I am struggling to find the words to review this show. Tim's unique take on comedy encompasses outrage, shouting, stamping his feet, reciting poetry and stressing parts of words in an unusual manner (e.g., scroTUM), all under the guise of being an underdog who's award-winning and artistically famous.
The show is about what happened while he was writing it. Sitting in a cafe, with his special pen (blue, green, red, AND black), he sets out to write his next award-winning opus. He's distracted by the waitress, by the unexpected appearance of Greg Rusedski (why not?) and by the invitation from Gabby Logan to appear on her Midpoint podcast, triggering a rumination about his life - at 38, half of 76, he might be regarded as middle-aged, so what does that mean when he's actually 48? {he's actually 49, but not when he wrote the show}
As we enter the performance space, he's already on stage, in his dishevelled suit, shirt open at the collar, wearing a white baseball cap. He acknowledges our arrival with a nod as he paces slowly around the tiny stage, sometimes facing the wall or grasping the microphone stand. He pulls nervous smiles like a child. He does this for nearly twenty minutes while the audience fills the sold-out venue.
I'm sitting at the side, right against the wall, probably one of the worst views in the room. The bloke behind me is standing up, chatting with his female company. Suddenly, I feel a wash of beer slap against my head, splashing inside my glasses, soaking down my front.
"Oh, sorry, mate," he quips casually.
An innocent accident, but I feel rage boiling. I've got beer blotches expanding across the front of my lime green shirt. Nothing I can do, though, much as I want to confront the bloke and retaliate by chucking the remainder of my Irn Bru can across his face. I use my shirt tail to dry the inside of my spectacles. Fucker! Now, my drive home from Edinburgh will be stinking of beer. Yuck!
Eventually, Tim steps off the stage and wanders to the back of the room. A spotlight hits him as he recites a poem, beginning the show. He ambles towards the stage, kicking a carrier bag forward. He lifts it and throws it from a distance onto the stage, joining it shortly afterwards. He puts on a tie (he's not a barbarian) and opens the bag, taking out a can. He pulls the ring. Lager sprays in the air like a fountain, which he struggles to stem using his hand and jacket. He's got it all over him. He blows the foam off the top of the can into the audience, reaching the third row, then takes a drink. Suddenly, I'm not the only one in the audience beer-infused, but at least when it happened to them, it was part of the show. He passes the can to a man in the front row to look after (he'll request its return several times throughout the show).
He talks about his mother, his father, being single and a celebrity. He should be a catch. He's got eight thousand pounds in the bank. He lets the waitress kiss his Richard Osman House of Games suitcase. He doesn't care. She's allowed.
Every poem is bizarre, a vignette of truth and humour, a word painting of his world. He recites them from cards the size of playing cards, discarding them onto the floor when they're done.
His outbursts away from the microphone rail against the injustices of his life. He has no kids. He's frozen his sperm. "No grandmother wants to visit a block of frozen cum," he rails.
The sixty-eight-minute show takes a turn near the end when a poem introduces us to his malignant melanoma - the C-word. He'll say it. He's not scared. That cunt of a doctor told him he had cancer. The swear word punctures the tension. He had it removed. He's fine. He goes on Gabby's podcast.
So ends his tale of mortality. We should be blessed for hearing his wisdom. He walks off, with his stick and bindle (he's ashamed he had to Google the word) over his shoulder, to continue his life as a lonely traveller.
It was an experience unlike any other show I've seen. No wonder it received multiple five-star reviews. I'm glad I made the trip to Edinburgh, even if I came home stinking of beer.
Ticket Price: £46.00 + Booking fees £2.64 = Total £48.64 from Monkey Barrel (Presale)
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