Russell Kane "Hyperactive", King's Theatre, Glasgow. Sunday 30th March 2025

I have never seen Russell Kane live before (or any of the comedy Russells, for that matter), but I knew he was good. I didn't realise just how good. 

His support act was a pleasant surprise: local boy Liam Farrelly (local as in Paisley). This twenty-five-year-old crafted a clever set about gerbils, accents, spider swastikas and graffiti on his house about a slut called Jenny. I've never seen a relatively unknown support comedian command the stage and win over the audience so quickly. His material was brilliant. 

Russell was on another level, however. So much of the early set appeared improvised, chucking in local references knowingly and appropriately, building the laughs as he strutted from side to side, weaving in audience work to make his points, his mind operating as fast as he was moving, notably only slowing down when he crouched or lay on the stage. His regional accent work was impeccable, his physicality impressive, and his material was thoughtful and astute (under 28s don't go to comedy gigs because they get too easily triggered; mobile phones are killing memory and attention spans and shoving bad messaging down our throats; we should live for the moment, not tomorrow, because we only have today). He spoke with passion and humour, and not a single gag missed. He was like an Essex Robin Williams, only less dead. He shared the same pace, wit, and messaging as that genius comedian. 

He gave us seventy minutes because he knew that was all we could take. We gave him a well-deserved standing ovation. Thank you, Russell Kane, best of the Russells.

The journey home afterwards was an experience, too. Walking down Hope Street, heading for Central Station, I saw an inebriated blonde woman dressed all in green battering at a hackney cab's driver's window, demanding to be given a lift. In her hand, she clutched a shopping bag, so it too struck the driver's window. Her language was barely intelligible, so I couldn't tell where she wanted to go. Waiting at the junction only because the traffic lights were at red, the male driver didn't let her in, fobbing her off with some excuse I couldn't lipread. A police van pulled up behind him. The lights changed to green. The cab moved off, but she refused to accept this. She clung to his door, lasting five yards before her bag went flying, and she tumbled across the road, doing more spins than an Olympic diver. The cab continued on its way, and, eventually, the policeman got out of his van, the woman still on the ground, now an obstacle to traffic. He spoke to her, then messaged someone on his radio, likely for an ambulance. So, ultimately, she would get a lift, just not home. Either she was going to hospital or to a police cell. I didn't wait to see the outcome. I had a train to catch, where three drunk multi-generational women serenaded the entire carriage in whatever key they could achieve, regardless of whether they knew the lyrics or not. But that's another story.     

Ticket Price: 1 Artist Presale Ticket £31.75
Per Item Fees: (Service Charge Artist Presale Ticket) £3.50
Order Processing Fees Handling Fee £2.95
Total £38.20 from Ticketmaster