Much laughter

Last night The Legend and I made our way to the Pleasance.  The evening started with the continuation of our stalking of Lucy Porter (I was there first, motherfucker!).  As usual, she had the close-to-capacity crowd eating out of her hand with her whimsy (no, that’s not a rude euphemism).  The young guy in the front row probably didn’t know where to look when she started her charms on him.  She uses her fluffy, nutty image to get away with her material.  My particular favourite was how Kerry Katona and Amy Winehouse taught us, as a society, that it isn’t a good idea to marry one’s dealer.  The staff at the venue were rude and unhelpful, but I couldn’t say anything, as the next show was Michael McIntyre, in the same hall.

They made us queue at the other side of the complex (completely stupid) for no reason other than they had no idea what they were doing.  McIntyre was more conventional and, as a result, got the belly laughs straight away.  The show only dipped when he started the “aren’t our kids funny?” segment.  The Legend, in tune with his recent bouts of deadbeat-dad guilt, laughed at this.  Disappointing.  He (McIntyre, not The Legend) got back on track by insinuating the women at his kid’s playgroup referred to them as “the paedophile and his Nazi child”.  The bit about wanking into his wife’s raspberry leaf tea tea to induce childbirth was good, too.

Star-spotting on the way out, I saw Lauren Laverne, but didn’t speak to her, as she looked rough as fuck.

The evening climaxed (oo-err…) in the Grand Hall with Reginald D. Hunter in top form, with many amusing asides about racism, cultural difference, the gender gap and… Josef Fritzl!  I won’t spoil his final gag, but you should go and see him.  The cool bastard.  Once again, we were left to queue for ages outside the hall.  This doesn’t happen to theatre-goers and rugby fans, but it does to gig-goers and fitba fans?  Given the recent behaviour of the major venues (Assembly Rooms, Pleasance, Underbelly and Gilded Balloon) and this treatment, I have been giving serious thought to where my future custom will go.

Ultimately though, it’s artist-driven.  If you want to see (comedian x / sportsman y / actor z), your hands as a consumer are basically tied.  Time for some nippy/borderline-stalker emails to the artists concerned, methinks.  Lucy Porter will be expecting a new one this month, anyway…

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