Dylan Moran

Went to see Dylan Moran last night, after enduring more of the tube’s little quirks (I do love London Underground time, otherwise known as the amount of time it really takes for the indicator to count down).

I also genuinely love Dylan Moran. He never does a very long set – I think he did about 90 minutes in two halves – but as his stage persona is Dylan Moran: Lush you can’t really complain that much when he appears to be taking it easy onstage. The second half was perhaps weaker, but then I adore listening to his rambling whimsy as much as the out-and-out funny. He has a masterful grasp of language, in a similar way to Eddie Izzard, perhaps (with fewer improv-ed tangents). I know it’s an odd thing to go to a comedy gig to hear language tickled into marvellous shapes, but when you’re not in the mood for Shakespeare and there’s nothing by Alan Bennett on (only a few weeks until The History Boys opens!), it’s a decent option.

He’s obviously a very clever man – but of course he is! He’s my favourite comedian! A common thread running through the affection I bestow is tied in to my not suffering fools gladly. (Which is an odd phrase – who would suffer fools gladly? I do not suffer fools at all.) I like a nice big dollop of intelligence, and I don’t mean people who can calculate pi to 47 places, are experts on 13th century literature or can debate the workings of the Parliamentary system (though I can, of course, do all of these things. *pause*); I mean people with wit and elegance, the kinds of people who would have been the hot invite at the Edwardian dinner table. Your droppers of bon mots. Your Wildean personalities, your George Bernard Shaws. To be in the company of a rumpled Irish comedian who is just that, even for a mere 90 minutes, and make you laugh – I’ll take that ticket, thank you.

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