I attend this gig on my own.
I'm sitting in the front row of the Grand Circle beside another man, also on his own, whose splayed knees have already claimed the legroom as he got there first. I shrink as much as my big frame will allow, but it feels like I'm sharing the space with my dominant alter ego. He is also bald but is comfortable asserting his position. Unlike me, he keeps his jacket on to ensure his testicles are not overheated by the presence of extraneous clothing. I'm surprised he can cope with the heat as it is so sweaty (the show is a sellout), even the cherubs (Waley and Paley) above the proscenium arch have disrobed, leaving only a sliver of curtain to cover their dignity (which paints the Deacon Blue song in a whole new spotlight).
On my other side, the gentleman's wife firmly points out to him that his jacket is covering the sign that states no items are to be placed on the ledge. This amuses me, and the show hasn't even started. They amuse me further upon their return to their seats after the interval, with him clutching a bottle of beer and an ice cream tub. He places the beer at his feet, then dips his spoon into his ice cream just as the lights go down, leaving the theatre in near darkness. He freezes (unlike his soft, melting ice cream), remaining in this perilous position until the stage lights come up.
Stewart Lee's schtick hasn't changed much since 1989, when he began his comedy career. He takes a subject and repeats it over and over, tagging on extra laughs with each pass. He often teases us by not giving us the laugh we expect, then scolds us for wrongly anticipating how he'll deconstruct his own material. His stage persona is that of a smug, sarcastic and sometimes bitter comedian. His writing is clever in how he makes things funny, which is part of the joke.
Tonight, he strayed slightly from his norm (but not much) by writing some political material and doing some crowd work. Of course, he did it in his own way, as if playing out his role as a proper comedian, suggesting he could do that style of comedy if he wanted to. There was one biting dig at his former double-act partner, Richard Herring, which drew an ooh from the audience. The material about JK Rowling writing crime as Robert Galbraith, a man, reinforcing gender stereotypes, had us making up our own jokes, which he denied having any responsibility for.
Much of the second half was spent explaining how the style of comedy where a comedian speaks directly to an audience only began in 2016 when Phoebe Waller-Bridge broke the previous mould with her show, Fleabag. He later asked us to make up our own silent jazz soundtrack to his next routine because, due to Brexit, he couldn't afford the clearances for each of the individual European countries. He also let us know that if the joke failed, it was our fault for getting the soundtrack wrong.
He finished by acting out what our day-to-day working lives must be like in a routine that stretched the humour to breaking point. He spent nearly ten minutes of "Morning / See you tomorrow" with affirmations of colleague recognition covering the entire working week, Monday to Friday. This was probably the weakest part of the show, but that amused him.
The one moment of sincerity came when he confessed to realising during lockdown that no matter how much he despises his audience, it's difficult to do his comedy without them. After the show, he sold merch and signed autographs in the foyer. I didn't wait. I'm back to my usual humdrum work life tomorrow.
Good night.
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