GUTTED: A
BENEFIT FOR THE GILDED BALLOON – LONDON PICCADILLY THEATRE – 19/01/03
The Gilded Balloon in Edinburgh is the reason
I once zoomed up to Daniel Kitson and made my opening gambit one of: “I love it
when you say ‘You’re an architect? What’s your favourite kind of brick?’” The
reason I know what Sean Cullen looks like in a nightie. The reason I’ve blocked
Tom Conti’s
passage (aha I said ‘passage’). The reason I can get from myself to Orlando
Bloom in one elf-accosted degree-of-separation. The reason I know a naked and
drumming Phil Kay to be funnier than Rudi Lickwood. The reason I once watched
Glenn Wool get heckled by a dog in the company of Noel Fielding and Julian
Barratt. The reason I am acquainted with the word ‘quim’. And now, also, the
reason I have seen Bill Bailey and Kevin Eldon playing ‘Bring Me Sunshine’,
backed by Steve Frost on keyboards and John Otway on the theramin, as Eddie
Izzard and Ross Noble can-can behind them…
The Gilded Balloon on Cowgate was devastated
by a fire at the end of last year. To rebuild (and commemorate) the ‘Gutted’
benefit was organised in London[1];
the audience’s philanthropy rewarded with a stellar line-up. And that can-can…
The first person out on the stage is JO
BRAND, asked to ‘say a few words’ about old affection for the building and
somehow able to segue this neatly into material about anal sex[2].
Jo gets in quick with the first scurrilous Karen Koren Burnt The Balloon Down
Herself joke, and then asks everyone in the theatre who ever attended the
Gilded Balloon to say “blaah”. We do. Then all others are asked to earnestly
yell: “oh no I haven’t been to the Gilded Balloon and now I regret it because
it’s burnt down”. Few manage the full sentence. But I hope they mean it.
The compere for the first third is (“the unnecessarily tall”)
STEVE FROST. Who is greeted with a lone – but clearly enunciated – cry of “we
thought you were dead!” He premieres a new joke about his ‘late wife’ (not
dead, just not here yet). He leaves the stage.
PHILL JUPITUS[3]
takes his place. He tells the “if you so much as lay a finger on my daughter”
story, which 
raises a laugh
through the idea of mentally torturing a seven-year old child. He saves the
audience from buying or renting ‘The Blair Witch Project’ by acting it out for
us, in under 3 minutes; the scenario ends with him, sprawled out on the floor,
lamenting that “I hadn’t really thought this through – 20 stone…” An oldie but
goodie. Though fear not, there is also new material… Phill relates the tale of
how he met a Beatle and two Rolling Stones within 24 hours of each other, and
was so excited to be kneeling at Ronnie Wood’s table at an award ceremony he
told the man he’d met Paul McCartney the day before. “And without missing a beat
he said: ‘Really? Did you tell him he was a cunt?’” Before leaving, Phill also
takes the time to ponder why some people are so loath to ring technical
support: “Dave here from the Jupiter mission – I bought a HAL computer from you
and it’s killed all me mates.”
Next up is NORMAN LOVETT. “I stopped drinking
because I was
very good at it.” Balding, unprepossessing, the ideal candidate to play a
morose lonely computer marooned in deep space. “You can’t get boots in Boots,
curries in Currys, but in Dixons…” His delivery is generally funnier than his
material. But not always. “Because you’re 75% water, he’d spat most of himself
away.” Norman has brought with him a little bag. As nothing makes you “look a
little bit younger” than a bag cross-body strapped about your person.
Particularly one coupled with a baseball cap. And a bottle of water dangling
louchely in one hand. Within the bag are some items of novelty headgear, and
scented nappy-sacks. The latter (not the former) are ideal for pet refuse as
well as that of your offspring, and make a handy accompaniment to any
mini-lecture on the etiquette of dog-poop scooping. For practical reasons. And
also because of the shapes you can push and tie them into. The neatly tied bag,
for example, resembles a small rabbit. “The shark’s no longer around – the
rabbit’s safe.”
Steve Frost returns. Lauds Karen’s working
ethic of giving younger people a chance to get started in the industry, then
sideswipes it with a dig about how the minimum wage put a stop to such
kindliness. And introduces the next act.
Bouncing out on the stage, it’s ROSS NOBLE.
“Hiya!” Only one person replies with any force, a particularly chirpy woman
down the front. He checks whether
everyone else is happy. The people in the Royal and Upper Circles are not
forgotten. He doesn’t want us to feel left out. Indeed, the scratches on the
stage that only we can see, they “actually make up a special picture”, just for
us. Or maybe an alien landing place. Or perhaps they were caused by the
over-enthusiastic performance of a “tiny monkey dressed as Evel Knievel” 
riding a bike
with unsuitable tyres for the London stage. Maybe.
He stumbles over a couple of his words, they
all bursting to leave his head at mostly the same time. Ross apologises.
“Earlier I attempted to eat my own body weight in muffins.” Accordingly, he is
now stricken with “muffin mouth”. And the sight of the front row leaning
towards the stage reminds him of eager customers at a muffin counter. There are
general blank gazes of befuddlement at his invitation to Ross’ World Of
Muffins. “Could you all just stare at me like I’ve just killed a puppy.” One
audience member in particular catches his eye – still wearing a scarf, they
look like they’re poised to leave at any second. Not so ready for muffins.
Despite their proximity to the counter.
Ross realises that if he truly were
proprietor of a muffin shop, his raised stance would indicate that: “I’d
actually be standing on the counter… which would be wrong.” As that would make
Ross’ World Of Muffins some sort of ‘Coyote Ugly’ style “sexual muffin shop”.
He’d have to dance to sell his wares, “mebbes in chaps”, actually wearing the
muffins and salacious trousers to encourage business by means of “doughy
delight “. “At the finale I’m gonna come back on in a big suit made entirely of
muffin mix, they’ll turn the lights up and I’ll slowly cook… you can all eat a
bit – but not in a sexual way”.
Oh, and Ross has become very good, over the
last few months, at spotting faces in muffins.
Who’d’ve though
it.
“You still haven’t taken your scarf off. Are
you here for ‘Romeo and Juliet’?”
Ross gently asks whether the scarf-wearer is
unaware of the Piccadilly Theatre’s for-one-night-only 
change of
production, and is thus still awaiting the entrance of a Capulet, quietly
seat-squirming at the modern liberties taken with the production. He does a bit
of the “But soft, what light…?” speech. The audience are impressed. “ ‘A
Geordie who knows Shakespeare? Surely this is some sort of ruse! [he lifts his
hair] This is just a wig – I’m actually Kenneth Branagh’.” He does a bit more
of the soliloquy. Then realises he’s facing the wrong way. Unless Juliet was
involved in a lesbian relationship with a woman in a higher window of her tower
block… Ross realises the scarf may be a vital tool in retaining neck stability
for a wearer forced to twist and crane to follow the action unfolding on a zig-zag
tower-block balcony set. Ross also realises persons unused to the theatre might
find the excesses of flowery language overmuch in a play of this nature, and
find themselves yelling in exasperation: “For fuck’s sake Juliet, shag him!”
There is a pause. He admits this might be “the wrong thing to shout”. There is
another pause. “Fuck it, let’s do it.” Ross unfurls a plan to remain in the
theatre until the next day’s production, and then disrupt it with shouts of
sexual frustration. “Let’s hide ourselves as velvet… Get some pop from the bar,
then just rub your face against someone’s mohair jumper.” Thus will we resemble
plush seating. The only way our plan could fail would be the introduction into
the auditorium of Proper Theatre-Goers, armed with night-vision goggles – á la
‘Predator’ – to sniff out undesirables with sticky mohair faces.
“What the fuck was I on about?” He looks to
the audience for aid. None comes. “’We don’t know – we’re slightly confused.’”
It comes back to him, despite us. He was musing on a ratcheted neck, twisted
through 
Shakespeare
concentration. Which is surely the “ponciest injury alive”. Except for: “mebbes
getting a bit of mange tout stuck in my nose”. Though even then he wouldn’t
want to go to his doctor with it. He doesn’t like his doctor. Does the front
row bloke who’s just caught his eye like his doctor? The bloke shrugs,
noncommittally. Like a “half-arsed Cockney”. Ross reprimands him. “You won’t
get on ‘Mary Poppins’ with that kind of attitude”. Ross, briefly, dances like a
chimney sweep, and then muses on his potential to move into that career. He
doesn’t just have the necessary nifty footwork skills. Oho no. “I don’t even
need a brush – I just gel my hair out to the sides and leap.”
Anyway. The doctor. He had to go to the doctor
after getting an ear infection. “Both ears were completely fucked.” But not in
a sexual muffin counter way. Urgh.
He woke up naked in a hotel room, and only
when he stood up did he realise he no longer possessed a centre of balance. “I
actually charged the telly. Like a horny rhino.” At exactly the same time as
the maid came in. and he was left fumbling for a static-electricity
explanation. “I know Playdays is on but don’t hold that against me.”
He is interrupted by the thrum of a giant
generator starting up stage-right. “I forgot to tell you, right, for the finale
I have a giant bee…dressed as Matthew Kelly…I ride off on his back…”
And back to the ears. And a note that when a
doctor asks how best you’d describe the pain buzzing through your ears, give
him a full on Jackanory explanation. “It was a moonlit night… pecking… I’ve got
sparrows are in my mind… off and on.”
Steve Frost returns. “Mr Ross Noble and his
hair there!” We applaud. Muchly. “He looks like Tiny Tim…”
And then the newest (greenest maybe even
youngest[4])
of tonight’s performers, and winner of this year’s So You Think You’re Funny Award,
MATTHEW OSBORN. Who has the highly coiffed hair of a “tennis coach from
Dynasty”, an ability talk about other subjects (“Sex? To be honest I’d rather
have a Satsuma”) but a general preference to return to the barnet jokes. (“It’s
not 1985 any more, this haircut is listed”.) His persona, delivery and material
hovers around smugly gratingly irritating, with occasional flashes of
soon-to-be-greatness. All of which is thrown into still sharper relief by his
being scheduled to follow an improvisational king with a souped-up firefly
mind. Osborn was better than his fellow competition finalists, maybe, but is
out of his depth on a bill like this (and unable to regain ground with mentions
of childhood “B.O. Baracus” taunts). “It’s been a pleasure looking at you.”
And to finish the first third, JOHN OTWAY.
Who now has two hits. And believes he was only booked on the strength of the
tenuous aptness for a fiery benefit gig of a song based around ‘Disco Inferno’.
Otway performs with his usual vigour. In that the shirt buttons have pinged
across the stage before he’s even reached the second line of the chorus.
Fabulously entertaining (but I’m very glad I don’t have him round my house –
imagine the semi-nude Charades – for Christmas…)
During the
interval, Emil thought he had seen a member of the popular beat combo Aqua, at
the bar. When the man in question takes his seat some rows before us, Emil
realises the fellow to simply be bald.
LYNN FERGUSON begins the second third.
Initially, she introduces herself as a friend of Karen’s, someone thus well
equipped to tell us why (beyond the obvious) the woman had a corker of a year.
Ms Koren became a grandmother on the same day her club burnt 
down, and was on
holiday in Bali when there was the hotel bombing (concerned friends ringing the
office were told: “she’s fine… even Al-Quaeda would nae fuckin’ mess wi Karen
Koren”). Lynn Ferguson is also, it turns out, a performer who has graced the
Gilded Balloon boards in her time. (Hence her being quite comfortable chatting
to a room of a thousand faces. Some friendly. Some familiar. Some both, yet
still abusive. “That’s my publicist telling me to fuck off.”) Before she
leaves, she gives us a flavour of the Gilded Balloon backstage, in festival
season, everyone messing around with each other’s props. She, sitting near the
stage gear of Chris Lynam – he of the stripping naked and putting a lit firework
up his bottom while singing ‘There’s No Business Like Showbusiness’ fame – was
once spotted chewing on one of the leather pieces he had brought with him. And
only then being told that was the holster he used to, um, keep the firework in
place.
N.B. It is almost impossible to find a picture of Lynn
Ferguson on the web without it being attached to one of a plasticine chicken.
Hence the above illustration.
Our new compere is STEPHEN K. AMOS[5].
Who comes out and – rather as Omid Dijalili has taken to – starts talking to us
in the accent one might expect of a man of his colour. He beams, hand waves,
and grins some more. “My father tinks I’m studyin’ law!” Then – haha – it slips
away. He moves on (from mocking our presumptions about ethnographic
stereotyping) to conversing with the audience (and mocking others by utilising
ethnographic stereotyping). He asks a front row fellow if he has ever been to
Glastonbury. The man says no. The man is from Windsor. “ ’A tent on the
ground!’ Fawk Orf! I don’t even Car-A-Van!’ ” Amos, however, has been to the
Festival. Where, last year, a friend of his got quite wasted[6],
to the extend that he was unsure whether he was in a tent or in heaven. “He
says ‘Steve, am I inside or outside?’. In my head, I saw an episode of ‘Quantum
Leap’…”
Ah television. Thanks to its powers, RHONA
CAMERON can no longer be referred to just as a Scottish lady lesbian comedienne
– for her participation in a horrendous ‘reality TV experiment’ she’s also now
officially a known associate of Uri Geller. (And can put “as seen on ‘Ready
Steady Cook’” on her C.V.) It can’t just be 
the warping
powers of the spoon-bender upsetting her delivery from afar, but tonight Rhona
doesn’t seem entirely with us. A little rambly, a little hesitant. She’s easily
distracted – “nice noisy fan there – it’s like performing in a hairdressers –
did the others get this?” – even from the older material she’s doing “as a
tribute”, though when she does get back on track there are bright and shiny
moments agogo. In demonstrating her mother’s at-arm’s-length ringing mobile
wariness: “Suddenly your mum’s Robert de Niro.” Or in gleefully discussing the
wardrobe windfalls of winter: “It’s exciting when you’re in a relationship and
the season changes. You think ‘Hey, they haven’t seen me in a polo-neck!’” Or
in explaining how she used to eke quite a lot of jokes out of flying, but isn’t
entirely sure whether to continue to do so is insensitive: “There’s a 20 minute
silence where my material used to be. I don’t know whether to build other
material there as a tribute, or…”
Nice shoes,
incidentally.
Mr S.K. Amos returns, and before bringing out
the next act, tells us about the recent front-row chat he had with a teacher.
“I asked ‘is that a mixed school?’ and without a gap he said ‘no, they’re all
white’. My expression collapsed… so did his.”
Tonight, I’m instigating a policy of
Deliberately Not Reading The 
Programme So I
Can Be Pleasantly Surprised By The Acts As They Appear Before Me. Phil Jupitus
was one such boon of this cunning. BRENDON BURNS is another. The Aussie
fire-cracker, vituperative and bouncing, gleefully kicking his set off with the
Queen Mother[7] before
moving into a ten-minute talk on the train-side goat-fucker. Who, when he
realised his actions were being watched by a delayed train full of people,
“shimmed the goat” behind a hedge, and continued. As though the commuters would
forget what they had seen, and his goat could have some privacy. Half an hour
later, when the police arrived, the man was still there. Still fucking a goat.
Which Brendon took to mean he was a careful and considerate lover, tending to
his lady’s pleasure. (A glorious joke, as people laugh despite themselves, and
then are disgusted with their own sensibilities and those of the comedian.)
Onstage, he seems to pride himself on in-yer-face bluntness; saying things
others would avoid, with scab-ripping honesty. Bless. Where most others had
chosen to leave on a fuzzy tribute to the Gilded Balloon, Brendon departed with
a hearty: “I can’t say I give a fuck – I work at the Pleasance[8].”
All neatly undermined by the next act’s
deadpan: “what a 
maverick”.
Grin.
Thus are we
introduced to the world of JOHN MOLONEY (now with added hair!), currently doing
little to shake off his Kathy Burke exterior. John expresses his joy at the
lazy British scientist cloning ruse: “See these two sheep? They’re exactly the
same!” John expresses his concern at the rights of a “second-hand dog” owner:
“The RSPCA have the legal right to come round to your house to check if it’s
big enough for the dog… They can take away the dog… leave you there.” John
finishes his set with a glorious snatch of ‘every sperm is sacred’ philosophy,
musing at length on the infinitesimal chances of life creation and what good
that life could bring, finally (rewarding the less philosophically minded by)
affecting dismay if the zygote journey ends in a pearl necklace…
He is followed by NICK WILTY. Who just seems
to keep getting better. (Ignoring quips like: “I tell you what gets my goat.
The goat catcher.”) In his brief set, he muses over the idiots who would sue
McDonalds for forcing them to become obese, the potential in displaying the
capabilities of a “magic fish-knife” while on a ‘demonstration’, and America’s
President, who “puts the oops into troops”. He ends proceedings with a
skewering of a soft-drink tagline: “ ‘Sprite – who needs labels?’ Well old
people who drink bleach for a start.”
Stephen K. Amos is greeted with a cry for
Wilty to return to the stage. He affects hurt. “Bring him back on? What of
meee?”
And next up a woman convinced her future will
be wrinkle-free due to the weight of sagging breasts (“you see with age comes
cunning”) and will involve an Old Blonde’s Home, “just me and Peter
Stringfellow, playing strip bingo”. JENNY ÉCLAIR. “I’m not pissed you know, I’m
always like this.” She is currently intrigued as to why no-one going in for
plastic-surgery has opted for novelty-shaped fake breasts: “…rabbit shaped
silicone”. She is wholly willing to pretend to be at the gynaecologists for our
general entertainment: “this is a fantastic farting position – I could take
your teeth out from here.” And she is convinced of the restorative powers of
slap: “I like make-up. I like the way it makes my face look ten years younger
than my neck.” Splendid.
Finishing up this section of proceedings is
BOOTHBY GRAFFOE. If not devastated at the loss of the Gilded Balloon, then
certainly curious: “How do you set that much wet stone alight?” A man of great
lyrical power – witness ‘Bungee Girl’ – and a tendency to talk to the tiny
people 
who live in his
head. He is also possessed of other fine qualities. Such as a willingness to
hang around the supremely talented guitarist Antonio Forcione. Or an ability to
scythe through to the very heart of the British relationship with the weather:
“We seem to confuse constant repetition with startling coincidence.” (No other
nations do this. No Norwegian wakes up and moans: “Oh my god it’s snowing! Why
did I sell those skis?” Similarly, no Nigerian is confronted with another day
of blazing sunshine and wails: “Why did I buy those skis?”) He also proves
himself cutting: “The Danish… think foreplay is rowing.” Cynical: “If someone
blew themselves up in London people would just tut – ‘how am I going to get to
work NOW?’[9]”
Wise: “All song are love songs if you think about it… Except ‘Firestarter’…”
Incisive: “Only the Italians could make a tourist attraction out of a fuck-up.”
Oh, and inordinately loath to leave the stage, despite the time restrictions…
We procure ice-cream. We eat ice-cream.
We fail to misidentify other members of the audience as Danish pop-singers.
Beginning the third and final
third is PHIL KAY, newly shorn[10]
and happily burbling, babbling, bubbling; about what Edinburgh means to him,
the Gilded Balloon, the venue, the stone, the steep hill down to Cowgate and
the rise of the building up from it, the memories, the joy, the condensing down
of the essence of the Balloon into a backdrop poster (and “so nice to see
punctuation – a colon – on a banner”), the love of the Festival, of Karen, of
it all. He came, he talked, he whelmed, he left. Quite quickly. AND he retained
his trousers for the entire duration of his time onstage. Which, if not a first
for him, is certainly a first for a performance for which I am in the vicinity.
“My name’s ARTHUR SMITH[11].
Unless you’re from Streatham Tax Office, in which case my name is Daphne
Fairfax… That joke is now in the British Museum. As is that one. And that one…”
Arthur introduces grizzled-genius RICH HALL.
Who comes out, reaches the microphone, declaims: “What fantastic talent has
been here tonight. Clearly I’m in way over my head.” And promptly leaves the
stage. Arthur returns. Asks if we would like Rich to return. Yes. Please. So he
does. And turns his wry satirical eye on a variety of topics. Some immediate.
Like the Pyjama-top guy down the 
front: “Did you
come here expecting to go to sleep?” Some a bit more global. Like the worrisome
state of world affairs we’ve gotten ourselves into if beauty queens now have
political clout: “’Either let the adulteress go, or Miss Belgium here will NOT
dress up in a bikini and play the tuba’.” He also takes the time to express
concern over idiot statistics polling shopping-mall dwellers “who weren’t even
savvy enough to give a wide berth when they see someone coming towards you with
a clipboard”. Describe the fun to be had going to A&E on a Friday night –
after some kid has bitten you in the ass – and marvelling at the “biggest
parade of crusty human rodentia” that spills through the swing doors. And skewer his nation’s President on the
trident of truth. “I appreciate Tony Blair. At least he can string a sentence
together.” And might have called his dog something other than Spot. As did
Dubya. (Despite the dog’s lack of circular markings. Or indeed patches of any
kind.) Grin.
Imagine a blundering great-uncle, who twitchily
has never quite adjusted to modern life. Put him in bottle-chunk glasses, and a
three-piece suit (for class). Fail to remove the hanger from the jacket, so as
he has a hunch. Remind him young people today don’t know they’re born, consider
baggy trousers and cuss-word-
music cool and
stylish; give him a large tub of Brylcreem and tell him to go wild. COUNT
ARTHUR STRONG would be the end result. A man incapable of speaking coherently –
i.e. lucidly following one idea with one where both a logical leap and accurate
grammar are evident – but determined to give it a go. Today’s mini-lecture is
on his old ‘matinee idol’ Hammer Horror days. He shouts – at us and himself.
“So this is Dracula’s Cattle… Kettle… Some people say kettle – that’s not
right.” Words become discombobulated. He becomes confused. There is more
shouting. “I go home to Balmoral. Empty half the year – someone’s got to live
there.” Count Arthur Strong is character comedy at its most finely drawn;
making much from a glorious command of English and our attention. (Indeed. He
even made me laugh once or twice.) I’m still unsure as to whether he was on
better form here than when I saw him in Edinburgh… or whether he is easier to
cope with in small slices and in a room not soporifically warm[12].
Especially when not hurling wooden spoons about the place with snapping force…
And following that, a man who genuinely
doesn’t have an idea where his mouth and mind are going – EDDIE IZZARD. Who, of
everyone performing tonight, is the least cohesive, the comedian who doesn’t
seem to have a clear idea of what exactly it is he wants to say. And of course,
by nature of his Izzardness, the one the most readily forgiven. Even Eddie at
half-power is still Eddie. And there are jokes in there. Somewhere. “Paedophilia…I
never thought being a transvestite would be a safe haven.” He quizzes the
audience on the intricacies of prejudicial reporting – do we know if there’s a
rule preventing the naming of suspected criminals until trial? – and society’s
double-standards regarding paedophilia – if Roman 
Polanski’s
conquest was consensual, if there not a vital difference? “This is not really a
gig, these are just questions.” He distracts himself from this topic, takes in
the sign behind him. “The Royal Bank of Scotland said ‘Yes, we’ll come in and
sponsor it, so’s long as our logo can be 3 degrees off from the horizontal’.”
Then a thought occurs to him: insurance money. Was there none? “What exactly
are we doing here Karen?” Eddie moves on to explaining the differences between
acting and stand-up: “It’s the fatness of the laughter that’s good in comedy,
it’s the fullness of the silence in drama.” (Plus you can’t just pull a face if
things are going badly in a feature film.) And then (possibly there was a link
but I didn’t think to write it down) Saddam Hussein: “Eleven years since the
Gulf War – if he hasn’t buried the chemical weapons by now he’s a dickhead.” He
treads on one of the guitar pedals by the front of the stage. “Bit of waah-waah
on that joke.” Ponders how you can find an ‘empty’ chemical weapon. (Would they
be in cupboards?) Suggests the creation of a World Federation to eliminate the
unrest caused by gross inequalities, points out the likelihood of continued
terrorism while people starve and die unaided, and then starts talking about
the invention of fire. How grateful people were to eat something other than
salad. How careful they had to be with such a dangerous medium: it could “burn
down caves…well, not caves, but…” How proud the first stick-spark generator would
have been. “I did it earlier, I invented something. I’m going to call it OW.”
And to finish, a swift musing on the nature of religion[13].
(Such is his way.) The presence of Jesus in all major belief systems – as a
prophet, if not the son of the one true God – and the founder of Buddhism being
called Siddharta. Or Sid Arthur. Which makes him the most Cockney geezer of
religious leaders: “Be lucky!”
“I’ve been over-rated by all manner of people
– Perrier panellists, journalists, and the people who sorted out the running
order.” Ah DANIEL KITSON. How we do love thee. For your self-deprecation in the
face of adoration, for your way with words, for your continued attachment to
the beard. (“Paedophilia – I’m not… I just like the look.”) Few other comedians
would choose to wear a large brown jumper on such a night, in 
such a venue,
before such a crowd. Still fewer would draw attention to it, decide it was a
mistake under these lights, and attempt to remove it while still talking,
manoeuvring the mike between different arms[14]
as they are variously extricated. He succeeds, and hangs the article from his
mike-stand. There is applause. “Don’t do that. I’m not retarded.”
He may not think he deserved the Perrier. But
recognition – if not an award reward – was due. Some comics have funny
material, some comedians are funny. Daniel Kitson can stand onstage,
just chat about what he’s been doing for the last few weeks, and make a room
full of people laugh without relying on material that he wrote eight months ago[15].
But in a way which generally ends with the excitable re-teller fumbling for the
phrase ‘you had to be there’. Par exemple. Recently he found himself in
Bristol, scratting around for something anything to fill the time, and ended up
going to see ‘The Santa Clause 2’; despite his scruffy bearded lone-male
status, and tendency to stock up on sweets. The last benefit gig he did was for
a torture charity – against, not for (“we need a new rack!”) But he has even
done one at the London Palladium. A far bigger room than this. “You wouldn’t be
allowed a flying car in here, we’d have to leave and all listen through the
stage door.” Kitson ends with a tale of a recent Comedy Store horror-heckler
(who couldn’t even be hugged into quietude): “I said to him ‘you’re a bit of a
cunt’ – cos I’m quite witty when pressed”. And then he’s off. “It’s been a real
pleasure to be out of my depth on this bill. This is a doozy.”
Arthur Smith returns. Makes me laugh:
“Whatever happened to white dog-shit? …The only white dog-shit you see these days
is Leeds Utd.” Leaves.
And to finish, the masterful BILL BAILEY.
“Three blind mice go into a pub, but they are unaware of their surroundings, so
to derive humour from it would be exploitative.” He talks us through the
peculiar questions set by airline authorities, demanding to know whether
passengers are carrying bees (how do you smuggle a hive through customs?), if
they were ever a member of the Nazi government, or belong to a terrorist
organisation. “I’m in the Axis of Evil, but I’m just a receptionist.” He
replays a scene from his recent car-hiring exploits, while trying to ascertain
exactly what freakish conditions constitute an Act of God (how high the
rainfall?) and invalidate his insurance. He makes a salient point about Dubya’s
seeming inability to speak, and then rams the message home (“please dot not
feed the terrorists”) with a Drum ‘N’ Bush keyboard-sample extravaganza.
And then things get really peculiar.
The stage-curtain
is lifted to reveal a backing-band, and The Actor Kevin Eldon[16]
emerges from the wings to sing the praises [lit.] of Joe Strummer, punk
bile-spitting [fig.] and leaping as one ought. For their rollicking version of ‘Teenage
Kicks’ – “our tribute to Matthew Kelly” – the entire cast wander out onstage,
for a ‘Live Aid’ –esque uncomfortable sing-along situation. A spangly Karen
Koren comes up onstage to say a few words, to thank us, to explain about the
insurance, but is constantly interrupted. By Ross Noble: “she smells of
paraffin!” By Arthur Smith: “which one of us have you slept with then Karen?”
(Ross and Nick Wilty attempt to creep off the stage.) By Steve Frost giving her
a tenner. By Brendon Burns: “do a cunt joke, people love them”. She promises
the return of the Balloon. And relinquishes microphone duties to Kevin once
more.
…And so it comes to pass that the night ends
on ‘Bring Me Sunshine’. Vocals by Kevin Eldon, guitar by Bill Bailey, keyboards
courtesy of Steve Frost and John Otway on the theramin, with backing vocals
from Nick Wilty, Ross Noble[17],
Stephen K. Amos, and Eddie Izzard, who finish the song can-can-ing across the
back of the stage…
Last revised: 30/01/03