This woman saw me in Belsize Park in July. She walked out, cuz I was boring, then went home and added a long diatribe about my set on her website. It’s some girl site warning other girls about the evils of homeopathy and, apparently, me.
‘He reminded me of a saddo in a dirty raincoat getting off on revealing his willy to an unsuspecting crowd, whose unappreciative reaction makes him want to jerk off even harder.’
I know. If only. This quote makes my set seem MUCH sexier than it is.
She then compares me to Bernard Manning, and mentions that at least Manning was funny sometimes. Was he really? So her brand of humor relies on unvarnished racism. Why do people decide on the night they go out to comedy, THAT’S the night they’re going to be offended? Why don’t they stay home and nurse their intolerance?
Her site is Skepticat UK. I think. Be warned though, she wouldn’t know a punchline if it raped her. Or maybe she’d thank it. Which is just one more inappropriate response, but not her first.
x
Just did a show in Oslo. That’s Norway, for those of you who live outside of London. Anyway, it was gorgeous, the green room had snacks and the comics were given drink tickets. We were even offered the internet, if we wanted to behave like real people. I felt like a prince(ss) and now I can’t wait to go back.
Oh, forgot the best part. The audience was well behaved, applauding my set ups and responded ONLY when spoken to. There were even two beautiful blond lesbians in the front row, holding hands. Real lesbians, not drunken desperate housewives from Kent.
I was also paid. For a 15 minute drop in set. Maybe I’ll move to Oslo, but I have to remember – I was new. And I can get old very fast.
Magnus Betner. Swedish comic, got me the gig. He’s playing London a lot these days. See him. Google him. Whatever. He’s hot and smart, so not unlike a lot of comics in the UK, except for the hot part.
Here’s the review from Chortle for my chat show, which appeared during its maiden run at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. The new run, starting October 1, will be even more exciting. This review fills you in, come see it, I like the show. The new line up will appear on my site soon.
If any chat show is only as good as its guests, Scott Capurro’s new live venture looks promising indeed, with the likes of Ken Livingstone, Julian Clary, Brain Paddick and Graham Norton all lined up to join him at South London’s Royal Vauxhall Tavern.
But guests are only half the equation, and Capurro wouldn’t perhaps be most commissioning editors’ first choice as host, particularly when causing offence is a paralysing fear. Not only is his stand-up act so thoroughly filthy that he’d make the pre-Sachsgate Jonathan Ross look like Mother Theresa’s maiden aunt, but also his persona is so narcissistically self-centred that you’d think it would be well nigh impossible for anyone else to get a word in edgeways.
It turns out that he can be generous with the limelight, and in conversation with Jo Caulfield prompted plenty of anecdotes about her family – especially her brother the Catholic priest (cue lots of sniggering paedophile gags) – and opinions on the perceptions of female stand-up. This opening segment was amicable and moderately entertaining, but with his lascivious wit neutered, there was little to separate Capurro from any other attentive and confident interviewer.
In the second section, all changed. As Capurro interviewed cabaret artist Dickie Beau – following his mesmerising and moving turn lip-synching to a tragi-comic interview with a drunkenly defiant Judy Garland – the tables were turned as the host did more talking than his subject. We learned much about Capurro’s hang-ups, family and relationships – all told with the deliciously biting wit for which he is rightly known, but the talk-show aspect was all-but forgotten as the catty San Franciscan held court.
The balance was better with Jerry Springer: The Opera composer Richard Thomas – not a natural on stage but clearly an interesting interviewee, and the devilish star of that controversial production, David Bedella, who sang powerfully but gave nothing away in conversation.
In the final section came the man most had surely come to see: Graham Norton, hotfooting it from his changing room in La Cage Aux Folles. Waiting for him to travel in from the West End made for a long night – but the wait was worth it, as the ever-charming Irishman proved as cheekily entertaining as an interviewee as he is as an interviewer, regaling the audience with his impishly indiscreet showbiz confessions and pithily expressed opinions on the nature of his job.
The banter here flowed the easiest it had all night; with the well-matched Capurro and Norton batting the conversation back and forth like Forrest Gump playing ping-pong. This might have been Capurro’s first bash at a talk show, but by the end he had found his feet.
The Royal Vauxhall Tavern, however, might not have been the best choice of venue for such an experiment. Much of the well-lubricated audience at this predominantly gay bar, perhaps more used to seeing rambunctious cabaret here, found it difficult to keep schtum, proving distracting at best, disruptive at worst.
But maybe they – like Capurro himself – haven’t yet had time to quite adjust to the mechanics of this format.
Reviewed by: Steve Bennett
March 19, 2009
hey everyone, i’m blogging now. well, actually i’m watching agatha christie, and eating gluten free flakes, whilst blogging. so i’m both boring AND blogging.
had a gig last night in northampton, which i’m probably misspelling. i went on first, not a good spot for me, i’m a bit tall and slightly terrifying, apparently. the lesbian enjoyed me, but the couples seemed to think it was a seminar. it felt a bit like work. but i’m so fragile lately, everything feels like a bit of a struggle. my mom’s death, on march 1, has been on my mind so much. i had a respite from the grief for a few weeks in the summer, when i was busy and traveling. i’ve had a bit of time on my hands in the last couple of weeks, which i usually enjoy, but instead i’ve been feeling the intense sadness of the infiniteness of her death. we’ll never talk again. it feels desperate.
dancing girls. agatha christie. gotta go. x
