Comedy Review: Mark Watson

Last a night a full house gathered at the Sherman Theatre, Cardiff. A colourful mix of students, radio 4 listeners and people looking for something to do on a Friday - all in turn serving themselves as people watching entertainment extraordinaire. Yes, I had wine in hand and slightly nervous conversation to make. The reason for the milling? Mark Watson; sometime radio and TV funny chap, who was out to entertain with his ambitiously titled "All the thoughts I've had since I was born' act. Unlike most of the things I blog about he did actually play Aberystywth a few days earlier, bless him.

Within minutes of Mark's somewhat eccentric appearance the crowd were completely disarmed and delighted. His engaging manner, impeccable delivery and self-deprecating ways were winning and witty, as was his anecdotal set. Mark Watson isn't surreal, he doesn't have catch phrases, and he's not witheringly sarcastic: he is a rare gem of an observational comic possessing a charming way with words...

Be prepared though - those words come out at a rate of around a million a minute. My gosh no wonder he's so thin! Not that Mark bounds back and forth around the stage, it's just that the sheer energy and enthusiasm he invests into his ramshackle tales punches home an admirable work ethic. As a consequence stories tend to ramble breathlessly, and not all get wrapped up neatly. For the most part that's okay - firstly there's usually something very, very funny waiting to spring out from reminiscence prison; also the whimsical nature of the musings means that you find yourself chortling away to a turn of phrase, not caring that there wasn't quite an end to the narrative, whilst you're lead down a garden path of a completely different, sometimes dark, nature.

The show was great, and faults were few; maybe there seemed to be a lack of control over the audience in the second half - things became a bit too pally for my liking. Some members rattled on and on. Then again the general high levels of interaction served to spawn one or two big laughs, and the idea of a competition encouraging people to be nice to each other certainly brightened some lives- £3 cash prize not to be mocked in these hard times.

The only other flaw seemed to be the haphazard introduction of general themes, such as compliments or 'Little Book of Calm' style de-stressing; these touchstones of structure didn't quite scaffold the show and seemed slightly cumbersome. Like Eddie Izzard, Mark riffs (about his life, not bees), and I suspect just like Izzard, those riffs are carefully worked out, but they sometimes clashed with the broader musings, throwing out the pace slightly.

Mark's been performing at the fringe and touring generally since 2004 , garnering accolades and praise, but he's still a young comedian and the small niggles are easily consequential of that. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, laughing along to an original, warm and mirthsome soul. I'm looking forward to more of Mark's wry comedy in the future.

Four Stars and a big grin for Mr Watson.

You can stalk Mark on twitter, or find his tour dates listed here.

Friday Pop

I'm listening to Candi Payne's excellent 2007 album 'I Wish I could Have Loved You More'. Nice pop music for a Friday; something you can sing along to but still take yourself seriously as a music snob. Mind you, I sing along to Dolly Parton at times, off-key and totally without irony.

Other pop tunes I'm enjoying as I bustle about...

The Rezillos cover of Last of the Secret Agents - looks like one of the band has skinned a muppet....

And, No One Takes You Home by Kathryn Williams

Tonight I'm off to Cardiff to laugh at Mark Watson, which is okay, he's a comedian, a wonderful one at that (who makes the world substantially better), and I've paid for the privilege. Afterwards there may be chess and some drinks, or some storming to the train station and sulking at home (with a consolation pizza - a large one).

It could go either way but I'm all set. I'm oozing deliberately casual in cardigan that looks as if it could have been an Oxfam donation from Kurt Cobain, but underneath I'm a bundle of anticipation/nerves; fed up of let downs and, let's be oh so melodramatic here... false hopes. I'm tired, I really need some nice times and a laugh but I'll settle for winning at chess. At least twice.

Or that pizza and extra olives.

A Grand Weekend.

One of the strangest things about the goldfish bowl of Aberystwyth is its ability to instill cabin fever in almost anyone. Probably even hermits. It has indisputably been time to get away and go visit friends (even that does entail a trip to terrible Bridgend), scoring bonus points for being at home for Mother's Day and thus negating the need for a stupid, waste of money, bad for the environment, enslaving of the masses, card. I'm a heartless monster, I know.

What's more the sun has had his hat on! Hip, hip, hip, horray. In fact it has been sunny enough to provoke general panic buying of disposable barbecues and burger buns, and for me to twitch about whether last year's suncream would still be okay to use. The glorious sunshine and gentle breeze stirred all sorts of latent feelings. But for want of any better options I was struck with the desire, nay - the compulsion, to go visit the Merthyr Mawr sand dunes - a magical place where I can change colour like a limited chameleon who only does anaemic white or clown nose red.

The sand dunes are just outside Bridgend, and are part of the largest dune system in Europe, so look impressed. The tallest dune stands at 80m above OD (Ordnance Datum), and on their edge is a small fortified manor that is slowly being swallowed by the shifting sands. There's also all sorts of multi-period archaeology that turns up in the area. So not just a pretty picnic spot.

On a sunny day the first thing you notice is that the dunes are riddled with children on plastic sleighs riding around, kicking sand (need I add at you?), screaming and not so surreptitiously weeing in bushes. To transport all the irritating, ball throwing, temper loosing, skuttling, skidding, urinating children, the parents obviously need big cars. Said cars are then driven as quickly as possible along the tiny country roads. It spoils the walk through the chocolate box village of Merthyr Mawr, but does add quest like peril to the day out.

Despite it all the dunes still seem like the place to be. There's a certain rightness and dogged adversity that a sunny day causes you to embrace - especially when you get to your chosen spot and the chilling breeze makes you to realise it isn't quite as warm as you'd like. The optimistic linen skirt admittedly proved to be a school girl error. Nevertheless there I was amidst the great outdoors; the sun shone down, whilst the wind (which wouldn't stop picking up) whipped the tiny sea grasses into papercut-giving machines. There was good company, sandy hummus and gritty champagne. In keeping with the desert atmosphere, Radio 3 World Routes was the only thing the radio would tune to; no bad thing - it provided funky accompaniment with fusion tunes based on ancient Persian music. I was expecting Lawrence to ride over any minute (the dunes were used as a location after all).

I had a really great time.

Fun Thing # 304 - Cleaning the Kitchen After A BIG Night Out

I say 'big', what I mean is a night out where you end up feeling like a sad, mothball smelling granny who no-one wants to visit because you make them eat mint imperials and tell the same story about wart removal over and over and over. It's no comfort to me that my plans of getting older do not, as yet, include either moth balls or warts; I'm anticipating being an old woman who smells of Chanel and bitterness.

Yes that's right- bitterness. I'm giving up all pretence at being a happy, normal, well adjusted person of the sort that welcomes friends into their tidy kitchen, slowly watches it disintegrate into a glass filled, booze-smelling hell hole, and gets up early the next morning to tidy. As yet the kitchen is still a mess, I'm grumpy because I haven't had breakfast and I refuse to make it when the counters are all covered in makeup, vodka, mayonnaise and party popper entrails. Oh and I missed the bloody bins again, bane of my life that they are.

As for the night out: not much went wrong really, I'm just being melodramatic and kicking myself for a really pathetic late night drunken text (not for the first time on here either).

I've vague recollections of seeing a brank or 'scold's bridle' at some museum or another - a barbaric medieval punishment device for people who talked too much. To qualify for this humiliation the scolder would have to be...

" a troublesome and angry woman who by brawling and wrangling amongst her neighbours breaks the public peace, increases discord and becomes a public nuisance to the neighbourhood."*

I'm not suggesting that a return to the 'good old' days of the literal curbing of free speech is in order, or that I brawl or wrangle, or even that I'm overly troublesome. I do think I may need my thumbs chopping off. It would be for my own good.

*Pettifer, E. 1992. Punishment of Former Days. Waterside Press.