Live at Christmas: Dylan Moran, Tim Key, Sam Campbell, Christopher Macarthur-Boyd, Amy Gledhill, O2 Academy, Glasgow. Sunday 14th December, 2025

This was a quality comedy line-up. Five acts at the top of their game, according to recent reviews. It was a no-brainer that I would want to be there.

We had seats, so there was no need to be there for the doors opening. I managed to remember the way to Bob's secret parking spot near the Academy (well, nearly, but that's the great thing about a grid-based city - a few extra corners and you get to where you need to be). 

The Academy queue was still long when we arrived. I suspected I'd spotted an old pal walking by, and I confirmed my suspicion when his wife followed. We hadn't seen Quiz and Gail for a couple of decades, but they hadn't changed. Inside the venue, I approached them and asked them to step aside once they'd cleared security. It took them a moment to twig who we were. No one recognises me these days. After a quick catch-up, we parted ways, and we made our way to our seats.

Rather good ones, central and near the front, but not so close as to get picked on. 

Amy Gledhill was our host for the evening. The Hull comic was in the festive spirit, wearing a Santa costume over her voluptuous frame. She was pleasing, warm and affable, mixing crowdwork with her material. She asked the engineer sitting in the front row to start off the applause as we welcomed our first comedian, Sam Campbell.

Wow! Sam was off his rocker, like an effervescent tablet dropped into a can of Red Bull then sprayed at the audience (don't give him ideas). From the moment he arrived on stage, wacky doesn't do justice to how funny he was. The climax involved six members of the audience, whose mobile phone numbers added up to more than sixty-two, joining him on stage to throw latex-glove balloons filled with tap water into the crowd, even bringing out a massive catapult to assist with distance. We got caught in the splash zone.

Luckily, his section was followed by an interval to allow us to dry off and for the staff to mop the stage.

After that, we were treated to Christopher Macathur-Boyd and his comedy stylings, then Tim Key's comedy poetry. Christopher's stand-up was consistently funny with well-crafted material. He's honed some material I'd heard him perform previously, boiling it down to killer line after killer line. He was excellent. Tim Key, dressed in a Christmas jumper, which he had to use to smother a lager geyser from his newly opened can, played up how much he was in control, frequently telling Duncan, the sound engineer, to skip or stop music tracks, then start them again at a whim. He also asked the scientist in the front row to hold his can, toying with him, leaving it out of reach. Then he'd ask for it back so often that the audience member eventually threw it at him. 

The second interval provided another opportunity for the staff to mop the sticky stage. The lady sitting beside me enquired if I knew when the event finished. I told her the official time was eleven. She seemed concerned about this. The backstage crew brought out a keyboard and a mini electric bass guitar for the next act. We knew that David O'Doherty had been replaced by Sam Campbell, so why did the next act need musical instruments? Was David going to be a surprise extra? If that was the case, why didn't Amy build it up?

The answer was No. Dylan Moran, our headliner, has entered the freestyle jazz phase of his career, accompanying himself as he riffs his material. To be fair, his style has always suited this approach. But when I say jazz, I'm stretching the term. It may not meet the qualifying threshold. He was funny, though. He got annoyed at a girl in the third row who kept taking photos, pointing out that he didn't come to her workplace to distract her with a camera. She loved the attention. 

Then it was all over by 10.20 pm. It took so long to shuffle out, I joked to the woman I'd spoken to that the 11 pm finish included the exit time.

At the interval, I'd overheard a conversation between the group in the row behind us where one of them said, "By the way, the answer is XL." But what was the question? I was dying to know. Was it the size of his whatever? Roman numerals for forty? A Microsort program for creating spreadsheets? I never did find out, so now you don't know either. 

Another person directly behind me had a phlegmy cough, the kind you want to slap them on the back to encourage them to bring it up and swallow. Or just strike them for coming to a comedy gig carrying a contagion. They did their best to suppress it, but every time I heard it, I held my breath. Let those around them breathe it in, acting as my personal air filter.

On the way home, as I drove along the roadwork section of the M8 at the requested average speed (40 mph), five police Range Rovers flew past in succession, followed by an ambulance (in case they crashed). No idea why? Maybe they were in a race to reach the chippie before it closed. Perhaps late VAR calls had disqualified St Mirren's three goals, and they were on their way to Paisley to recover the Scottish League Cup. Or maybe Sam Campbell had stolen the front car, and the others were giving chase. We'll never know (unless he's filmed it for his next tour).

Ticket Price: £27.00 x2 + £3.40 Service Charge x2 + £1.75 Facility Charge x2 + Handling Fee £2.85 = £67.15 from Ticketmaster

 

BBC NEW COMEDY AWARDS - Glasgow Barrowlands. Wednesday 24th September, 2025

A Facebook advert alerted me to this free BBC show, with tickets available via Eventbrite, rather than the BBC's official website. It wasn't even a lottery for tickets. You registered and ordered the number you wanted. This still didn't guarantee entry, however. 

Last year, I attended the Scottish heat in Paisley Town Hall. They obviously wanted to go bigger this year, so they had booked the Barrowland. I imagined a packed, standing crowd of 1,900 comedy fans. The big time.  

Bob (now forever known as The Bad Man) and I arrived early, long before the shutters had even been raised. I chatted to the bouncer, trying to establish the layout for the gig. He informed me they were not using the main stage but had erected a purpose-built platform and laid out tables and chairs. So not standing, then.

When we got in, we had to wait to be shown to our seats. The Bad Man allowed us to be seated at the front, much to my consternation. I warned him that he was taking any flak from the comedians, not me.

This is how close we are to the stage!

Gareth Mutch was on warm-up duties again. He didn't pick on us, fortunately, and was a tad better than last year. One heckler threatened to stab him up the arse, an act never intended to involve a knife, which led to some confusion. We never got to the bottom of it (boom, boom). You've got to love Glasgow's East End.

Christopher Macarthur-Boyd hosted and was a revelation. Boy, has he grown up. I don't mean physically. He still looks like he buys his shoes from the kids' section in Clarks, but his style, delivery and demeanour have matured into those of a fine comedian.   

The judges were Daniel Foxx and Susie McCabe, with Fatiha El-Ghorri as head judge. Christopher made reference to Daniel's bright ORANGE trainers and BLUE notebook, suggesting that Daniel might have missed the memo about the event's location. The banter between Christopher and the judges had to be redone as a pick-up at the end, much to Fatiha's mock annoyance, bruv.

The five acts were all different: Ayo Adenekan, a tall, black, bisexual man from Edinburgh, did the same act that he performed at the GICF Gala last year. Forgive me, but I can't remember the other acts' names. One was a gay dude from Castlemilk (his material was great, including one gag about his junkie parents being drug-free for over six years now, may they rest in peace). The female comic was high-energy, with a touch of Catherine Tate and Harry Hill about her. This was when my nightmare began. Her eyes were drawn to me during a bit about the size of her breasts. I was picked on to maintain eye contact while she discussed what happens to them when she lies down, expressing in glorious detail how she needs to scoop them up when they splay across her front. I felt my face glowing red. 

The second-to-last act was a low-energy oddball, who made long grrrr noises as a run-up to his next line. He had to repeat some of his routine in the pickups, which he found awkward as they'd taken away his Terry Nutkins photo, presumably because they didn't have permission to use it.

And finally, on came the musical act with his guitar, after a false start because the instrument wasn't properly miked. On take two, he draws me into his conversation, asking what I had dreamed of becoming as a child, and then whether that dream came true. Cue a song, not involving anything I had said. Later, he asked what my name was and what I found most attractive about him. Cue awkward moment when my mind went blank. I stuttered, "Your height?" to which he took mock offence, before singing a song about his attractiveness, incorporating my suggestion dismissively.

During the interval, when the judges went off to deliberate their choice, two BBC officials descended on our table, presenting me with a release contract giving them permission to use me in the programme. Bad Man found this hilarious. 

I filled it in, signed it, and then stewed over all the better replies I could have given.  I was also approached by a comedy fan who tried to persuade me to attend a show at Oran Mor, handing me a flyer, suggesting that the ticket price could be reduced by using his name as a discount code. He was from Paisley too, but seemed out of his depth when I started discussing the Edinburgh Fringe shows I'd enjoyed. Strike one for comedy nerddom. 

After the interval, the judges announced the winner, not surprisingly, selecting Ayo Adenekan. He was the one I would have picked, too.

Then, there were the pickups, with Gareth having to remind the audience not to leave their seats, as the show was not yet finished. We got away just after 9pm. 

I still felt harried on the drive home, realising my ugly mug will end up on the iPlayer later this year. The BBC must have needed to tick off a few diversity boxes, such as old, straight, bald, fat, white and male. We're an underrepresented minority these days. 

Ticket Price: Free.

Frankie Boyle, 'Lap of Shame' Tour, Kings Theatre, Glasgow. Tuesday 6th June, 2023.

Revelation of the night was support act, Christopher Macarthur-Boyd. Now thirty, the wee guy with the glasses from Glasgow has grown (not in height) into a proper stand-up. He had some cracking material and demonstrated a physicality I'd not seen in him before. He's put in the time and it shows. But, as he commented, we weren't there to see him perform.

You could describe this as vintage Frankie Boyle if the vintage was that of a supermarket wine which somehow had evaded being drunk, lying in the cupboard for months despite the continued misery of our everyday life. By this I mean, chunks of his material were not new, recycled from his telly scripts, with some jokes on the wrong side of their expiry date. The fault there could be mine, having watched all his recent telly stuff and been to see him live during a work in progress for the telly programme. It's likely some of tonight's jokes were never broadcast but were still familiar to me. Those are the perils of going back to see a favourite comedian too soon. It didn't spoil the night - he's still a brilliant crafter of jokes - but it did sour my enjoyment. 

He railed a couple of times at the many coughers in the audience who selfishly insisted on sharing their germs. He also noticed one punter filming the show and politely told him to stop. Then less politely when the bloke argued back. I thought we were about to see our first eviction of the night but the moment passed. The rest of his banter with the audience was half-hearted, like a comedic contractual obligation included to pad out the time. Somehow he missed the girl a few rows in front of me who reacted to his jokes by putting her hand in the air, tapping her fingers together like an alien who'd misunderstood applause. 

For a show called Lap of Shame, I can't say I wasn't warned. Not Frankie's finest hour.   

        

Ticket price: £26.75 from ATG.

Tour Blurb

"Frankie Boyle’s on tour. Buy a ticket, because by the time he arrives, the currency will be worthless and you and your neighbours part of a struggling militia that could probably use a few laughs."

And also:

"As part of a continuing physical and mental tailspin, Frankie Boyle suppresses his overarching sense of futility and horror to tell jokes for an hour in the final days of organised human life. Note that these are the final performances of last year's Fringe show! The show has been honed on a tour of re-education camps, robot barracks and colosseums built from old shipping containers."