John Kearns / Stuart McPherson / Judi Love - Bobby Carroll's Comedy Diary

Written by: Bobby Carroll
Published: Tuesday 13th June 2023

A revelation: I'm just not that into telly comedy anymore. People talk to me about Taskmaster. Or Ghosts. Or Ted Lasso. And I realise I'm completely out of the loop. What was the last TV comedy show I got into. This Country? Cunk On...? Does Mortimer & Whitehouse: Gone Fishing count? Probably not. Even then those three... Quite belated, quite passively. I need that live fix. I need to be in the room. The screen... Knowing a fair bit about how the sausage is made... The personalities of "the personalities" offstage... Cannot connect. I disengage from it.

When John Kearns warns his full room on a balmy Tuesday night that those who only know him from Taskmaster might be in for a rough hour it hooks my curiosity. What exactly was he up to on the Dave [Editor note: Taskmaster is actually now on Channel 4] show? But I would counter part of what makes Kearns in the flesh so special is he does, initially, baffle you.

I didn't get my head around him the first few times I saw him on the London open mic grind. And I think what tipped him for me during his breakthrough Fringe year was only the fact I was on an awards panel and watched that hour twice. And seeing the lack of grift, the sincerity of his risks, for a second time within a month, after a lot of self-serving dross and calculated formula hours, unlocked the Kearns experience for me. I didn't just warm to it, I didn't just appreciate it, I loved it. I think I even mumbled a shell shocked "thank you" to him as I filed out with the baked August crowd. Those two words probably should have been a more eloquent apology. I was sorry I had gotten him so wrong, frustrated with myself that it took me so many bites to find the juice.

We are a decade down the line and Kearns is still tied to the wig and the teeth. Straining against the caricature he drapes himself in. At one point the rubber teeth pop loose and he catches them with the seasoned dexterity of a hand working a factory conveyor belt. At another point he drops the weirdly grubby friar's wig to the floor. Then tells us if he was a bigger draw, he'd use the budget to install a remote control and wheels, to have the headpiece drive itself offstage in a theatrical flourish. And just by telling us his grand dreams we laugh as if the motorized miracle has happened.

I tried to explain to a friend who I was going to see the afternoon before. Eventually I gave up and showed him a Google image search. He saw the teeth and the wig and asked, "Is he a weirdo?" I mulled the question over. "Sometimes, but he's really true, really honest." I guess if I was talking to somebody who might get both references, I'd have said "He's like an early Vic Reeves sketch creation performing The Diary Of A Nobody."

Take, if you will, the stand-out routine in Varnishing Days, where he describes the laughter of his child as he watches dad showering himself. There is a magic to the escalations. In his eyes, as he works all the eventualities out, there's a sincere passion. I can't think of that many times over my decades in comedy where I've seen genuine adoration fuel a scripted routine from a comedian. Here's an act who knows he is spinning more than just comedy gold. Then after the descriptions and surreal inflations have risen to a crescendo, he lets us behind the curtain. Presses play on 'the making of' DVD extra, awakens us with a hard dose of reality. Plonks us in a chain coffee shop in front of his laptop as he awkwardly types the memory out. We feel his embarrassment of nailing it down long form in the mundane public, then a new distraction arrives and we're off again...

That Watching Dad Showering Himself set piece isn't just fantastic, it is one of the rare occasions he deep drills into an idea. Kearns is quite happy repeating curious statements for prominence but rarely drives an idea home, walks it up the path and kisses it on the doorstep. He trusts his audience just enough to make the leap once he casts the suggestion of a fruity image. We can join the dots, finish the image for him. Comedy inception. He is emphatic to the fact that enough of the audience is on his strange wavelength. Most other acts would have tugged at his thoughts to breaking point, rinsing them into 10-minute bits. Would any other have the skill to leave the joke open and still get the laugh?

There's glorious stuff throughout; the aged turtle who hasn't played his part as an observer of human history, Marco Pierre White's cooking masterclass, the 'mainstream' bin bag observation. He undercuts that small scale, big returns gag by suggesting he'd have a far easier career if he had 69 more minutes like that every tour. Please never let that happen. I crave Kearns' fears, hopes, distractions. The wig. The teeth. The immaculate white Oxford shirts. The stretched out, incredulous fake estuary accent. The armour, the honesty.

He's prolific. Most topics don't end so much as they are misplaced. Usurped by the next unlikely flowing thought. Stories left in the air, practiced streams of consciousness, you are never sure what will be revisited later. Don't you want your comedy as agile as Kearns' rare brain?

His support at the Monkey Barrel that night was Scotland's Stuart McPherson. He essayed who he was and what he was all about punctually with an opening anecdote about a cafe job that lasted less than a shift. He's full of foibles but he fits in with a world populated by fuck-ups.

Then we take in his recent break-up followed by a bit of depressed snooker. He's his own man for sure but there were neat glimmers of Jon Richardson and James Acaster in his stage persona. He's confident, the audience will like what he has to say and I was laughing early doors. His aside about a GP visit that did nothing to set his mind at ease climaxed on a spicy punchline. There's an unmannered louche aura to him that really turns the head.

A lot of these random bits are flagged up as McPherson's latest building blocks to his next Fringe show. There's a granite obelisk of a call back that I'll reckon he'll move to the finale currently lingering around the middle of what he aired out to the buzzing crowd. If this persuasive if erratically sequenced twenty is any sign of the quality of his August show then we are due a treasure. Book now. I'm all in - he is the kinda comedian who makes you excited to watch live comedy. Conspiratorial, in the moment, unguarded, accessible.

That Fringe hour is going to be something special and I'll be watching it on August 6th, the date where I foolishly try and stay in one room and watch every show programmed over an entire day at Monkey Barrel 2. Wish me luck... but at least there's one slot where I now have zero risk that I might accidentally fall asleep during or be gritting my teeth throughout.

There's clearly an art to picking the right tour support for a big ticket act. Judi Love's Edinburgh date was at the grand Queen's Hall, a former chapel that resembles an oversized Georgian lecture theatre. The punters have come to see the famous guest and contestant from all the biggest TV shows first; stand-up comedy second. So, a well selected tour support might ease them in, get them primed for laughing. It is fair to say Love's opener struggled; not a death, but really made us feel the effort. Squandering early goodwill with a set that was abrasive, one note and whose attitude was coldly superior (give or take the occasional stutter). They ended their twenty by telling the 600 strong room of polite but awkward faces, "I'm getting paid either way, I hope you enjoy Judi Love." Yikes! Pick the bones out of that, Judi.

She fucking did though. Powering on stage with a dynamo of enthusiasm, filling the room with her physicality and knowing exactly how to prime the crowd for what she wanted to say. Here is an act who innately knows how to fill the high ceiling and long depths of an auditorium rather than stick in one spot at the centre of a massive stage and begrudgingly stick to her guns in terms of content.

Sure, Love often reaffirms values with a set that leans heavily into nostalgia, warmth and celebrity status. She isn't going to rock any comedy critics' world but they aren't the ones buying tickets. In terms of craft, she has figured out what works for her. Her first gambit has a magnificent act out where her mother's 48 year-old egg deals with a surprise visit from her father's lone, aged sperm. She constantly stirs the pot and keeps us from sticking to the bottom of the stewpot with a series of unlikely catchphrases; "Choom Choom", "British girl with a bit of spice" and, "How are my Christians doing now?".

That last one feels like essential punctuation to most routines as Judi Love on stage is 80% raw filth. Coarse, raunchy and vibing. I love me some filth, and let's be honest, the middle-class, white-dominated live comedy scene has all but worn a chastity belt over the last ten years. I think Love intentionally blitzkrieged the ageing, staid audience with unrestrained naughtiness. There's no point just giving them the tip. I'm pretty sure her regular appearances on daytime and evening TV didn't feature quite so many instances of her assuming the doggy style position.

Now if I were to be harsh then I probably should note that Love played to the loudest ladies in the room. Sometimes to the show's detriment. See the cringe moment when she activated a genuine Karen in a routine taking to task the Karen stereotype. A domineering Love handled the garbled outbursts in her stride; commanded her space. It didn't help though that the hour did drag in the second half with some stories getting stuck on repeat a little too often... but all in all out she's a memorable mainstream performer who in her best moment got barking, guttural Axel Foley laughs out of me.

I told my mum I was going to see her. She knew exactly who Judi Love was. From Loose Women, Strictly, Celebrity Masterchef. Maybe I'm not doing this job right if I'm not keeping up with what's on the box?

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