Stephen Catling / William Thompson / Mitch Benn - Bobby Carroll's Glasgow Comedy Diary: Day 2

Written by: Bobby Carroll
Published: Wednesday 26th March 2025

Oh, charity shop donation bag of the apocalypse, what comedy manna do you portend? Nothing gives me a back row semi more than seeing an unknown comedian walk on stage with a big hold-all and start dumping out props and costumes about the gaff. Could be a faded supermarket bag for life, an army backpack or a canvas sack. I know, deep in my curious heart of hearts, when I see the tell-tale bin bag, whatever is about to happen will be memorable. Sectionable, possibly, but memorable none the less.

Stephen Catling has a carry-on suitcase full of 'aids de laughter'. Mucky masks, stained cuddly toys, musty sex toys, instant coffee and a Bluetooth speaker. He confesses he often ends shows covered in sticky liquids which at least explains why his cargo of car boot sale mirth looks quite so dishevelled. Thankfully by the end of this year's hour there is no splash zone, only an unkempt beard spattered with warm whole fat milk droplets.

He then leaves. The show proper fires up from the back of the bar. Catling walks on stage very slowly to bombastic music wearing an oppressive rubber yellow slug mask shouting muffled lines. When he finally reaches the mic we are gifted a serving of slug themed gags. While also showing his workings about artistic choices he has made, like little italic footnotes. And that is par for the course for the hour entire. Props. Weirdness. Recycled movie themes blasting out. Asides about the back room thinking. Pain. Anguish. At one point he scrolls through his notes app using his nose as stylus, his back to us, his hands covered with two oversized crusty owl mittens. One is missing an eye.

It is three parts anti-comedy. Two parts outsider art. Catling is proudly autistic. There is enough self-awareness, inspiration and critical thinking that we, the audience, know we are laughing with him rather than at him. It is unwaveringly chaotic, take-it-or-leave-it anarchy, though.

The lack of slickness and authorial restraint in Catling's Moving On (Really Really Slowly) can be uncomfortable at times. There are two real life break ups constantly alluded to here between set pieces that we never really get a narrative fix on. One clearly was abusive and wounding to Catling while the other is too recent and too fresh to be processed on-stage, unscripted. The introduction of a worn-out fleshlight with googly eyes stuck on it doesn't really deserve the time devoted to it. A lot of verbal admin while it flops around sadly in his hand, distractingly. More assured prop comics like Spencer Jones are like rollercoasters. They strap you into a thrill ride with a confidence and masterful level of control. With Catling, you are let loose within his mind for an hour without rails or safety harnesses. The ride is a bucking bronco of surrealism and scruffiness. You just have to lock your legs around it and enjoy. Raw, puerile, awkward but informed by fuzzy intent.

Almost the polar opposite to the above is (What's The Story) Chris And Ruaridh?. Two promising acts still in their comedy career adolescence, sharing an hour. They have both already figured out who they are, what works for them. Can do a paid 20 quite consistently but probably aren't making a living from performing... Yet. Both are tall, good-looking spuds. Sharp writing, practiced timing and intelligent editing have chiselled down their routines with showcase precision. Is what they do life changing or mind altering? No. But I wouldn't want to be the whimsy merchant who went up against either of these serious contenders in a new act competition final.

Chris Rutter is mercenary in his honed, defined technique. He clearly likes to take a topic and then apply an almost corporate training session logic to breaking it down. Stag-do holidays are blitzed into a military campaign with all the incongruous jargon and acronyms. A tale of a fire at a fish finger factory that employed his hometown's population is callously made light of. The fallout from his dad's affair causes more admin problems than emotional trauma. Things peak with a winning bit of disgust over the realities of snogging.

A human whetstone, Rutter smooths his creativity down to the sharpest edge. He betrays no qualms about punching down, he is permanently superior, unblinkingly dry. An effective armour that will see him survive any gig. There are also palpable Ricky Gervais vibes. Does he have anything deep to say? Not currently, but he has assembled a toolkit that could take him to some very profitable places if the right people see him. I wonder if Gervais is looking for a ghostwriter for his next tour?

A tad jollier and less buttoned up, Ruaridh Miller is equally buffeted by precision control of his material. At least to start. His opening routine about his webbed toes leaves little space for anything but laughter. A deconstruction of a daft Daily Star headline has that similar Gervais-esque snark. Then things evolve. The writing is still tight but more and more natural charisma enters the chat. His long form stuff on content warnings before movies and, especially, the Polish bear with a war memorial statue in Princes Street Gardens, seem driven as much by voice as strong writing. Old school acts used to say "A comic says funny things. A comedian says things funny." I've seen this hoary definition attributed to Ed Wynn, Bob Newhart and Mort Sahl over the years. In his 25 minutes set Miller evolved before my eyes from comic to comedian.

Just around the corner from the bus station, down an anonymous poorly lit stairwell, just before a dead-end alley, The Flying Duck is an underground nightclub that feels like it hasn't been inhabited by humanoids since before William Thompson was born. He packs it out with Northern Irish locals and Glaswegians who aren't scared of a bit of sectarian savvy. It ain't exactly the Union Bar on an Old Firm derby day, but the electric energy that fills the undivided room was fantastic. A vibe that even bigger sold out shows around the festival might struggle to harness.

Thompson's hour Scumbag Millionaire is all about how he spunked away a thirty grand inheritance within a year in his early twenties. This is Brewster's Millions with a Belfast estate grittiness. Asda shift patterns don't fit into too many other tales of big buck decadence. A natural on-stage, Thompson shares more than just the doppelgänger look of Scouse success story Adam Rowe... He has an equally heavy impact, savvy hit rate and audience connection of the more established act. There also is soupçon of Jamie Hutchinson's shameless confessional style too. Thompson showcased everything a stand-up needs to go all the way in the live arena.

Thompson also generously allowed pal and up-and-comer Jordan Robinson 10 minutes up front to win over his growing fan base. Robinson is another NI act who dresses like a Sports Direct has set up an outlet store in his wardrobe. He suffers from involuntary body tremors and is probably the only Protestant bisexual member of his mainly Catholic hurling team. He knew how to get an audience with him double quick, even if his opening lines about Michael J Fox and Jenga are old hat. I'm going to take a wild guess that on the North of the Border circuit, where 'certain prejudices' are more pronounced, evidencing you can get a round-the-room laugh straightaway is even more important than wowing comedy critics with originality. Once we got past proving he can 'do the do', everything that followed was deliciously brutal yet surprisingly personable. Robinson will go the distance too. The manly, no-nonsense force with which both lads played the eager room was inspiring.

Still in the time warp bunker of The Flying Duck, the glorious Mitch Benn comes on stage 10 minutes later booming and the beautiful volume doesn't relent until he makes his point over an hour later. What is the point? What is this revived touring show The Point? A potted history of comedy and an examination of its power for good. As you'd expect from Benn, it is intelligent, meticulously researched and classy. Not so much meta as a state of the nation address on the artwork he has made his stock and trade since 1995.

We peak early with a jam packed We Didn't Start The Fire style rap, skipping through the pioneers of humour from the Ancient Greeks to the 80s alternative boom. The inevitable musical rebuttals to whiny "cancelled" comics and Trump's latest blusters. A heartfelt tribute to Lenny Henry and a self-aware answer song directed at those of us who have prejudices against musical comedians. Benn is in fine fettle. Keeps his foot hard on the pedal in more ways than one. His pitch perfect skill at accents and battle hardened ability to convert any room into a great gig shine through. After 30 years in comedy, with enviable and deserved successes to show for them, would it be too greedy for us comedy fans to ask for another three decades of service from this live gig virtuoso?

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