So a couple of weeks ago I’m doing my schtick, and some dickhead stands up and demands I stop, etc. In Bath of all places. Usually they’re very well-behaved there, it’s posh, and they’re white and worried. But I think I was rattling on and on about the Muslims, as one does. Isn’t that what they want, the radicals, with all their attention-seeking missles? Anyway, this big dumb fuck gets nervous I suppose, and very concerned about a lot of people he’ll never ever meet or even piss on really, and he yelps that he finds me offensive, blah blah blah and eventually his girlfriend yanks him out of the club. I don’t know what he thought I’d do. Stop? Yeah, right. I just let him dig his own hole. He went home to beat his fists into a wall, and I stayed on stage and told more nasty gags. I love it when I win.
When I heard from the booker that the show had been reviewed, I choked on my fancy metaphors, but when I read the article by Melissa Blease, I found it sharp and brave and I think it represents a large element of my work quite well.
I’m posting this so when you come to see me this Saturday at the Machester Comedy Festival, you’ll know what to expect. This way, your dumb ass boyfriend might not embarrass you. Or maybe he will, which, frankly, makes for better comedy.
…But the evening belonged to Scott Capurro – a whippet thin, razor tongued acid queen with an on-stage persona as venomous as a viper, specialising in brutally honest, fully frank observations on chattering class taboos. No subject – from Maddie to Muslims, Catholics to the clitoris, paedophilia, racism and bombing Iran – is sacred. The unease in the room is often palpable; the punchlines hit so hard you can almost taste the blood that oozes from Capurro’s victims, many of whom are unsuspecting audience members who dare to sit within easy reach of the predator. One such punter vocalises his appalled protest; more fool the man who takes on the Wicked Witch of the West Coast and expects to leave with his red shoes intact. “It’s always the middle class white liberals, isn’t it?” Capurro sneers, in his wake. “He’s gone home to beat his wife up”. Meanwhile, those of us strong enough to stay the course were richly rewarded, our illicit guilty pleasure buttons pushed to the limits. We climaxed when a finger puppet show explored the dynamics of a new gay relationship, from giggling along with “I wuv you, kissy kissy” to wriggling apprehensively as the desolate sobs that emanate from “I’m going to fuck you ‘til you bleed” filled the room. Distasteful? Come on, bitch – you know you want it.
FIVE STARS