carroll’s idea that murderers were only committed by drunken members of the lower classes.”

Interestingly, Poirot, who normally understands the British class system so well, gets it severely wrong with his interrogation of the Duke of Merton: “”I should like to ask you outright, your Grace. Are you shortly going to marry Miss Jane Wilkinson?” “When I am engaged to marry anyone the fact will be announced in the newspapers. I consider your question an impertinence.” He stood up. “Good-morning.” Poirot stood up also. He looked awkward. He hung his head. He stammered. “I did not mean…I…Je vous demande pardone..” “Good-morning,” repeated the Duke, a little louder.”

But it’s Hastings who shows the true British class spirit when he discovers Poirot was reading the Duke’s letter upside down at the same time as stammering. “”Poirot!” I cried, scandalised, stopping him […] I felt very upset, He was so naively pleased with his performance. “Poirot,” I cried. “You can’t do at thing like that. Overlook a private letter […] It’s not – not playing the game.”

Let’s turn to a few more unpleasant aspects of the book. There’s a lot of casual antisemitism running through it, from descriptions of Rachel Dortheimer’s “long Jewish nose”, through Sir Montagu’s “distinctly Jewish cast of countenance.” It is Poirot who points out to Hastings, about Carlotta, that: “”You observed without doubt that she is a Jewess?” I had not, But now that he mentioned it, I saw the faint traces of Semitic ancestry.” But Poirot instantly relates the fact that Carlotta is Jewish to her undoubtedly having ““love of money. Love of money might lead such a one from the prudent and cautious path.” “It might do that to all of us,” I said. “That is true, but at anyrate you or I would see the danger involved. We could weigh the pros and cons, If you care for money too much, it is only the money you see, everything else is in shadow.”” Christie takes that theme a step further with Carlotta’s excitement at the $10,000 offer.

In addition to the antisemitism, our first encounter with a rather drunk Captain March includes him referring to “Chinks” and a very unfortunate few lines: “He shook his head sadly, then cheered up suddenly and drank off some more champagne. “Anyway,” he said. “I’m not a damned n*****.” This reflection seemed to cause him such elation that he presently made several remarks of a hopeful character.” Because that language is simply no longer acceptable, it prevents today’s reader from having the sympathetic view of the character of March that I am sure Christie intended us to have.

Classic denouement: Very nearly – the only thing it lacks is the moment of accusation to the guilty party, who isn’t present. But it does lead you down a delightful garden path when you think at least two other people are going to be proved the murderer before Poirot lays his Straight Flush.

Happy ending? Happy enough I think. In what has become a typical Christie finish, two of the characters end up engaged, and there’s nothing particularly bad that happens to any of the other innocent participants.

Did the story ring true? Again, true enough. It relies on one character impersonating another over a prolonged period which is rather far-fetched. Apart from that, very believable characterisation of the main people in the story help to make it feel credible.

Overall satisfaction rating: 9/10. A strong exciting story, with fascinating characters, very nicely written and with a solution that ticks all the boxes. It would have been 10/10 if it hadn’t been for the racist comments!

Thanks for reading my blog of Lord Edgware Dies and if you’ve read it too, I’d love to know what you think. Please just add a comment in the space below. Next up in the Agatha Christie Challenge, it’s back to the short story format with The Hound of Death; but they’re not so much detective stories as tales of the supernatural – so that should be interesting! As always, I’ll blog my thoughts about it in a few weeks’ time. In the meantime, please read it too then we can compare notes! Happy sleuthing!

If you enjoy my Agatha Christie Challenge, did you know it is now available as a book? In two revised volumes, it contains all my observations about Christie’s books and short stories, and also includes all her plays! The perfect birthday or Christmas gift, you can buy it from Amazon – the links are here and here!

Review – Monkey See Monkey Do, Richard Gadd, Leicester Comedy Festival at The Cookie, Leicester, 22nd February 2017

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Towards the end of Richard Gadd’s extraordinary hour long performance of Monkey See Monkey Do, he turns to the audience and asks if any of us had read up about the show beforehand. Only two people put their hands up. “Must have been a bit of a shock, I guess?” he asks, eliciting a half-embarrassed, half-relieved laughing response. I didn’t put my hand up, because I took his question literally; I hadn’t read about it, but I had heard about it on a personal recommendation from someone who said this was the best show they saw in Edinburgh last year. And that’s why Mrs Chrisparkle and I braved both the southern reaches of Storm Doris and nasty head colds to see the show in person.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it. To take on extremely serious subject matter and weave it into a multimedia experience, led by Richard Gadd pounding away on his treadmill for the first 45 minutes or so, is some feat. There’s loads to laugh at; there’s loads to empathise with; there are some elements that might make you recoil in horror, depending on your own personal experiences. I normally try to avoid giving much away about the material used in a comedy show, but for this account to make any sense I really have to give the game away – so if you don’t want to read the ultimate in spoilers, please come back at the next blog post!

First we see Mr Gadd being chased and hounded by a monkey. It’s his monkey. It represents his own, particular burden in life. We all have a monkey or two of our own, but for the most part he’s behind bars in a zoo and we rarely have to visit him. Mr Gadd’s monkey is, shall we say, a little more persistent. Next, we see him participating in the Man’s Man Contest – an imaginary battle between ultra blokey blokes, with the truly tough challenge of multitasking four really manly tasks against the clock. He rises to the challenge, performing the first three with adept shows of true strength and masculinity. The fourth task is to sing a really manly song, something heavy metallish (sorry I’m personally not manly enough to have recognised it), and, in (almost) fine tune, he multitasks successfully to the finishing line. But wait – a steward’s inquiry – and it’s revealed that he’s taken illegal substances to finish the quest – science proves that underlying that really manly song he’s also singing the chorus to YMCA. It’s a lovely spoof on the whole manly/masculinity/man’s man idea and its general ridiculousness is extremely funny.

But, as a stark comparison, there’s a harsh reality behind it all. Six or so years ago, Mr Gadd was drugged at a party, and knew nothing of what happened next until the next morning – when he realised he had been raped. No one’s laughing now. In a series of filmed meetings with an analyst, the truth about what happened and its effects on him are slowly revealed. In tandem with this, we see him out on his fitness run, constantly anxious that anything he does might betray his perceived lack of masculinity, because the rape has robbed him of his own definition of what masculinity is. Previously, he just used to be a man; now, he no longer knows what that means. He feels that every pair of eyes that notice him can see through him and know what he did (even though it was actually done to him). He used to like the person he was, but that person no longer exists. His sexuality was messed up by the assault; now his sexual orientation is all over the place – a daily voyage of discovery.

He meets Justin, his best friend, on his run; but Justin doesn’t say hello back. There are all sorts of reasons why that might have been but, naturally, his anxieties dictate it must mean that he doesn’t like him anymore. He meets Hannah, his ex-girlfriend, but his anxieties mean he can’t hear what she is saying to him, only his own worries about how he is presenting himself to her. In a moment that revealed one of my own insecurities, there’s a brief but brilliant sequence about how you react when you know your WhatsApp message has been received but the recipient doesn’t reply back. The man’s a seething volcano of anxieties, yet it’s such a clever construct to make this whole experience funny whilst at the same time you see how totally debilitating it is for him.

Technically it’s a fascinating piece, with a very complex audio and visual plot that at times becomes a veritable fugue of conversations, pieces of music, animal noises and other sound effects; it’s like an orchestra playing a symphony of sounds with Mr Gadd as lead soloist coming in live with the most significant passages. Some of it is addressed directly to the audience, some of it to himself, some to the cast of acquaintances that he meets along the way. No matter which, it’s always arresting, and I found myself hanging on his every word for that additional clue that would piece together the jigsaw that is his troubled soul (his description).

It goes without saying that this is a very brave performance; it’s about as self-revealing as one could imagine. We’ve seen a number of comedians perform shows that take their own depression and use it as an inspiration for a routine or who create a show as a catharsis for dealing with their own mental health issues – from last year’s Edinburgh Fringe, Dave Chawner and Damian Kingsley spring to mind. But you can’t call this stand-up, it’s more a multimedia confessional that never shies away from the damage that one event can do to a human being. At the end, Mr Gadd concludes that simply by talking about what happened you won’t kill the monkey but you’ll learn how the two of you can live together, and that’s the most excellent advice.

A show like no other – funny, moving, horrific, and with so many emotions in between. Mr Gadd’s just embarked on a tour with his monkey and they’re coming to a theatre near you. Go and see why he’s been nominated for a Chortle award for Best Show. Brilliant and unforgettable.