Is there a better way to start the day than to go and see Ian Smith? His show at the Monkey Barrel starts at 12.30 and the only problem is that it is a tough act to follow. You may not see a funnier show all day (note to self, change that to "...funnier show all year" after the festival).
Smith might have, by his own admission, one of the blandest names in the world, but what he lacks in nomenclature originality he more than makes up for in comic talent, a potent mix of observational humour and self-deprecation.
Actually maybe potent isn’t quite the right adjective. Smith starts by explaing that he was worried if he was going to have any material for this year’s show. His last show, which picked up an Edinburgh Comedy Award nomination, was about having a breakdown and going to Europe to crush a tank with his hairdresser. This year things were going too well for comedy.
And then he decided to have sperm test and discovered he had a low count. Only a million little wriggling tadpoles. Where else can a million be a low number, he asks incredulously. His show tells the story of how he dealt with this issue in typical idiosyncratic Smith fashion.
Yes of course there’s an anecdote about wanking on the NHS and the race against the clock to transport his sperm to the clinic on time (maybe the BBC should do a series about this an an alternative to Race Across the World) but Smith injects everything he says with original insights and distinctive wit.
He has a great knack for find the smallest thing and making it bigtime hilarious. Why, for example is “wrong time, wrong place” the worst thing that can happen? If you are in the wrong place early then you’ve still got time to get to the right place on time. Smith has the comic chops to make trivial molehills like this into comedy mountains.
Add to the mix a nightmare skiing anecdote (skiing seems to be a recurring motif this year) and a story about a gull with a steak knife menacing eaters (birds are another unlikely Fringe 2025 motif) and you’ve got a wonderful hour of unadulterated laughs.
As for his sperm count, that’s the ultimate fertile source for humour here. In the end he even tries casting a spell – kit bought from Amazon – to improve things. Does it work? I won’t say, but in Foot Spa Half Empty he certainly weaves some magic for his lunchtime audience (note to self, take out "lunchtime" after the festival).
Until August 24. Tickets and info here.
Picture by Matt Stronge
(note to self - remember to remove those annoying "note to self" bits in brackets).
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