Tim Key "Loganberry", Monkey Barrel, Edinburgh. Monday 27th April, 2026

 

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)

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