Review: Josie Long

Josie Long brought four of her best mates along to St Andrews to tell a collection of variably hysterical jokes. These are Joe Fleming’s wry opinions on how they did: […]

12 years ago

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Josie Long brought four of her best mates along to St Andrews to tell a collection of variably hysterical jokes. These are Joe Fleming’s wry opinions on how they did:

James Acaster

Do you remember the music video for ‘Take On Me’ by A-Ha, in which a comic book character transforms from a series of pencil drawings into a living and breathing man? Well, when James Acaster meekly shuffled onstage, with fresh-faced features, shaggy blond hair, and the cream polo shirt and red jumper combination of an overgrown nine-year-old boy, I was convinced that he had abandoned his best friend Charlie Brown at the lemonade stand after finding a hidden crack in the frames of ‘Peanuts’.

My reviewing notes within the first ninety seconds of Acaster’s arrival were “possible model railway enthusiast?” and “please confess to owning the entire discography of unfairly derided piano-driven rock band Keane, including b-sides and rarities.” I have never met anyone who shares my embarrassing listening obsession yet, unfortunately. (Readers: please get in touch if you suffer from the same affliction – I will buy you dinner and we can discuss lovelorn and wistful balladry for hours. Perhaps days.)

An indescribably irritating heckler mistakenly presumed that Acaster’s conservative dress sense and gangly demeanour made him an easy target for public humiliation.

Before the gently spoken comic had finished his introductory patter, the obnoxious audience member loudly declared that he was going to be a terrible waste of time. Fortunately, Acaster’s juvenile appearance belied his sophisticated intelligence, and he put the idiot in his place with a tremendous range of polite and rational rebuttals.

Sadly, as the first act of four, he was only allocated around ten minutes to perform.

Dispatching his tormentor took up the majority of the set, which left mere moments for properly prepared material. This was a real shame – I loved Acaster’s fantastically understated debut show at the Edinburgh Fringe last August, and it would have been nice to have watched a few of his curious, low-key ruminations once again. Oh well!

I am often kept awake at night by the sobering thought that there are far too few jokes concerning dried fruit these days. Thankfully, there were just enough grains of sand in the hourglass for Acaster’s delightful routine about why “ready-to-eat apricots” in re-sealable bags are misleadingly advertised. He suggested that they should be promoted as “ready-to-eat-SOME apricots” instead. This punch line does not come across as brilliantly on paper. I guess that you needed to have been there in the flesh to fully appreciate it. And, perhaps, like me, have been several pints of Magners down when this piece of devastatingly amusing whimsy was delivered with razor-sharp precision.

The highlight of Acaster’s set was, however, his very final remark. After dealing with his aggravating tormentor with the patience of a saint, he finally snapped following another ill-advised disturbance. The phrase “shut the fuck up, Mark!” has never been met with such clamorous approval. Mark, if you’re reading this review through tears, please learn basic courtesy. Until then, for the sake of humanity, become a hermit.

Brigitte Aphrodite

Bohemian troubadour Brigitte Aphrodite was the second act of the evening. Her name translates as “strength” and “love”. These words were bitterly ironic because her performance was exhausting and disagreeable. Sadly, every brash open mic night in Camden will contain scores of women with her bloated Amy Winehouse looks and clumsy guitar playing, while her quirky caterwauling reminded me of Lily Allen’s failed attempt to find throat lozenges in Boots. Her songs contained a few clever turns of phrase, but these raised an occasional smile rather than a raucous chuckle. Sadly, the rest of her lyrics made Kate Nash seem like Cicero. Rhyming the name of television personality “Simon Amstell” with Dutch lager “Amstell”, then using the word “prospective” instead of “perspective”, without a hint of irony, caused me to yearn for the astounding erudition that Miss Nash displays during the chorus of ‘Mouthwash’ – which is, of course, “I’m singing oh, oh on a Friday night and I hope everything’s gonna be alright.” Not forgetting the profound penmanship that Nash exhibits during the third verse of her hit single ‘Foundations’: “you said I must eat so many lemons ‘cause I am so bitter. I said, “I’d rather be with your friends, mate, ‘cause they are much fitter.”” Those lines are being engraved on my headstone. Amazing. She’s the new Byron, Dickens, and Wilde, but all rolled into one person.

Banshee Brigitte was not exactly my cup of tea. The audience reaction was so muted that she might as well have filled the seats in Venue 1 with a crowd of mannequins.

I, like any other sentient person, would have preferred another fifteen minutes from Mr. Acaster. Or, failing that, fifteen minutes of complete silence. As these options were not presented for our consideration, I spent a large part of her tiresome set estimating how many stray cats she lives with. Probably hundreds. It was a massively entertaining game. Although, someone should call the RSPCA shortly. She is on tour with Josie until 19th February and that is quite a long period of neglect for any moggy.

The Pictish Trail

Ramshackle musician Johnny “Flapjacks” Lynch (a.k.a. The Pictish Trail) lifted the atmosphere yet again. Here is a comprehensive list of the smashing things that he did:

1. Derided the insular nature of St Andrews by clarifying that our town is in Fife.

2. Refused to explain why his drummer, Jimmy “Pancakes”, was wearing a cute orange and turquoise balaclava like a squeamish member of heavy metal band Slipknot.

3. Opened his set with the popular carol ‘Little Donkey’, forty-four days after traditional festive celebrations. The Christian rulebook has been destroyed.

4. Pretended that he was headlining Glastonbury. Jubilant air punching? Check. Histrionic guitar strumming? Check. Ordering the technician to turn off all the lights in the venue, before launching into a deafening sing-along? Check.

5. Performed a ditty called ‘Sweating Battery Acid’ – the best music title ever.

6. Dedicated ‘Sweating Battery Acid’ to his Mum.

7. Confessed that, because he had forgotten to bring merchandise, his album of thirty-second tracks could only be heard in private through his iPhone.

8. Synchronised his head turning to the drumbeat in a thrilling neck exercise.

9. Announced that, because Stagecoach is so expensive, his performance fee of £12, plus drinks and the bus fare home to Cellardyke, was an enviable deal.

10. Performed a tune with the chorus: “my favourite chords won’t work with what I’ve sung.” God bless purveyors of disarming self-deprecation!

Here is a short list of all the smashing things that Jimmy “Pancakes” did:

1. Played the drums. (Groan-worthy pun on the word “smashing.” Apologies.)

2. Went absolutely mental when Mark, the fool from earlier, called him a “cunt.” This was arguably the funniest moment of the evening to my eyes and ears.

Josie Long

Josie Long was quaint charm personified. She distributed her endearingly hand-drawn programmes as we entered with effervescent conversation and a broad, dazzling grin.

She admitted later on that she would fight to the death for the principle that everyone should queue respectfully on the station platform and wait for departing passengers to exit the train before stepping on. (Would it be The First English Civil Civil War?) Therefore, it must have come as a huge shock to many audience members when she revealed that this show was about her resentment towards the current government rather than an array of quaint, cheery anecdotes about hummus, sparrows and knitting.

She did step off the soapbox occasionally, of course. A sketch emphasising the hugely incompatible career aspirations of Ireland’s most annoying pop star twins was superb – Edward: “I wanted to be a surgeon! When can we stop doing this?” John: “WHEN I DIE.” Also, I am definitely going to play her game “cinema prick” next time that I’m leaving the NPH. For the uninitiated: you have to shout an extremely inappropriate comment at the end of the film to make the rest of the audience truly despise you. For example, in the ‘War Horse’ credits, “who fancies a glue-sniffing session at mine?”

And her improvised aside that burlesque dancers are only removing their clothing to prevent overheating had me in stitches. These fanciful thoughts were my highlights.

However, the crux of her set concerned her disgust with the coalition’s “apocalypse of injustice” – their closure of local libraries, their plans to auction England’s forests, and their Bond villain-esque privatisation of children’s wheelchair services. “Hey, let’s set up a 1980s tribute government!”, Long imagined David Cameron declaring.

Unsurprisingly, the royal family did not escape her wrath either: “if we beat you once, we can beat you twice, cavalier scum!” As someone who is particularly interested in the reign of King Charles I, her humble acknowledgement that she desperately needed to write hilarious material about the Digger and Ranter sects was an unexpected treat. I’m adding an extra star to my rating for that remark alone. Hooray for Stuart history!

This show was obviously not going to please everyone. “Please use this hour constructively for your own thoughts”, Long warned the garishly coloured chino brigade at the beginning of the performance. If they were offended or bored, the programme contained a diverting puzzle for their personal amusement – “find Tory words and words you might use to describe my babbling”, it instructed. Long was worried that she might come across as a pantomime baddie in notoriously middle-class St Andrews. A few moments were a bit alienating and intense for those without a daily subscription to ‘The Guardian’, but for swathes of her set she did not put a foot wrong on the tightrope between earnest sincerity and heavy-handed preaching. Her routine was well researched and engaging, concluding with an inspiring call to follow the lead of the UK Uncut movement in converting anger into positive activism.

In summary: this was a passionate social commentary, peppered with incisive jokes.

Even if you disagreed with Long’s political affiliations, which many must have done, it was difficult not to warm to her energy and eloquence. I walked out of Venue 1 wishing that she were my kooky cousin or late-night drinking partner. Little wonder that this was one of five shows to be nominated for the highly prestigious Edinburgh Comedy Award last August. For £7, including two great opening acts – I’m really sorry, Brigitte – this was bargain entertainment at its finest. The audience, allegedly “the coolest people in the St Andrews metropolitan area”, were not left disappointed.

Overall show rating:

(N.B I know that this is a long review. However, to borrow Miss Long’s phrase on the second page of her show programme: “I hope that you can appreciate that the idea of cuts being a necessity is one that I’m a bit uncomfortable with at the moment…”)

Written by Joe Fleming, standing-room-only writer

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