Alexandra Haddow / Mark Nelson / Alfie Brown - Bobby Carroll's Fringe Diary

Written by: Bobby Carroll
Published: Friday 9th August 2024

The final bitchy swipe of the exiting Tory party would appear to be the unlikely sight of Rishi kicking many a political comedian's ball over the wall as he buggered off. By a redundantly incompetent Conservatives losing a July snap election, entire baddie bashing comedy shows have had to be rewritten hastily within a month. The downside of this is a few stand-ups seem happy to tar Starmer's new cabinet with the out of touch ineptitude and craven corruption we have suffered under successive Conservative leaderships for naive laughs. And, few unsolvable issues aside, that just isn't ringing true at the moment. You only have to look at the race riots this weekend to see there's a vocal fascist portion of society who no longer feel lip service is being paid to their vile prejudices. Even if satirising politics is your bread and butter, trying to make out it is still billionaire business as usual, now we have proven experienced adults back looking after the country's best interests, comes across as petulant grift.

Luckily after Alexandra Haddow sets out a common-sense party-political broadcast of her own (2 quid pints, 3 quid sarnies), she careens away into self-involved anecdotes of trying ecstasy in her thirties and considering a threesome. A sex and drugs positive show that is as oft concerned over kitchen fittings and en suite bathrooms, Third Party plays very much like a casual flick through The Guardian's Lifestyle supplement. The political content is popped down the side of the couch with the best intentions of being revisited when she isn't trying to keep up a horny rhythm to Radio 6's eclectic playlist. Sunday mornings, eh?

The hour doesn't fully marry the "fuck it" attitude experiment with the topical stuff that brackets the piece. Haddow manages to find a victorious moment of financial rebellion to end the show on a high and I think this might really fly over 90 minutes. 55 is a little restrictive to all the disparate content here plus having to be funny.

Mark Nelson's Getting Better Man is (allegedly) motored by a desire to highlight the improvements the successful Scottish stand-up has surveyed over his 15 years at the Fringe. He walks on dressed like a Reservoir Dog. The funereal dress code might suggest death or rebirth of his old no nonsense / no prisoners persona. But all it really is, is a visual tee up for a cheeky wank gag. Nelson is going to go at us hard and nasty just like always. Good for him. Few can do what he does these days with such a conspiratorial elegance. He is very much The Daddy of the current Scottish comedy scene.

The first half is ruthlessly quickfire, very effective. An assemblage of his finest circuit / TwitterX / radio appearance topical gags from the past six months. Again, a few about Labour not being massively different than the Tories already feel a little past ripe... And many of us, the nerdy types who attend arts festivals, genuinely don't define ourselves by a nation's football team (or even the construct of nationality) but Nelson does... And this is very much his hour so he can tag us however the fuck he pleases to get to his material. There's some crowd pleasingly fresh stuff about assassinations which equally could rub up your visiting MAGA tourist the wrong way.

Nelson hits on a juicy metaphor about sloths that could, should and will be mined further. He really lights up when he talks about his son and their fantastic shared summer at the Euros, gigs and bonding over pettiness. He is still mercenary in his pursuit of big bastard laughs in these sunny spots but the warmth rubs like the genuine article.

The big swizz is there is no real marked improvement as Nelson revels in a great July of bitterness. The title is a sham... an excuse to wink at his love of both The Beatles and the Gallaghers. I saw the hour at the foreplay of the festival so it will almost assuredly take more definitive shape. He talks of wanting to escape the Hive nightclub's sweaty bunker and play one road over in the Monkey Barrel's "award winning" rooms... and from this confession comes a lovely motif. Pointing it out when he tosses off a chunk of deft writing with a sophistication and a pathos that feels out of place in the tangy meat market venue he is annually assigned.

Nobody doubts Nelson's rare abilities as a man-and-mic all-rounder. I wouldn't want to lose the walloping two fisted circuit bruiser who can wring laughs out of a wife mandated shit over in Aldi. That's the refinements I truly care about, the story arc that doesn't need any artificial moulding. I want my Mark Nelson to abrasively charm an audience with his looming Cheshire Cat grin plastered across his beaming face. I want him regaling us with a mucky flight of fantasy that spins out from a 1997 back row of the Odeon blowey. No improvements necessary!

Michael Odewale's Of Mike And Men feels equally as unpolished and in no bad way. A lot of comedians power serve gag after gag. Odewale tosses them back over to us like lucky slices across the net. He shows his workings without concern. If a gag is off topic he'll introduce it with a "I don't really give a shit" shrug. Strong concepts tail off halfway through the punch. If he's landed the laugh, who cares about the punctuation? He self-edits his future setlists aloud and pretty much everything wobbly gets an affectionate pass and lives to fight another day. Sounds like criticism? Nah. He had me locked in and seduced from the start. Here is a human born to be a stand-up. The joy is in the laidback looseness.

How do you navigate a conspiracy theorist driving instructor and the homophobia of your barber without ending up with no licence and half a haircut? Why is his ex suggesting he gets tested for autism at 2 in the A.M.? Can you survive private school as the only black kid or a shit school when there are no places left where you'll fit in? Odewale gently interrogates himself with his tasty, bespoke mini-routines. He shows vulnerability with an unabashed charm. He doesn't care massively about being cool or alpha. His alone time is self-care and he talks without shame about wetting the bed as a kid and living with his mum. A slacker who doesn't need to maintain status is about as cool as comedy gets. I might just have new low key, naturally hilarious favourite here.

Want a story told with a tender grip and an emotional pull? Kiri Pritchard-McLean's new touring show Peacock is a masterclass of virtue signalling without skipping over the big around the room laughs. She looks resplendent in a shimmering blue sequin jumpsuit and cape.

She stays fixed front and centre to tell us her latest tale of awkward judgments and professional parenting and we all match that calm focus... being glued to our seats for the full runtime. She regales us with pitch perfect details, incidents and characters. There is no need to divert into observational routines or whimsy. The final 10 minutes might just be the most gripping storytelling cliffhanger ever committed on stage at the Fringe. I'm no softie but I had tears in my eyes by the resolution. If you value your comedian with pure funny bones who walks the walk as much as they talk the talk then Kiri is your woman. Her actions speak louder than many "political" comedians' hack takes.

Back on stage and in his element, Alfie Brown has that old canny mischief back in his eyes. He is saying unsayable things again. He is saying them with that simple totalitarian eloquence again. The Black Mirror logic of his contrary controversies are like steel traps. Again.

Has he been humbled? Cowed? Are his knees bloody from grovelling for our acceptance? No. Growth? Any sensitivity and inherent decency was already there. The ultimate point of any of Brown's incendiary transgressions has always been to obliterate a hypocrisy for the side of good.

Does Brown broach his rejection by much of the comedy community in Open Hearted Human Enquiry? Does he rake over the focussed campaign to silence his voice and destroy his livelihood? Yes. Eventually. The stand-up teases us at first with setting out his stall for the uninitiated and a trip to Center Parcs with his family that proves the longest way around to the elephant in the room. This well constructed pre-amble is the most assured, deliciously coiled portion of the show. Empathy, babyccino rants and the one group it is OK to currently attack are rounded up with his masterful craft. A man just relishing being back on his old familiar turf. Everything said, though, is pregnant with the subtext that Brown has been through the wringer after he was targeted with accusations of racism.

Should we judge comedy on the language used or the ultimate intent? What is art out of context? And who should defend you if you pick the wrong fight? Turns out... barely anybody. Do we feel confident making any transgressive joke knowing that many peers will pile on, stay silent or just pray it never happens to them? Brown jabs at these topics while giving his considered side of the grim saga. Leaving the show, I pondered how many comedians have rethought risky material since The Passion of the Alfie Brown? The line moved in terms of what is acceptable, anyone who walks the high wire of bad taste could find that bar retroactively moved again on them. Not just over racist language said within the "inverted commas" of a comedy routine.

Of course, Brown has all manner of deeply wounding confessions and revelations. He fights his corner while beating himself up. Endures personal tragedies with minimal "poor me" and dwindling support. There is occasional bitterness here. The nepo baby tag obviously rankles. This is probably the only short section that does feel like petty point scoring on his part over chiselled deeply felt disclosure and erudite defiance.

What will probably attract most is a degree of morbid curiosity. Brown clearly considers certain bridges in the industry burnt. So he sets the river on fire between him and cowardly past collaborators. Some he forgives with backhanded grace, others get cold, calm inarguable fury. If you want the tea spilt about the double standards of the arts industry gatekeepers, those who once championed him, then you'll get bitchy moral high ground insight. If you came to see if his "cancellation" has driven him into the arms of the lucrative right-wing rent-a-gob market you'll be sorely disappointed.

Brown clearly has more than 55 minutes of karmic violence to autopsy in his lushly smug, superior metier. He is trying to get his words correct. This is the first airing these raw, traumatic emotions have ever had aloud. He spends much of the extra time, long past the scheduled end, bent over his detailed notes, in a cumbersome orange folder, like an embattled Lenny Bruce reciting court transcripts. It is quite the apt image. Here is a show I plan to revisit at the end of the run. I believe in redemption. I believe in Alfie Brown.