The small room at the Tuxedo Cat is packed. Even allowing for a few of Warneke’s friends, roped in for media night, it’s an impressive turn-out. The crowd are not disappointed. The laugh count in this show is up there with some of the big name acts. Warnake is funny; proper laugh-out-loud funny.

In the intro he explains that Fact! will appeal to ‘ethnic hipsters’, ‘people who like cooking but not eating food’ and ‘people from the future’. There is a Dave Warneke for everyone, as demonstrated by the several life-sized cut-outs which adorn the stage.

As the title suggests, audiences will come away from Fact! with brand-new insights into life. On weekdays Warneke moonlights as a pub trivia host and it is his love for the absurd statistics of life which inspired this show. There’s something oddly nice about learning from comedy.

The highlight is a comment on festival shows using out-of-context grabs from reviews in promotion. To demonstrate his point Warneke proceeds to take funeral notices and the book of Genesis out of context, to hilarious effect.

Despite being only 21, this is Warneke’s third festival and it shows. This is polished and refined comedy. It’s not perfect but it is pretty damn good.

Dave Warnake is definitely one to watch.

As a trio comedy act, AoA have their onstage  interactions down pat, casually trading insults and beautifully harmonising. They are musically tight and their song craftsmanship is a delight, with an early highlight of the set being the impeccable generic blandness of their tribute to boy band love songs.

Other highlights tackle the holy trinity, advertising props, the language of love (and its translation issues), elderly home invaders and vehicular subwoofers. They even work in a keytar and a spoiler alert for the movie “Die Hard”. As they gleefully point out midway, they get to claim the coolest things on their tax returns.

Naturally the set includes their greatest hit, “Four Chords”. Changed up a little in order to keep it fresh for everybody, the song simultaneously rounds out and sums up AoA’s set perfectly.

A lot of hard work must go into making this stadium rock extravaganza of the imagination look so easy. Axis Of Awesome are Lollapalooza on six legs.

Once Christophe finishes playing human puppets with his audience – an all-too-short overture to his act – he manages to crack the secrets of the Australian language and speak for himself on the things he cares about. Like pigeons, which he thinks get a bad rap, there is a presentation on Pigeon Facts to illustrate his point. He also likes Australia and thinks we need to talk more about periods, but doesn’t like the way high heels can throw women’s bums into some kind of ‘butt vortex’.

Christophe is a charming, laid-back kind of comedian who seems to just want to hang out with his audience, shoot the breeze about some ideas and occasionally drop some comedy into our laps. That’s a style that really depends on the energy of the audience, and on this occasion they were both small and quiet, which in turn led to the show falling flat too often- a real shame, as Christophe is funny and smart, and it’s easy to see that his show could have soared much higher on a different night.

So perhaps seeing Christophe Davidson is a bit of a gamble. But it’s a cheap gamble, and I don’t think you’ll see any other comedian do such a spot-on impersonation of a flaccid penis this festival, or direct his audience with placards to GASP on demand. Take the risk.

This man with the heart of a boy (his age most likely in single digits) wears knitted op-shop jumpers, his hair neatly slicked back and walks through life over-awed by almost everything, adopting an honestly upbeat attitude (until the abstract villain “bad thoughts” attacks). He is faithfully accompanied by his stuffed cat perched on the end of a broom, “Cattie.”

In a delightfully and purposefully inept mission, this simple children’s tale was full of surreal Tim & Eric-isms and sight gags. Luis is joined by his bizarre, cardigan-clad keyboardist father Len (who bears more than a passing resemblance to Neil Hamburger) and his brother acting as stage hand (judging from his face plastered with indifference  he was strong-armed into the role) .

Lessons with Luis was like staying over at the weird kid’s house for “family story time” although it’s wide-eyed naivety was more than safe for children –it’s quite literally innuendo free.  They’ll delight in holding up cardboard fish as Luis travels through the ocean and they have the chance to win prizes.

Despite being pitched at kids, the show from top to bottom ran thick with guffaws and belly-laughs from the adults, especially when Luis interrupted the show to introduce his “lessons” presented in stand-up, audience participation and song. Luis’ cheery and clumsy disposition as he rattled off puns simply added to the humour, a synth-heavy soundtrack faithfully ripped off from low-rent 80s children’s programs adding a whiff of nostalgia to proceedings. Len would interrupt, overbearingly insistent that costume changes were “not the interval,” helping Luis’ little brother with props and dancing to Frank Sinatra tunes with the most beautiful girl in the room. Even the touching denouement was genuinely heart-warming in its own zany way.

There’s only a few more trips through the Kidney Kingdom left, so take the family before the doors to the Kingdom close forever! Highly recommended.

In 2007 crack comedian Dave Bloustein was hired to perform the ‘perfect gig’ – or, more accurately, to do two comedy sets at a Cronulla high school formal on a boat in Sydney harbour. So began a dramatic tale that ended up with Bloustien in Court needing to prove to a magistrate that he was, in fact, funny. It’s a story that takes in high school pregnancy drama, Gwyneth Paltrow in tribal makeup, not-very-funny funny email addresses, the difference between nerds and hipsters and much more, until finally leaving the audience aching with laughter at the big legal showdown.

This show is a reprise of Bloustien’s 2009 Comedy Festival show, which won the Moosehead Award; it was funny then and it’s even funnier now. This is partially due to some new material, including a tangent about the Stop Kony video that somehow manages to be relevant, but it’s primarily because Bloustien has become a smoother, more confident performer in the intervening years. He’s an erudite comedian who never lets his material become too intellectual, and his delivery is tight while never seeming artificial.

Unfortunately Bloustien’s only doing a very short season this festival, so by the time this review goes live he may only have one performance left of The Social Contract (Redux). If you get the chance, go see it – if you don’t, write his name in your 2013 diary and get excited for his next show. I already am.

In a tightly-packed hour of nerdy humour and theatrical assurance, Lloyd delves into an exploration of fan obsession. It’s a topic both deeply personal and universal. You don’t have to be a Doctor Who fan to enjoy this show. You don’t even have to be a nerd, though it may help. We all know what it’s like to be an awkward teenager trying to find where we fit in the world; we (hopefully) all know how life-changing it is when we find something we feel passionate about and – even better! – find others who share that passion with us.

In that sense, becoming a Doctor Who fan changed Lloyd’s life for the better. But, he wants to know: could his obsession have inadvertently ruined his life too?

Lloyd is a commanding presence on stage. Confident and with quick-fire delivery, he frequently turns his one-man show into an impressive “double act”, playing against himself through use of character and voice as the trial unfolds. Pop culture references abound as we journey from country New South Wales to the planet of Gallifrey and beyond.

A love letter to the BBC’s enduring creation and to nerds and fandoms everywhere, Who, Me will surely prove to be one of the local highlights of this year’s Comedy Festival.

First things first. You can’t get to St Ali’s using the map provided in the festival guide. Without outside help it is actually impossible. If, however, you catch the 112 tram across the road from Town Hall and get off at Southbank outside Coles, you’ll be well on your way. We’re all about useful facts here at The Pun. You’re welcome.

Shane Matheson and His Fabulous Singing Bucket of Gravel is, without question, the best show name in the festival guide. What you might not expect is that the title is literal. This show genuinely features a bucket of gravel, microphone poised above it, which sings duets with a guy called Shane.

Is it fabulous?

I think so.

Shane Matheson is not a comedian who will appeal to everyone. This is proper absurdist humour. When Matheson pauses mid-show to ask if anyone in the audience is confused, it was clear a fair percentage are resisting the urge to raise their hands. It isn’t often that you see an audience member swear an oath on a biography of Cliff Richard before a comedian yells “Now back to the toast!” at them.

Watching a woman try and hand-sign a duet between a man and a bucket of gravel (especially one about tongue kissing a squid) is an experience if nothing else. When given a sign interpreter comedians are always resisting the urge to make them translate outrageous things. The remarkable thing about Matheson is that phrases like “truncated cone“, “frugal horn” and “deadly vampire ferret” would undoubtedly have been in the show regardless. Seeing them signed is just an added delight.

Watching Matheson perform a Vulcan mind-meld on a framed picture of some ducks is the first time all festival I have laughed until I cried. If you’re a fan of the kind of comedy when you giggle despite not knowing what’s going on (let alone why you’re laughing), this show is for you.

Bursting onto the stage in a purple hoodie, oversized hipster glasses and shiny watch, Hing instantly exudes cool nerd vibes. Hing splashes serious topics with humour without compromising their significance. He woos the audience with his unapologetic contempt for bigotry’s many facets. His sharp quips and impeccable comedic timing are brilliantly applied to his punchy stories about his bad-ass dad and sexist dating advice from his friends.

My only criticism of the show is his delivery of the actual “Open Letter”. It lacks the same effortless flow as the rest of his show, probably because he was reading off a page. Regardless, it is clever, entertaining content and Hing’s likeability makes up for the stilted delivery.

Michael Hing is definitely one of the best local stand up comedians at this year’s Melbourne International Comedy Festival, and it personally delights me to see more Asian-Australian comedians garnering success. A must-see, Hing will leave you wanting to pump your fist in solidarity and add him on Facebook.

At first glance he seems kind of…normal: friendly face, jeans and a t-shirt. Clearly he wasn’t born with the facial or bodily oddments that drive so many people to become comedians, he had to make do with generic handsomeness instead. But damn, he is funny.

Townes speaks in a laconic drawl, a product of his childhood in “the Frankston of Sydney”. It puts me in mind of Dave Hughes but, unlike Hughesy, the accent here is not a crutch. Townes’s material would still be funny without the dry, nasal delivery. That voice makes the jokes hit hard. It also helps to give a fresh take on well-trodden ground like drugs, video games and how the two fit nicely together. “I love the sense of achievement you get from video games,” Townes says. “Shit gets done. That princess isn’t gonna save herself.”

This is traditional stand-up of a very high standard. Townes is happy to do disjointed bits on sharks, hernia surgery, smoking, anal beads and paedophiles without much narrative stringing them together, because he knows the material is so strong. You can’t help but be won over by an intelligent comic who speaks as if his nose is clogged with vegemite. The phrase “consummate performer” gets overused (plus no-one really knows what it means); suffice to say, Daniel Townes is a pro.

As the show winds up I sneak a peek at all the comedians around me. There’s a smile on every face. Ah, now I get it, I think to myself. Comedians need people like Daniel Townes to remind them that comedy is really a simple game: just make the bastards laugh.

In a tiny room at the Portland Hotel “that doesn’t quite have the charm of an abattoir” the audience are crammed and Halligan scrambles onto the stage with a genial grin and a flick of sweat. Nominated for “Best Newcomer” last year, Halligan approaches the stage with a hell of a lot of experience for someone who looks so innocent.

Halligan’s show title is a vague reference to his effort to cure ourselves from ourselves, but as the show progresses it becomes apparent that he offers more diagnoses than cures. The audience don’t know what’s hit them; laughter and applause burst from us before we know what’s going on.

Being gay, being straight, being left, being right, everything is up for grabs and Halligan quickly reveals our human foibles for the silly parts we all suspected were there.

Halligan is one of those comics whose richest source of material is himself, from his ADD to his sad attempts at being gay, from sweating profusely to prank calling K-Rudd, by the end of the show the audience just wants to hug and him tight and adopt him into the family.

Given his geniality, hilarity and overall cuteness – this is a face to watch. We’ll likely be seeing him on our small screens in the next few years.

Notes from Birds is one long game with the universe. After literally wallowing in a tepid bath tub full of her failures, Laura follows a set of clues placed by the universe, leading her to the seedy parts of Melbourne to search for a new meaning to life. She forces meaning out of rubbish, a crossword puzzle and a free can of VB, adamant it is destiny’s doing.

Her pitfalls are comically retold with several, sometimes unrelated, tangents which let us glimpse into her manic psyche. By the show’s poignant end, you want to make Laura a cup of tea and give her a hug. Her intense self-deprecation is slightly alarming and you just want to know if she’s really OK under that bright smile.

Notes from Birds, while funny still needs a bit of finessing to make the stories punchier. But if you know what soup you are, come along and share it with Laura – but stay the hell away if you think you’re a miso.

From the moment they step on stage and throw themselves into the hilarious ‘Border Control’ it is obvious that Dead Cat Bounce are something special. All former members of Whitesnake (true) every member has musical talent dripping from their pores and pants which, as promised, are tighter and shinier than ever before. James Walmsley (guitar, lead vocals), Shane O’Brien (bass) and Demian Fox (drums) propel the audience through a smorgasbord of songs. From the stick-in-your-head absurdity of ‘Kayaking’ to the touching ballad which is ‘Really Tall Women’, this is a show that never lets up. A highlight is ‘Leroy the Homophobic Penguin’  which features a cheese-grater played with a triangle (which is, apparently, what happens when you watch March of the Penguins and listen to too much Johnny Cash).

Fans who were worried that the loss of keyboardist Mick Cullinan would change the on-stage dynamic will be pleased to know this show is bigger and better than ever. There is more dramatic lighting, more knee-slides, more air-born drum-sticks and more pounding bass. The most difficult thing about seeing this show is resisting the urge the start a mosh pit in the front row.

I feel the need to mention, at this point, that I am something of a fan. But its almost impossible to walk out of a Dead Cat Bounce gig without being one. The trio exude such effortless rock-star status that the desire to stand at airports and scream as they disembark planes is almost overwhelming.

Dead Cat Bounce are the undisputed rock-gods of musical comedy. See them while you can still afford it.

Something akin to a pair of motivational speakers crossed with deranged Playschool presenters, Dingo and Wolf are two ladies here to teach you everything they know. They’ll teach you about attractiveness (visible bones and invisible bras), sex (the appeal of the 79 position- not a typo), international relations (this is quite a short bit) and such topics. But tensions are still high and even the recruitment of assistants from the audience doesn’t stop the bossy Wolf from picking on easily-distracted Dingo. Can their friendship be salvaged before their presentation is up, or will one of them end up clubbing the other to death with a broomstick?

None of the above text does this show anything like justice. Winning at Life is high-energy absurdism with dashes of physical and character comedy. You’ll see an array of props, costume changes, graphs, a musical number, audience interactions and a lot of swear words. Dingo and Wolf are great characters and their interplay is never less than hilarious. The performers give it everything they’ve got and create a fresh, funny, engagingly crass show out of their respective backsides. It is, as the old folks used to say, a hoot – and well worth seeing.

And whatever you do, don’t leave before the climax. You’ll regret it.

Not many people can make a show about their dad coming close to death (on several occasions) and call it ‘comedy’. Having said that, not many have a dad like Jon Bennett’s. You may be familiar with Bennett’s book and stand-up exhibition featuring his creation Pretending Things are a Cock which depicts Bennett around various international landmarks doing… well, you get the idea. This show is a cleaner flavour of stand-up with a strong storytelling thread.

My Dad’s Deaths gets off to a rather flat start, as it launches into his story a bit quickly without any real kind of set up. This, along with a few technical glitches was underwhelming, but the intrigue of the story’s concept saw the show push through these minor blemishes. The show picks up after the first ten minutes or so, and Bennett’s stories of the times he has been lead to believe his father has died are somehow funny. Whether it’s falling off a ladder, dropping ‘dead’ on a train or just yelling “I am angry!” instead of swearing, his overly conservative father is great material for the show (even if he won’t come see it himself).

A definite highlight are the poetry interludes, which at first seem off-topic but then prove to be downright hilarious. Bennett sports a Banjo Patterson-inspired hat, reading many a Facebook status written by his Dad’s foster child’s best friend who seems to thrive on drama. Sure, let’s call it poetry.

Although not completely polished, this is a great narrative-based show that guarantees laughs, even if they are at Bennett’s expense, or the poorly-literate Facebook girl. Bennett’s show is nicely crafted and his personality fills the cosy room tucked away at the back of LOOP bar. If you can actually find the venue, it’s definitely worth checking out.

Brothers Fletcher Jones and Roger David take the audience on a surreal romp through their decision to move to Poland and make it big. Ping-ponging between genres, the show includes an electro-pop hit about their new home, a jazz number about OCD and an unexpected flamenco interlude. There’s also a song featuring scarecrows from outer-space plus a discussion of the “dick to ball ratio” on Michaelangelo’s Statue of David. The music is catchy and well-crafted, the two-part harmony spot-on, and underpinning it all is comedy which is witty and just the right amount of absurd.

The show is broken up by recorded skits which, while funny, are weaker than the songs. The inclusion of regular messages from their sponsors (Smilk and SMUG Church) definitely got a laugh but it is when the pair are pelting out catchy lyrics that they really shine. Luckily, there’s plenty of that.

The highlight was a section of improvised audience banter which, on this night, culminated in a song about surveying and interior design. When Jones begins extracting information from a couple in the front row it appears to be the standard comedy fare, until David suddenly starts spouting near perfect musical commentary. If there was ever any doubt about the talent on display, this dispelled it.

Hidden in a “retarded dungeon” at Arthur’s Bar, Smart Casual are one of the festival’s hidden gems. The room is tiny. Buy a ticket now, before everyone else catches on.

“Did you see this, did you hear about that? Have you ever noticed that when…” It is a formula sure, but one that works and Byron Bertram knocks joke after joke out of the park. “You ever notice that some people don’t laugh, they just smile and nod like some creepy German tourist!” Jokes come thick and fast, it’s this man’s job and he goes to work.

Bertram is a polished professional, smooth in delivery and sharp of wit. He is a likeable guy, like a dude you would meet while ordering a drink at the bar who starts up a conversation that runs for the rest of the night. He bangs through topics: guilt, anger, alcohol abuse, mum words, speed dating with Chinese to English translations.

You will laugh a lot and you will leave happy. Blue Diamond is a fantastic venue for stand up, it’s like a comedy club for the one percent, check them both out.

The show, Me Pregnant! is an absurdist monster tale with delusions of God and it is thoroughly engaging. Starting as a narrated fairy tale, Coyle appears as just a floating head, illuminated by a flickering candle before prancing into a parade of people and creatures that populate a village and the story. Like a one man Pajama Men, Coyle bounces effortlessly between his characters, creating a fully formed, bizarre world for them to inhabit. He is a charming performer, connecting with the audience through his eccentric energy, love-me grin and fine acting. At times he is even reminiscent of a young, in-character Steve Martin, right down to the “crazy guys” catchphrase. It is a detail and laughter-rich script, painting a world of Terry Gilliamesque madness.

Challenge yourself with something different, something strange, a show about the failure of a redemptive spirit. A perfect, offbeat six o’clock show to warm you up for a night of comedy. Add Nick Coyle to your line up.

Nominated for the best newcomer award in 2011, John Conway is back, with the assistance of Michael Burke as his own personal Skrillex. The New Conway Explosion might loosely be described as stand up. But whether Conway is standing on stage, in the wings, in the crowd or atop a chair at any given moment, you’ll have to wait until the moment preceding to see.

The show is loose, so that Conway can take advantage of his crowd, tailoring his scatter gun hi jinks to their degrees of resistance or merriment. But between his Time Helmet and foam cricket suit, there’s more planning to the chaos than you might anticipate. His vaguely structured anarchy had me in stitches from the epileptic-unfriendly get-go.

The New Conway Explosion is consistently entertaining, and very different from most of the other offerings at the festival. It relies heavily on an audience willing to have fun. Conway plays a game, with participants answering questions from their seats. The conceit of what is right and what is wrong is not dissimilar to something Sam Simmons did in Fail in 2010, but as this actually requires an audience receptive to what the performer is trying to do, it fell flat on the night I attended.

Conway’s comedic voice is still developing. It will be a treat to see what he comes up with in the future, but it’s worth catching this show to see where it came from. His hyperactive nonchalance towards a tepid crowd, lured in by the mild-mannered man wandering around Trades Hall, show that the Explosion’s divisive style is one to be reckoned with.

The material is smartly written observation and wordplay, ambling over well-trodden ground like politics, family, drugs, superpowers and dirty talk. The subject matter itself may be familiar, but more often than not Marr is able to give it a fresh spin. His confidence and delivery are impressive for a first-timer. There’s limited crowd interaction, but that might partly be the stage’s fault: Marr performs in an adjacent room to the audience, separated from us by a low row of couches. The lighting makes it seem like we’re watching him on a giant TV, and a more intimate setting might have led to better back and forth.

Occasionally Marr will lose the audience with a crude one-liner, but he’s quick enough to pick up the slack and get on with the show. He’s got the grin of the experienced performer, and has a pretty good sense of how far to push a joke. I was quietly glad he stuck to 35 minutes of solid material and resisted the urge to pad it out to the full hour with sub-standard stuff. It shows good sense.

I ask Marr after the show how he was feeling during the set: “Oh nervous as hell, mate,” he says. “Can you see the sweat?” Up close he does look like someone who’s just survived a firing squad. His forehead glistens slightly. But none of those nerves were apparent behind the microphone. He’s a different guy to his stage persona: quieter, less confident. But then I guess the title ‘Friendly Young Man’ probably wouldn’t have sold so well. Definitely one to watch.

And that mobile phone? Before the show even starts, a phone number is splashed across the back wall, encouraging the still-filling crowd to text in information about themselves or their friends. Watson utilises the phone in the final third of the show, trawling through the text messages and picking up on details. This mostly trivial information acts as a kick-starter for audience interaction. More fun than the usual “…so where are you from?”, it’s less awkward for all involved. This interaction with the crowd, an element that makes up a large portion of the show, is always good natured and never antagonistic. Everyone was with him the entire time, a mood deliberately curated with dotted personal tales of fatherhood, depression and banal grocery trips. His subtle recalling of jokes throughout the show – both planned or otherwise – is well done and reinforces this positive backdrop. These references are never forced for a cheap laugh, yet provide some simple momentum and direction.

Although a gentle critique on information in contemporary society, Watson’s show never indulges in nostalgia. He references and contrasts a pre-Google era but it’s dealt with sensibly and isn’t fetishised, a common pitfall of many entertainers. Capitalising on this commonality of once private details as the crux of his show, The Information is a well balanced affair. It tiptoes between Watson’s own revelations, his musings on the power of misinformation, poking fun at (or dryly celebrating) the volunteer/volunteered, and then back again.

The Information is genuine fun, and despite a few pockets of coarse language, is mostly harmless. Unless you’re shocked by anecdotes about ham feedback lines and lying to taxi drivers about zoo ownership, Mark Watson is easy to recommend.

Tucked away in a small room in the Town Hall, Matt Okine uses the intimacy of the space to build instant rapport with the audience in such an affable manner that it’s easy to forget that you’re part of an audience instead of sitting in your own lounge room listening to a good friend’s funny story.

Just in case anyone doesn’t notice, Matt Okine points out that he’s black. He also talks about cooked, uncooked and metaphorical chicken. But if you’re expecting some literal shit, you’ll be disappointed – no poo jokes appear anywhere in the show. Which is refreshing. The S#%T he refers to is life. His life. His wonderful, funny, genuine, enigmatic story of a life that is conveyed in such an original way that not once did I catch myself thinking, “I’ve heard that before.”

Not only is Matt Okine an exceptional comedian with an impeccable sense of timing, he’s also a terrific writer. His show is fresh and humorous, with a ring of truth and a slant of self-ridicule that is perfectly balanced. His presentation is seamless, unaffected, and delivered with a smile. Maybe I’m going out on a limb here, but I have to say it – Matt Okine’s calibre of stand-up is on par with that of Adam Hills or Danny Bhoy.

If he keeps this up, I expect we’ll be seeing the talented Matt Okine on a much larger stage in the near future.

Via an impressive PowerPoint presentation, Gadsby takes us on a fascinating romp through the history of marriage and the role of women through the ages. The audience learns about the best times in history to be female, how to cure hysteria and why M&M World is not the most fun you can have in London.

Possibly the most impressive part of this show is the way Gasdby manages to subtly weave a moral throughout. At its heart this is a convincing and affecting argument for the legalisation of gay marriage. Without ever being preachy she presents a case that made me want to promote her to a position of power, possibly in the UN somewhere.

This show is funny, charming, informative and clever. You should see it even if you’re homophobic and allergic to oil paint. If you’re an art history nerd it is completely unmissable. Seriously. Make time to see this show.

Mr. Punch was his traditional wicked self, fulfilling puppeteer Ken Harper’s warning to his over-excited audience that there’d be ‘lots of whacking.’ What fun it was as the rascally rogue bounced the baby down the stairs and whacked a succession of law-abiding citizens to oblivion. He copped a few himself despite the horde of juniors screaming ‘He’s behind you!’

The kids were encouraged to be part of the mayhem and they took up the invitation with great enthusiasm and remarkable lung power. If the kid next to me (not my perfectly behaved mate, of course) squealed ‘Feed the baby,’ once, he squealed it 50 times in ever-increasing volume.

There was violence and bad language – stolen ‘squashages’ which the crocodile ate and a Police ‘Ossifer’ trying to make arrests. This was R-rated stuff!

When it was all over and everyone lived, or died, happily ever after, Ken Harper, a drama teacher when he’s not up to his elbows in puppets, invited everyone ‘backstage’ for a close-up of the puppeteer’s 400 year old craft. It was a little bit educational and a whole heap of fun. I laughed more at Ken’s work than I have at many ‘adult’ shows – but maybe that says something about me!

My little bloke said he enjoyed it a lot too, especially the ‘whacking.’
I said, ‘Oh no, you didn’t!’
He said ‘OH YES I DID!’ – loudly!

This crazy whirlwind of a production is an eclectic cauldron of genres – drama, action, comedy, science fiction, horror, pantomime, and shadow puppetry, to name a few. There’s even audience participation. Just about every trick in the theatre book is drawn upon (and pointed out like a metaphorical sledgehammer to audience temples, just in case you aren’t fully appreciating what you’re witnessing). The actors’ enthusiasm verges on ADHD, as they switch from speaking lines, to responding to audience reactions, to conferring about the plot, to leaping at one another and brandishing plastic swords.

At times, it’s akin to watching the cast of The Big Bang Theory in a World Wrestling arena – awkward nerds battling to the death using only their violent wit, and then, when their Shakespearean insults run dry, unsheathing plastic butter knives and dancing in circles in an attempt to fatally prod one another in the elbow.

Every allusion to the epic Star Wars series is acknowledged with zeal, which is useful for people like me who don’t know every single line of the films off by heart. Those plentiful references aside, many other Hollywood classics make guest appearances, including Titanic, The Matrix, Harry Potter and The Princess Bride. So, in theory, there’s something for everyone.

The danger with a show that ranges all over is that the appeal, while intended to reach a wide audience, can often backfire if not handled well. In this case, Shakespeare Fight Club catapults itself well beyond the boundary line and right into the “God’s balls” of comedy theatre.

There to witness Andrew O’Neill, vegan, transvestite, H.M. comedian. Not my usual fare; seat near the door to facilitate an early exit if required!

But life springs its surprises. O’Neill is a personable young man notwithstanding his tatts, red lippy, frilly miniskirt and ‘beautiful head of hair’ as my old mum might say. As an ‘alpha male shout generator,’ he’s more than qualified to present Transvestism 101.

The patter was clever and original. He riffed on the differences within genders, not between them, and he’s a slightly nervous atheist somewhat apprehensive of the wrath of god. Particularly if the god turns out to be Odin, who’s really fearsome and vengeful compared to the forgiving Jesus.

There’s quite a bit of Jesus in the show. Don’t take your Pentecostal mother-in-law; she might be surprised to find the son of God was a rhyming slang cockney – like O’Neill himself – before they put him up ‘on the Jonathon Ross.’

There are some clever non sequiturs in West Country accents, a head-ache inducing cross-eyed story and an evident dislike of the British upper classes. He left you wondering whether he really did throw a much-admired and bewildered member of the Royal family out of his cab.

I liked the boy; he’s got a future. He’s different, intelligent and his show is a very competently compiled package. See him at the Pony this year before he moves on to better things next year.