Red Richardson / Kathleen Hughes / Andrew Maxwell - Bobby Carroll's Live Comedy Diary

Written by: Bobby Carroll
Published: Saturday 23rd November 2024

Red Richardson certainly makes it feel like a Friday night. Even more so his crowd. After a chatty warm up slot from Amy Matthews (excitingly relaxed, keenly toying) the interval is called. And it goes on forever. The bar staff of Monkey Barrel 1 are grafting but a contingent of Glaswegian away-dayers have pretty much monopolised one member of the drink slingers with lengthy orders of shots and shit chat. The knock on is that the orderly line of Edinburgh good boy locals get stuck in a single lane traffic jam. Richardson's punters are drinkers and some folk lucky enough to make the front of the line re-join again once the lights go down. Their once fresh pints long depleted. Someone canny among the staff decides the show ain't gonna start again unless it starts.

And who would want to miss a word of this? Richardson's opening salvo is thunderous. The shocking find in his sister's bedside drawer when he looks after her kids for a week will leave you vibrating. His ill-advised chlamydia test in a nightclub has the ring of truth and the rhythm of merciless editing. He marks himself out as our kind of cunt when he explores his reaction to Uber Exec class' chat settings.

That is ten minutes straight out of the gate that could command any room and penetrate even the most tequila hardened mind. And this show, Bugatti, a title that conjures up images of posters in an adolescent boy's wank den, is a bristling hour of circuit ready short work. There is no subtext, no manufactured emotions, little narrative connectivity. Like a Bugatti, it has a mercenary thrum of comedy horse power. Sexiness multiplied in a juvenile, testosterone soaked kind of way. Your Fin Taylor and Alfie Brown might use the same paintbox to create a big picture, Richardson is finger painting self-portraits with his hefty fists. There's no greater intent here than chiselled laughter.

It holds to a constant high standard. Richardson's Coke vs Pepsi musings are muckily conspiratorial. There is an on-the-money common sense assessment of Gandhi being a pacifist. He closes things up on the slightly overtrodden ground of a neighbourhood WhatsApp group. An hour in and it does the job. Those Glaswegians are getting restless, interruptive. The worst offender staggers off away from the audience in a moment of unintended good grace. Another dick, not part of her crew, tries to persuade the lady to rejoin the show. Hoping for chaos and disruption. The git. By the time she finds her bearings and tries to hone in on her seat Richardson is wrapping up on a high. There is no room in this sports car for drunk drivers. Richardson, a compact Matt Berry, fits perfectly behind the wheel of this custom built comedy machine. He races with a roar.

It is almost unheard of that I'll go to a comedy show and sit through the entire night wincing. Gilded Balloon's The Big Fab Comedy Show in Edinburgh did not put a foot wrong in terms of line-up. Their booking policy aims at a consistently exciting bill of acts. Ray Bradshaw, Rosco McClelland and Joe McTernan could headline any weekend club up the road so imagine being spoiled by having all three of them in the opening section? Just that bit more shiny and sparkly. And they tart up the already sumptuous Queens Hall with branded cut outs and misty neon pink gels.

Why did my face have a pained expression for two hours? Had someone really sucked the jam out of my doughnut? No. Turns out I was 24 hours away from my appendix bursting. So sorry if this write up has a bit less joy to it and concentrates on the cold hard facts.

I have only ever seen Kathleen Hughes in work-in-progress hours and new material slots previously. Here she brings her A Game to the concert venue's high ceiling and big stage. She reached parts of the room other acts struggled to engage and did it with a kitten heel back kick of flair. Her set feels very much like two grand final competition 10s welded together into a double whammy. Her approach is clean, clear sighted and clipped. I know she has more ambitious material within her but this was prime - the polish and the personality. The struggle to be a feminist in the arts while also making it on the property ladder; her bouts of depression that take in Whitney Houston and the Glencoe Massacre; the calories in a box of McNuggets as the ultimate meet-cute. Her undersell and quiet confidence vibing us along after some heavy hitters.

I have seen her do more literary, intellectual stuff and seen her messier. Clad in tartan, owning the big stage, the best of Bridget Christie or Gráinne Maguire shone out from within her. Just a lot more exacting and crowd-pleasing. I'm guessing the tables in the room who booked because they are patrons of the folk music and gentle alternative rock fare that usually finds a home at the Queens Hall were comforted by the affinity they shared with Hughes.

Of course, whether you are on the mailing list or saw the totalitarian poster campaign around town, it would have been our headliner who caught your eye. Andrew Maxwell - the pocket rocket with more comedy years under his belt than yer Da's seen Liam Neeson fillums. Edinburgh is as much a part of his journey as any other town and he cracks it open with insider knowledge. You've never seen "a bit of local to open the show" done with this level of wily insight.

He runs us through the shifting accents you'll meet as you make your way down Leith Walk and every single one lands with bang on target recognition. Voice work makes up a lot of sparkly eyed elder statesman Maxwell's humour these days. He has a lovely set piece about just how dominant the Leeds accent is whatever your ethnicity. And he isn't afraid to swerve hard into sectarianism. There's a cute little name dropping anecdote about dinky Irish president Michael D Higgins that he milks wonderfully. He could still pass for in his thirties but Maxwell represents a mode of comedy superstar that feels a few generations past. Sold purely on unaffected aplomb. Purposefully heavy footed and unapologetically meandering. Yeah, there is a far bit more gas in these less demanding ramp ups. Yet isn't it a cosy feeling to be taken over by a stand-up who doesn't care when the laughs aren't there, as he knows he will always get you back when he wants to? Andrew Maxwell will make you laugh, a lot, simple as.

Maybe not me, though, as any movement in my torso currently causes me agony. I'll be avoiding rib ticklers and belly laughs for at least a week. But if Gilded Balloon want to say The Big Fab Comedy Show ruptured Bobby Carroll's gut... well... the paperwork and a small part of me are currently at the Western General Hospital to prove their case.

For more from the Scottish comedy scene, subscribe to Bobby's Edinburgh Laughter Bulletin updates via SubStack.