No, wait a minute, that’s not a funny person, that’s another fucking cashed-up bogan in a pink polo shirt with the fucking collar turned up who’s part of the audience! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU PEOPLE AND WHY THE HELL DO YOU LINE UP TO LAUGH AT SOME OF THE MOST BLAND, MEDIOCRE, MIDDLE OF THE ROAD SHITE IN THE FESTIVAL?

Woah, Richard, get a grip. Elitist, much?

Ahem. As you can tell, the Comedy Festival has taken its toll. I think my sense of humour will be the next casualty…

In total, I saw 39 shows at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival; and I lost track of the number of late nights I had; and the amount of alcohol I consumed.

Now that the festival’s over, there’s several more comedians I should review, but to be honest, it’s getting late, I only got home from work at 9pm (lost two days out of the production schedule due to ANZAC Day and moving the office from Richmond to the city) and right now I really should be trawling through the 150 emails in my inbox to plan my radio show for this Thursday. So here, in brief, are the remaining shows I saw at the festival this year:

Fiona O’Loughlin. I definitely enjoyed this alcoholic, trouble-prone, housewife superstar’s show in a low key sort of way. Instead of constant guffaws, she generated constant smiles and regular chuckles, and the occasionaly fervant prayer that she wasn’t my mother. Three and half giggles out of five.

Dave Bushell - Dirt, War and Why I Don’t Eat the Fishies. From Nazi relatives to the death of Princess Di, and zombie cows to Morrisey, this was a joyous, occasionally slackly-paced romp through the major events of the 20th century. Needs to either tighten up his material or write some really killer jokes, but given that this was Dave’s first solo show in the festival, bloody enjoyable, even if the average audience member (who appeared to be aged between 15-18) were too young to get at least half his jokes. Three regularly-spaced hoots out of five.

The So-Called Elite in Once Upon A Coffee Cup. I really wanted to like this show. I didn’t. The John Howard puppet was cool, though. Shame the humour was forced and laboured. Two vague smiles out of five.

Introducing Beau Heartbreaker. The award-winning drag king was suffering from a tummy bug on the night I saw her, so rather subdued but still sweetly funny, in a low-fi kind of way. Two and a half droll laughs out of five.

Josh Thomas - Please Like Me. A 19 year old comedian from Brisbane who reminded me too much of too many semi-autobiographical novels by young authors: you can actually write about things that haven’t happened to you, you know. I went into this gig expecting great things, due to the hype Josh had generated, and got only good things, so perhaps it’s partially my fault for beliving the hype that I was vaguely unsatisfied by his tales of small testicles, schoolies week dramas and MSN messenger stalking. Nonetheless, his delivery is strong, and given time, he should be bloody good. Three ‘oh my god that reminds me of myself in high school’ titters out of five.

The Infamous Spraygeltent. Sadly, because my second show of the night ran overtime, and then I was so exhausted after the previous night’s Barry Awards afterparty, I only got to see part one of this three part show by Glenn Manton and Jim Lawson. What I saw, though, I really liked - although I was eternally grateful that I wasn’t called upon to do pushups or walk across burning coals, unlike some of the audience. If this is what life is really like in an AFL team, I’ll stick to being a spectator!

The Glass Boat. Absurdist theatre that occasionally didn’t work, but when it did, dear god - what superb flights of lunacy! Giant frogs that terrorise autistic children; girls raised by wolves; a bush Christmas that recalls every Australian rural cliche goes horribly yet touchingly wrong; mail-order zombie brides who talk to their suitcases; and much, much more. Deadpan when required, wonderfully exagerated at others. Delicious. Although the performers might want to wash their costumes before the end of their run, next time - they were a bit whiffy! Four strangled shrieks of mirth out of five.

And that, ladies, gentlemen and trans people, was my 2007 Melbourne International Comedy Festival. Well, almost…

This next lot of reviews will perforce be brief, in order to get through several of them in the one post before I head off to the ANZAC Day game between Collingwood and Essendon. Go Pies!

Kim Hope in Rollercoaster. An entertaining night of stand-up with an edge. Hope’s delivery is never less than sharp, incisive and hilarious, and even as the show takes a turn into darker territory, dealing with the vagaries of alcohol and depression, this laudable comedian keeps the laughs coming with her intelligent and audacious comedy. From pitch-perfect evocations of 1970s dinner parties to a hyper-animated discussion of ways to pick up men, Hope’s show is not always hilarious; the London-based section of the show could be a little tighter; but when she hits her mark she’ll have you in stitches. The greatest problem with this show was that the brave material (and I know that’s a cliche but in this instance its fucking appropriate) is not always suited to what is essentially a fairly mainstream festival that attracts a very suburban crowd. Performed in the Fringe Festival, Rollercoaster would be winning greater acclaim and attracting larger houses. I definitely recommend it. Three awed silences followed by shrieks of mirth out of five. (Portland Hotel til April 29)

Alison Bice in The Wizard of Bice. A Moosehead award-winner, Alison Bice’s festival show this years shows real promise - Bice has a wonderfully dry delivery and stage presence - but overall fails to work for two main reasons. Much of the material is structured around her interaction with pre-recorded video segments, during which, partially for timing reasons, all the energy drops out of the show. She’s also too caught up in in-jokes about other comedians, and if you don’t know who they are, or about their reputations, then too much of the show is going to leave you scratching your head. A worthy but largely unsuccessful production. Two forced laughs out of five. (Town Hall til April 29)

David O’Doherty is my name. Yawn. Another bland international Irish comedian whose middle-of-the-road humour was lapped up by a sychophantic crowd. To be fair, the night I saw O’Doherty he was getting over the flu, so had little energy in his performance, but even then the majority of his material left me cold. When he sat down to sing his twisted little songs I started to enjoy myself, but these only punctuate his material sporadically, and his actual standup struck me as tedious, in all honesty. Two and a half occasional chuckles out of five. (HiFi Bar til April 29)

Thank god for someone like Sam Simmons in the Sex and Science of Boredom. In a sea of middle-of-the-road stand-up, his surreal, unpredictable humour had me in stitches. Exploring the versatility of bread, how to maintain your inflatable pool, and bringing new life to lint and slideshows, Simmons is definitely not everyone’s cup of lukewarm tea. Given that I hate tea of any sort, I adored this show, and definately recommend it to anyone seeking more challenging or creative comedy at the festival this year. Three and half howls of laughter out of five. (Bosco Theatre @ Federation Square til April 29)

Lots of odd images and definitions came to mind: the garnisher of restaurant meals (’Hey, kitchen-hand! Spruik that plate for service.’), a speciality cleaner or redecorator of some sort (sounds like spruce), kid’s shenanigans (’You’ve been out spruiking all day, haven’t you?’). And it went on like that.

So, encarta.msn.com defines spruik as follows: ‘Australia. To promote goods, services or a cause by addressing people in a public place (humorous).’

The definition can be applied to a healthy portion of the advertising industry, all of it if you tweak the meaning. Television is as public a place as any, in a private sort of way. Think Franco Cozzo and Ken Bruce: funny at first but capable of driving us all completely mad. Think shonky get-rich-quick moguls who generously help you part with your hard-earned savings through seminars and schemes. Are preachers and televangelists spruikers? Debatable, but that’s a whole other article.

Subscribing charity workers fall under the spruiking tag too. On the street, they can turn a ‘few seconds of your time’ into half an hour, albeit for a good cause. Then there are microphone-wielding earbashers who spout bargains outside department stores. They sound like wedding MCs if you don’t automatically block them out
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Last in this basic overview of spruiks are the flyer-wavers. You see them everywhere: street corners, in front of buildings, at the airport, anywhere with steady foot traffic. Mood dictates reaction. Sometimes, we take a flyer out of interest or empathy; sometimes, we walk past with a ‘no thanks’ or without making eye contact. Sometimes, we glare, shake our heads; sometimes, we tell them where to go.

Eventually, it became clear why I didn’t know the term (besides the fact that my vocabulary needs work). I already had a name for spruikers cemented in my stubborn brain: annoying bastards. That’s a bit harsh, my conscience chides, we all need to work, which is mostly true. And what about telemarketers?

Every year, Melbourne International Comedy Festival generates a new breed of flyer-waving spruikers into ephemeral existence. Whether outside the multitude festival venues or walking with the erratic flow of Melbourne’s streets, festival-goer or not, you’ll see and hear them peddling their promotional wares.

Orange festival flags wave north up Swanston Street. It’s seven and dark already. The cloudless sky adds to the autumn chill, and Town Hall’s second empire architecture is dressed up for the funny season.

Three disco balls hang from each side of the colonnade and spin freckled light over the flagstones below. Stage lights rest above the second floor balcony, ready to transform the hall. The lanterns, branching from the facade, shine their coloured light, and giant orange boards, painted with street directions and that arrow-tailed, curl-headed, gaping-mouthed, dog-person logo thingy, adorn the columns.

The city is its usual self, a million moving voices talking at once. Packed trams clunk over intersections, car horns blare their complaints, the little green walk-man ticks pedestrians across streets.

They seem to be the only ones standing still. They’re not though. The city moves around them as they bounce on the balls of their freezing feet and offer flyers with an outstretched hand to the stream of people passing over the portico. They work in small clusters or alone, either side of the colonnade, in between its columns or on the steps in front of the doorman’s post. Some smile; others talk above the city hum.

‘Stand up comedy show?’, ‘Interested in stand up?’, ‘Show at Hotel Generic Name.’

Here, it feels different from the norm. It’s as if the festival’s comic spirit has been instilled in passers-by. There’re plenty of smiles, even with refusals. People take flyers and actually read them with interest. Some stop to talk. Directions, information, freebies, whatever: the spruikers oblige the chance to chat with animated hand gestures and jovial gusto.

A zealous young man, long curly locks and MICF lanyard, crosses Swanston Street to the Town Hall corner. He’s an Arts student, chosen to shoot a documentary for comedian Michael Connell, and is tonight handing out free tickets to the show.

‘It’s been good to see how it all works behind the scenes,’ he says.

He’ll be spruiking most nights of the festival, armed with an honest face and a fistful of tickets.

‘Sometimes, you get bad reactions. At first, it can get you down, but you get used to it. Mostly, people are friendly,’ says Sydney comedian Justin D Lodge, who is handing out flyers by the colonnade for his show Life, Death and Komodo Dragons. He’s been in the stand-up game for three years, and this is his first MICF.

‘Selling your own show can be seen as selling your soul. Most comedians do, unless they can afford to pay people to do it.’

The public react warmly to Lodge’s sociable grin. He jokes with them, tells them about the show, and scribbles on a few flyers to get them in for free. You couldn’t generate better pre-show word-of-mouth.

These aren’t your average spruikers, and their wares go beyond mundane, hand-delivered junk-mail. Most are volunteers, comedians, directing you to entertainment, walking and talking festival guides with a penchant for conversation.

If you like a good laugh, and there aren’t many who don’t, then it’ll be worth your while to stop for a few seconds (not charity subscriber seconds) and see how a spruiker can help you out. And anyway, at least they don’t call while you’re eating dinner.

This analysis of comedy would assert that depressing and confronting fodder such as heartbreak, rejection, family dysfunction and addiction would make a highly successful comedy routine; logically, one would declare Greg Fleet to be one of Australia’s most successful (if not slightly tragic) comedians.

Fleet is a festival veteran, having braved and entertained the comedy connoisseurs both at Melbourne International Comedy Festival and Edinburgh Fringe. He’s done a stint on the Austereo radio network (the subject of Judith Lucy’s scathing invective at last year’s festival) and enjoyed widespread public recognition for his role on ‘Neighbours’. What drove Fleet to give soap-opera job security the flick in favour of the fickle mistress of stand-up comedy is anyone’s guess, but soon enough, he was getting paid regularly to make people laugh.

His comedy festival experiences have been overwhelmingly upbeat. In particular, he enjoys the ‘cool and creative vibe’ that Edinburgh Fringe and MICF exude. The crowds behave well, as if they were ‘watching theatre,’ Fleet marvels, and he suggests that even the hecklers at the festivals serve a productive purpose.

‘It’s usually creative and constructive, rather than pissed or angry,’ he says’although, one year, a severely inebriated woman interrupted his show by walking to the middle of the stage, holding up her shoe and loudly lamenting that it was broken. She looked at him expectedly, to see if he could fix it.

‘She thought I was a cobbler,’ laughs Fleet.

Festival drunkards aside, he can count some of the world’s most renowned comedic talent as fans; he attributes his success to Eddie Izzard and Frank Skinner attending his shows early in his career and, fortunately, spreading the word.

It’s not only his comedy routine that has made him so fascinating to the media; Fleet also endured a well-publicised addiction to heroin (He left rehab in January this year.) and a family dynamic that was (apologies for the lack of eloquence) utterly fucked.

His father was, as Fleet recalls, a ’sex addict�Ķa rooting machine,’ and the impetus behind his acclaimed stand-up gig I Wish You Were D(e)ad. Philandering aside, Fleet’s father faked his own suicide to ‘escape family life to the States’. It’s an astonishing incident that’s hard for outsiders to fathom. To this day, Fleet remains incredulous in his recounting of events.

‘It was genius. He was very theatrical as well,’ he remarks in his somewhat laconic yet indolent drawl. ‘He’s just mad; he’s done a lot of crazy things.’

Apparently, his father was in email contact shortly after the Edinburgh performance of I Wish You Were D(e)ad, and suggested that Fleet had ‘issues’.

Fleet laughs, once more in disbelief, ‘��I mean, whaddaya fucking reckon?’

Perhaps, comedy has been a form of public therapy or a much needed catharsis; in any case, Fleet maintains that his relationship with his father is probably better than it’s ever been.

‘We don’t talk much’, he admits. ‘But, when we do, it’s pretty good’.

Fleet believes comedy is linked with tragedy. He suggests that most comedians tend to focus on the topical, which seemingly happens to be dismal’��war, current affairs, drink driving’��it’s not the stuff that happiness is made of.

‘Comedy is tragedy plus time’, he explains, and cites examples of comedians being chastised for speaking ill of the newly dead.

‘People made jokes about Diana after the day she died, and that was too much for people. It was too soon. Six months down the track and people are laughing their arses off at the same joke’.

Fleet joins a litany of comedians who tackle typically disheartening and confronting issues, but he’s adamant that he tries ‘not to have a victim’ in his jokes.

‘I’ll make jokes about AIDS’, he says, ‘but I don’t do jokes about a poor individual who has AIDS’. Rather, he would choose to focus on ‘the way we deal with the problem and the fear that’s instilled within society’.

His latest venture with Gud musician Mick Moriarty, however, seems a little less melancholy. When I ask him about his latest offering Fleetwood Mick, his response is characteristically deadpan: ‘It’s about AIDS’.

The show is, in fact, a parody of news-style programs, an inspired and anarchic invention of the current affairs shindig as we know it.

‘We’d like to see the news presented with songs, beat poetry�Ķwith music running through it’.

Personally, I think newsreading done as a poetry slam, Allen Ginsberg-style would rate the impeccable trousers off the unstoppable juggernaut that is National Nine News. Perhaps, it is something for those commercial newshounds to consider.

Alan Brough in Top Town. A one-man show set in Helenville, a small town at risk of being downgraded to a village if anyone else moves away, in which Brough plays every character, from the lady Mayor to the most eccentric of townsfolk. The plot sees Brough roped into making a promotional film for Helenville (which welcomes visitors with a sign reading ‘If you don’t stop, no hard feelings.’), which he ends up releasing on YouTube.

While likeable, and scattered through with some moments of genuinely inventive comedy (such as Brough’s embodiment of the THX sound system movie ad, with which he opens the show), this show sadly didn’t work for me, mostly due to the fact that I never felt at any time that the characters Brough was playing were real. Too two-dimensional to be convincing - and without them and their internal lives, the drama fell flat and the laughs felt forced. Additional flaws, including laboured exposition and overly drawn-out script elements, also detracted.

There is a real poignancy to some of the show, which references Brough’s father’s death last year, but even these scenes, coupled with a (forced) moral about the compassionate nature of small towns, failed to save the production. “Was that supposed to be funny?” asks a Helenville resident after the premiere of Brough’s promotional short for the town, three-quarters of the way through the show; a question which I found myself asking as the house lights came up… Two and a half occasional giggles out of five. (Town Hall til April 29)

Russell Howard. This charismatic, quick-witted and queer-friendly young Englishman, who demonstrated an adaptive, positive and slightly goofy take on stand up during Thursday night’s performance, rattled through a show exploring threesomes, relationships and dreams, pretending to be a fish, fox-hunting and much more, and which provoked constant laughter. While his regionally-oriented jokes didn’t always translate for the Melbourne audience, his engaging personality and hyperactive energy more than made up for the occasional blunder. Managing to mock local accents and attitudes yet also appear awed and delighted by what we say and how we say it, Howard rapidly ingratiated himself with his audience, who responded with undiluted joy. Restlessly inventive, spontaneous and fucking funny. Four shrieks of mirth out of five. (Town Hall til Sunday 29)