Category: Comedy

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Alastair Clark

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A high-fidelity stand-up show performed in real record shops, drawing on Alastair Clark’s decade behind the counter. We sat down with Alastair to discuss their upcoming performances.

Alastair Clark: On the Record tours across the UK this year. Tickets are available here.

What does a real record shop give this show that a comedy club never could?
The stories in this show happened in a record shop, by staging the show in this way there is a connection between the space and the material you wouldn’t get anywhere else. Also, record shops are community hubs, so by coming to people’s local record shop I am engaging directly with folks who will get a lot out of the show, but might not consider going to the comedy club.

How has leaving the shop changed the way you listen to—and think about—music?

When I worked at the shop a lot of my role focused on new music. I was emailed by every label and distributor about every album that was coming out. We are talking hundreds of emails a day. It was like being plugged into The Matrix! So I really had my finger on the pulse. Now, there are a few new bands I am excited about, but I’m definitely not aware of stuff in the way that I was. I listen to less, but enjoy it more I think. I don’t mind being the guy who hasn’t heard of something. 

How do you balance nostalgia with the messier truth of moving on?

I mean that is a great question. I have always brought a brutal honesty to my shows. I am really trying to communicate in a genuine way. But obviously the truth is complicated by nature. You have to simplify it enough to give an audience a satisfying show. I think the way I’ve always managed to do this is by exploring one aspect of these moments in our lives. Talking about a breakup, complicated. Talking about being in denial about how much you’re struggling, well that’s one element of it… and you can focus on that. In this show it made sense to focus on one aspect of moving on. It’s sincere, but it isn’t the whole truth. That’s the balance.

Do different record shops change the rhythm or feel of the show?

I think every show has a slightly different rhythm and feel. My delivery is quite conversational, so it is easy for me to match an audience’s energy and make sure we have a good time. Each place in the country has its own vibes. That’s part of the fun of doing it live. So I’m sure we will find each shop has its own quirks and I’m looking forward to getting stuck in.

Did stepping away from the shop feel like losing part of your identity?

Hugely, and I was really scared of that. I think it’s why I stayed so long. When you work in a record shop, it’s a bit like being a bit of a local celebrity. I got recognised so much more for working in a record shop than I ever do for being a comic! But the reality is, do you want to sacrifice these other bits of yourself to keep that bit? I can’t do things in half measures, I commit. I wanted to see if I could make comedy work. To give the Alastair Clark the comedian the best chance possible, I had to say goodbye to Al, the bloke behind the counter of your local record shop. 

What have these spaces taught you about community and connection on tour?

I remember the partner of one of my customers in the shop saying to me: “You know, he didn’t really have friends until he started coming to this place.”

Record collecting can be a very solitary hobby. You go to shops alone, you catalogue records alone, you listen to stuff alone. But there are people who shop in the same shops as you, they go to the same gigs as you, you have so much in common with them. I loved that about the job, I introduced people to each other and I knew they would get on, because I knew what music they liked. The record shop has been forced to evolve into a community hub, you could buy every record you ever wanted online… but where’s the fun in that? I’m so looking forward to going into these shops and meeting the communities built around them. After all, without customers there is no shop.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Sammy Moore

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Sammy Moore about his show Derrière on a G String by Some Smith & Moore coming to The King’s Head Theatre this May.

This show runs from 6th May to 7th June – Tickets here: https://kingsheadtheatre.com/whats-on/derriere-on-a-g-string-md7x

This show tells its story entirely without words, relying on movement and timing. As a performer, how does that shift your approach to storytelling compared to text-based theatre?

The best thing about that is it means I get to use my face much more than I’m usually allowed. Somehow, my face moves quite a lot and has been described as “elastic” by previous audience members. There is nothing subtle about this show, and taking out the words means everything else has to be huge, and that’s so much more fun! The jokes within each piece of movement are timed with the music, which, of course, is a challenge, but it creates this unique feeling within the audience that there must be a punchline coming up because the music is leading them that way. The comedy then comes out because this beat is satisfactorily met or purposefully subverted! 

The piece blends slapstick, dance, and classical music into something quite anarchic. How do you balance precision as a dancer with the chaos and unpredictability of comedy?

Every single movement is choreographed with precision. It has to be because the chaos means there is a lot happening, and if we don’t all stick to our tracks perfectly, there is a potential danger of an accident. In a similar way to Tommy Cooper being a brilliant magician but pretending to be awful, we as a cast have to nail every step so the chaos can ensue! The music very much leads the narrative of each joke, and the fun is playing with whether we go with that or subvert it! 

You’ve previously performed this show at Sadler’s Wells—how has the piece evolved for this new run at the King’s Head Theatre, and what feels different in this iteration?

Derrière is essentially a sketch comedy show, and this means that some jokes from previous iterations, with the passing of time, no longer work, and we have to get rid of them, but excitingly, that also means new, current and socially relevant jokes can be put in. I’m so excited to see how audiences react to these new pieces that we have come up with! This is the biggest and best version of the show we have ever done, and thanks to the previous iterations, it will also be the most slick and polished, which makes for a better viewing experience. There is a brand new set/costume/lighting and sound design with some rather extravagant ideas…strap on. 

The show plays with “awkward, absurd, and unexpectedly intimate moments.” How do you negotiate humour that borders on the risqué without tipping into discomfort?

It’s certainly a difficult balance between a desire to be outrageous and yet keep the audience at ease. We exaggerate things to the point they are patently ridiculous, which I think helps alleviate any awkwardness that could come from sexual scenes. Whereas the genuinely intimate moments aren’t sexualised, there’s romance to them. So it’s never serious at the same time as being sexual, which I think is where that awkwardness would come from. If you’re watching a drama on television with your mum and there’s a sex scene, there’s nothing more awkward, and you have to suddenly dash off and make a cup of tea. But you can laugh at an innuendo together. That’s where the line is, and we toe it as well as we can.

There’s a strong lineage here—from Laurel and Hardy to Mr Bean. Do you see yourself consciously working within that tradition of physical comedy, or are you trying to subvert it?

We do love to subvert things and keep everything unexpected! But that mostly comes from flipping the music on its head; the physical comedy itself actually is more traditional. It’s often said in comedy that people don’t want new stuff, they want a new version of the last thing they liked. And by maintaining some of the time-honoured devices of comedy, we’re able to achieve this while packaging it in a wholly original concept. There’s something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. 

Image credit: Jamie Zubairi

REVIEW: An Evening Without Kate Bush

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Rating: 3 out of 5.

“A wonderful celebration of the artist’s idiosyncratic brilliance”

An Evening Without Kate Bush is more Kate Bush-centric than the title might suggest (or maybe it’s exactly as Kate Bush-centric as the title might suggest). Created by Sarah-Louise Young and Russell Lucas, and performed solo by Young, An Evening Without Kate Bush is a fittingly eccentric tribute act to the fabulous artist (she’s not dead). 

It is also less of a narrative piece than one might hope, though it is never dull. Young dons an array of wigs and leotards – and some other fabulous costumes – and performs many of Bush’s hits, with an impressive vocal likeness. 

After its sellout Edinburgh run, An Evening Without Kate Bush debuts its now two-act version at the Underbelly Boulevard. I do not know if audience interaction was also a London addition, but there was much of it. Had I read the content warnings beforehand, I would have protested my front row seat. Nevertheless, Young is a delightful performer and chairperson of the Fish People (the cult of Kate Bush fans). 

Visually, it’s a compelling piece too, dramatic in its lighting and wonderfully ridiculous in its movement. Audience is united with artist as we are thrown lovingly from Cloudbusting to The Man with the Child in his Eyes, to, of course, Running Up that Hill. But Young doesn’t just celebrate the classics. She also unearths B-Sides and Bootlegs, including Don’t Give Up, with Peter Gabriel. On top of this, Young reimagines a few of the classics: having learnt of the Russian wrath at the pronunciation of babooshka, she reworks the song of the same name and sings it in Russian. It’s impressive stuff, especially if you nurse a particular penchant for pedanticism, which I do. 

What it lacked in story, it made up for in charm. If one is not already a Fish convert, they’ll likely leave this show realising they knew – and liked – far more Kate Bush than they might have assumed. As with all one-person shows, this piece is never not a showcase for Young, yet she is delightfully self-deprecating as she dons a wedding dress and screeches at Heathcliff. 

If you don’t at least vaguely like the work of Kate Bush, this show may not be the church to throw yourself at. But if you do, it is a wonderful celebration of the artist’s idiosyncratic brilliance. Theatre waxes lyrical about immediacy and intention: ‘why now?’ is a favourite phrase for anyone with dramaturgical aspirations. The rejuvenation and appreciation of Kate Bush’s work may not seem a desperate societal or theatrical need. But anything which seeks to memorialise and pass on art and its legacy ought to be encouraged and applauded. 

An Evening Without Kate Bush plays at the Underbelly Boulevard until 26th April. Tickets are available here.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Nikol Kollars

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We sat down with Nikol Kollars for a quick chat about her upcoming project, Fickle Eulogy. For ticketing and info, please find here.

Fickle Eulogy balances humour with raw grief—how did comedy become a tool for telling the truth rather than softening it?

Humour was necessary to counter the heavy parts of Fickle Eulogy. I was aware while writing it that too much intensity and darkness can drag us down into depression and boredom. But using comedy to actually touch on the rawness, to lean into it rather than distract is a powerful tool. Shining a comedic light and absurdity onto something overwhelming provides a greater release. It helped me with my own grief process, so I felt it might help others navigate their relationship with grief. 

Writing a eulogy is both deeply personal and strangely performative. What did that tension unlock for you as a solo performer?

The tension between the personal and the performative unlocked a radical honesty for me. In a eulogy, an intimate and personal relationship is expected to be publicly available. Then we feel a social pressure to present a coherent, “acceptable” version of the deceased and our relationship with them. We rarely see adults being their true, contradictory selves in their most vulnerable moments. By leaning into the theatricality of it, I found the freedom to explore the blurred lines my character encounters, but also those shared between me as the performer and my character. The stage gives me permission to tap into the darkest, most fleeting parts of my psyche without the fear of social fallout. As a solo performer, I get to embrace the “whole rollercoaster ride.” Early on, the challenge was not letting the words destroy me. I had to learn how to be deeply connected to the grief while maintaining the craft of the performance. Ultimately, this tension transformed the play into a vessel for catharsis. In a way that in the writing process it hadn’t brought me.  I wonder what kind of collective healing we would find if we all allowed ourselves to be this raw and unfiltered during our final goodbyes. 

The presence of an unhelpful AI in the show feels darkly contemporary—what does it reveal about how we outsource meaning and comfort in moments of loss?

Since I wrote Fickle Eulogy in 2021, AI has evolved at an alarming rate. Now more than ever people use AI as a therapist or a companion. Even though we know the algorithms are only regurgitating what humans essentially told them to. But I can see why some people prefer generic catchphrase pacifier algorithms, to messy and complicated humans.  Future generations will show how desensitized we are becoming and how much real danger we face in losing our capability to contemplate, theorize, and analyze. Maybe even really feel. 

How did shaping multiple characters inside one grieving body change the way you understood Ann’s inner world?

While allowing space for the sadness, rage, frustration, doubt, and loneliness, the unique tones and textures of the characters in the play were free to reveal themselves. There is so much freedom in those characters. Giving permission and discovering through the characters made me realize that Ann has bravely surrendered to the chaos of grief. And that we are not different from her if we allow ourselves to find ourselves in Ann.

Grief from Covid carries a specific kind of rupture and unfinishedness—what felt essential to honour about that experience on stage?

It seems that so many of us have not acknowledged how traumatic the pandemic was, regardless of individual experience. For those of us who lost someone during that time, the uncertainty, panic, and frantic distrust in the media and governments added even more fuel to the fire. This play unites us in that shared experience. Knowing my mother was essentially alone in her last days breaks my heart over and over. In this strange way while she is honoured in this piece, maybe I can assuage my regret for not being with her, for being so far away to begin with. A Scottish friend of mine lives in California and her father in Scotland died from covid19 that first month in 2020. She had to watch her fathers funeral online at 3 o’clock in the morning. 

After performing this work across different cities, what shifts—if any—have you noticed in how audiences respond to loss, humour, and intimacy?

I have had a wide variety of responses during the performance as well as afterwards, and they are not necessarily defined by the city or culture. I have had some performances in which the audience was reserved, in a city that theatre is a cultural institution. But afterwards, I am greeted with warmth, emotion and an eagerness to share. Sometimes it depends on the particular audience that comes and how they collectively decide to which extent they will experience the play. I have had performances in which an international audience is completely immersed and engaged in theatrical exchange, laughing and crying. I have also enjoyed seeing a balanced mix of genders. Many men attend the show and give testimonials afterwards with their feelings about loss, how vulnerability is strength, how they feel acknowledged. I would love to perform Fickle Eulogy in Ireland and Mexico, it seems their relationship with death is celebratory and familiar. 

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Amy Snudden

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We sat down with Amy to discuss her upcoming production, Single White Female. The play visits New Theatre, Peterborough 7-11 April, Richmond Theatre 14-18 April with dates in Birmingham, Bradford, Glasgow and many more major venues across the country until 13 June. For tickets see www.swfonstage.com

What first attracted you to the role of Bella in the stage adaptation of Single White Female, and how did you approach bringing her to life?

Bella is a new character in this adaptation, replacing the dog, Buddy, from the film! Because she’s new- it’s been wonderful getting to create a character from scratch, discovering her mannerisms and her interactions with the others around her. I’ve definitely drawn on my own experience of growing up as a teenager in a world shaped by social media, using it as inspiration for her outbursts and fragility, whilst also exploring her sass and sarcasm, which I’m sure we all remember having and are familiar with seeing!

How has working alongside experienced performers like Kym Marsh and Lisa Faulkner influenced your performance in this production?

It is so inspiring to get to work with both Kym and Lisa. Watching them bring such a wealth of experience and specificity to the work throughout rehearsals and every night on stage is incredibly compelling to watch. You feel so safe when you are on stage with them, and it’s really fun getting to play around with the scenes each night, throwing all sorts of offers at each other, which keeps things fresh and exciting. Above all they are also some of the most wonderful humans to be around!

What challenges and opportunities come with performing in a modern reimagining of such an iconic psychological thriller?

One of the challenges has definitely been keeping the essence of the film while setting it in a new, modern era. We wanted to honour and preserve the iconic moments from the film — like the stiletto (iykyk!) — but also make it feel relatable and accessible for today’s audiences, which the addition of social media and modern references really helps with. Finding the right balance between the old and the new was so important. You want audiences to recognise the beats from the film, but the modernisation also gives us the chance to reintroduce the story and connect with a whole new audience.

Can you describe the rehearsal process and how the cast built the intense atmosphere required for the show?

The rehearsal process was fast, but full of exciting moments and real collaboration with our director, Gordon Greenberg, and our writer, Rebecca Reid. Act 1 was all about gradually building the tension and dropping in moments of discomfort for the audience to create that sense that something wasn’t quite right.

Act 2, however, was a completely different beast — a real whirlwind of action. It was so important to keep the stakes as high as possible so that the intensity and fear would really translate to the audience. Once we got into tech, the world we’d built and the tension we’d created in rehearsals really came to life with the addition of lighting and sound.

What do you hope audiences take away from Bella’s character and the story as a whole?

I think Bella really represents what a lot of teenagers are dealing with right now, especially with social media and AI being such a huge part of everyday life. That constant desire to fit in at school, mixed with the pressure to always be online and present yourself a certain way, feels incredibly relevant — particularly with all the conversations happening around banning social media for under-16s.

I hope audiences see Bella as someone who’s funny and relatable, but also come away with a real understanding of how damaging online bullying can be, and just how dangerous social media can become — not just for teenagers, but for anyone. And honestly, they probably won’t be in a rush to invite a lodger to stay anytime soon!

How does touring the UK and Ireland with this production compare to your previous theatre experiences?

It’s been so exciting getting to bring this show all over the UK and explore so many wonderful cities! I’m loving hearing the different audience reactions in each place we go and how they vary from city to city, keeping the play feeling so alive! I’ve also not been to many of the places we are touring, so it’s been so fun getting to explore new cities, as well as visit some old favourites again. 

REVIEW: 10 First Dates

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Rating: 3 out of 5.

A witty, charming tale of ten dates, and a woman who deserves more

At midday on a sunny Tuesday, Camden’s Etcetera Theatre welcomes a Gooper Dust
Production of 10 First Dates. Starring Laura Shipler Chico as Maggie, the play’s protagonist, and a skilled Mark Parsons as her ten dates, Camden’s Women’s Writers Festival continues to celebrate gifted female writing. Directed by Jamie Saul and written by Christine Rose, the play seeks to offer a comedic insight into the reality of dating again as a middle-aged woman.
After the departure of a 25-year old marriage, Maggie is left newly single and considers
her entrance into the modern world of dating. We meet our protagonist as she scrambles to find the right outfit, on an initially stripped-back set, featuring two stage blocks, a coat hanger and a mirror. Anxious of this dating rebirth, we learn of Maggie’s concerns when adapting to contemporary abbreviations and navigating the swipes of the likes of Tinder and Bumble.
Rose’s writing is witty, sharp and convincing as we learn of the play’s premise. Maggie will encounter ten first dates, lasting no more than an hour, and certainly not exceeding two hours.
Saul’s direction initiates some smooth transitions. The revelation of the washing line of number cards which emerges from the coat hanger is particularly impressive and a sleek transition transports Maggie into her first date. Saul’s direction utilizes spacing and proximity to indicate Maggie’s apprehension.
Our first impression of Parson’s characterisation is excellent. Through costume, posture
and voice, Parson’s skill becomes very apparent. This dynamic between Maggie and Date One, lays the foundation for the headaches of online dating, whilst portraying the homogenous experience of dating men. As we meet the varying dates, Parson’s impersonations maintain strong, depicting rich archetypes and aiding Maggie’s endeavour.
Maggie’s dating experiences vary, from dates which disgust her or violate her to warm
her and enlighten her- Rose makes sure to encompass a range of experiences. The theme of sex and the heavy male attention to it runs throughout. We witness Maggie in uncomfortable positions, yet as the dates progress in their sequence, we see some improvement, represented in the words printed on the mugshots of each date on the photocards of the washing line.
Between the dates, Maggie provides feedback to the audience, commenting upon her
frustrations. These moments had the potential to provide a deep understanding of why Maggie feels she must undertake this journey, yet as the numbers increase, I found a repetitiveness in her observations. This made the performance feel slightly like a countdown, and potentially too linear for what 10 First Dates could push for. If the initial exploration of Maggie’s past was pushed to reveal her inner turmoil, these dates could really strengthen the play’s concluding note of self-acceptance.

Nevertheless, 10 First Dates exemplified some great acting and smooth choreography, whilst providing continuous moments to laugh out loud at. With some small edits and a deep dive into the character’s psyche, 10 First Dates has the potential to be really impactful to an audience and offer a critical perspective on modern-day dating.

REVIEW: First Woman

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

Harp in hand, a hot mess on stage, and laughs around every corner.

Sam Hickman’s First Woman is an inventive blend of stand-up comedy and live music, built around a simple but unusual concept: comedy performed with a harp. The show mixes storytelling, original songs and humour, creating a performance that feels distinctive, energetic and slightly chaotic in a way that largely works to its advantage.

Hickman opens by declaring herself the first woman to ever fall in love, a knowingly exaggerated premise that playfully captures the drama of romantic experience. From there, she moves into a short section about dating, recounting the chaos of modern relationships and the familiar experience of being the single friend at brunch, swapping increasingly outrageous stories à la Sex and the City, offering a humorous snapshot of dating culture before the show moves on to its wider themes.

From there, First Woman moves rapidly across a wide range of topics. Hickman reflects on expectations around motherhood, stories about friends and their children, aspects of her music career, and her experiences as a trans woman, including brief commentary on NHS transition waiting lists. The material jumps between personal memories, observational humour and musical numbers, creating something that feels more like a patchwork of stories and reflections than a single continuous narrative.

This structure gives the show a lively unpredictability, though it also means that the overall piece occasionally feels slightly scattered. It is one of those performances that feels like a work in progress: the ideas and themes are present, but they do not always fully connect. Hickman attempts to draw the strands together, yet the show would benefit from a little more narrative threading to give its many ideas a stronger sense of cohesion.

The undeniable highlight of the performance is Hickman’s musical ability. She is an accomplished harpist and an impressive vocalist, performing with a powerful soprano voice that at times leans towards an operatic style. The harp is used throughout the show both as accompaniment and as the centrepiece of several musical numbers, and the contrast between delicate harp melodies and blunt comedic punchlines creates some of the show’s most memorable moments. The overall effect sits somewhere between stand-up and musical theatre, with a tone reminiscent of Fleabag (the musical). 

While the show is not strictly cabaret, it certainly leans towards that aesthetic. Hickman’s dramatic singing style, theatrical delivery and bold humour all evoke the atmosphere of cabaret performance, even as the show remains fundamentally rooted in stand-up comedy. The visual presentation supports this tone: Hickman performs in elaborate self-designed costumes, including a sparkly butterfly-adorned dress that feels playful and theatrical, followed later by a similarly themed outfit incorporating a corset and stockings. The costumes add a sense of performance and personality without overwhelming the show itself. Comedically, Hickman’s humour is knowingly crude and often very funny. Several musical numbers follow a similar structure: a serious or emotional musical build-up before abruptly landing on an explicit punchline. The device works well initially and consistently earns laughs, though its repeated use occasionally makes the jokes feel predictable. After a while, some punchlines land with a sense of familiarity rather than surprise. Nevertheless, the humour remains entertaining, and Hickman’s delivery keeps the audience engaged.

Ultimately, First Woman succeeds because of Hickman herself. Her musical talent, confident stage presence and willingness to embrace a certain chaotic energy make for an engaging performance. Even where the show’s structure still feels slightly unfinished, the strength of the performer at its centre keeps the experience enjoyable.

With a little more shaping to connect its themes more clearly, First Woman has the potential to become an even stronger piece. As it stands, it is an inventive and entertaining evening that showcases Sam Hickman as a distinctive and promising performer.

This show is on tour until 6th June.

REVIEW: Chekhov’s Fun and Facts May Vary

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

An engaging hour of well crafted, chaotic improv comedy

Chekhov’s Fun and Facts May Vary are two improv groups performing at the Edinburgh International Improv Festival. We are treated to two thirty-minute sets, where the audience gives some prompts and then gets to sit back and enjoy the madness of the genre.

Edinburgh’s Chekhov’s Fun showcased a real tightness in their comedy. A few suggestions from the audience, based upon the careers of family members, threw up a range of interconnected sketches featuring: a deadly van carrying inexplicably hot Dandelion and Burdock; a disenfranchised costume designer working towards a children’s pantomime without an audience; and  family law judge dealing with some rather alternative views on child labour. 

With improvised comedy, it has to be assumed that not everything will work out, but this group showed a togetherness that allowed more sketches to hit than to miss. The groups willingness to join in, help each other and crucially stop sketches from going on too long showed a band of artists who are about as well rehearsed as an improv group can be.

Liverpool’s Facts May Vary offered a different style of improv, introducing the idea of  a documentary based around a convention. When looking for prompts from the audience, they settled on a cutlery convention. The idea threw up some fun moments, including a legendary holding-a-spoon-on-the-nose record holder, a father and son knife sales team and a battle between Sean Bean and a Gordon Ramsay who abandoned his adopted Southern English accent for a Northern lilt. While on the face of it, it seems like a topic that has a lot of opportunity for absurd comedy, it turned out to be a topic that had fairly shallow depths to reach.

Still, this is a skilled group of improvisers, who made do with what they were given. By the end of the thirty minute set, we were entertained by a chaotic convention of memorable characters that could be built into a sketch show based around cutlery. The only real let down within Facts May Vary was the lack of using the conventions of the documentary to their benefit. The documentary idea felt very much like an afterthought rather than something that was well worked into the set. Nevertheless, the group put on a very funny show.

The show on the whole was a success, and the two troops performing together allowed the audience to get a full introduction to some top improv comedians from around the world. Maybe they also learned something along the way.

I, for one, will never fight Sean Bean or say yes to driving a milk truck delivering Dandelion and Burdock.

The International Improv festival runs until the 8th March at Monkey Barrel Comedy.

REVIEW: Francis Dunnery

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

“A messy, beautiful, and profoundly personal exploration of identity.”

On the final night of February at Riverside Studios, Francis Dunnery presented Tales of the Council House Kid, a production he warned might be the weirdest show the audience would ever see. He wasn’t exaggerating. This wasn’t a standard concert or a polished piece of musical theater; instead, it was a powerful, sprawling living memoir that felt like peering directly into the attic of Dunnery’s mind. 

The evening was a sweet, deeply nostalgic journey through the grit and humor of a Cumbrian childhood, blending the visceral reality of a working-class upbringing with the high-caliber musicianship for which Dunnery is celebrated.

The heart of the performance lay in its storytelling, which was peppered with moments of genuine comedy and relatable awkwardness. Dunnery captivated the room with vivid descriptions of the clumsy milestones of youth, most notably his hilarious retelling of trying to master the sophisticated art of kissing girls while simultaneously struggling to look cool smoking cigarettes behind the back of the school. 

These anecdotes were told with a raw, “warts-and-all” honesty that made the cavernous studio feel like a small living room. While the talking between the musical numbers was undeniably unpolished—occasionally veering into long-winded tangents—it was entirely forgivable. In fact, a slicker, more professional delivery might have robbed the show of its soul; the rough edges were an essential part of the “Council House Kid” character he was inhabiting.

Adding to the surreal atmosphere was a backdrop of random old TV adverts from decades past. These triggered a palpable wave of reminiscing among the crowd, sparking memories of a specific era of British culture. However, the integration of these clips felt a bit all over the place, lacking a clear chronological or thematic thread, which contributed to the “weirdness” Dunnery had promised. Yet, every time the narrative threatened to become too disjointed, the music would pull the room back together. The songs were very beautiful, serving as the emotional glue of the memoir. The vocal harmonies were absolutely on point, soaring through the theater with a precision that contrasted sharply with the chaotic storytelling.

Ultimately, Tales of the Council House Kid succeeded because it refused to be pigeonholed. It was a messy, beautiful, and profoundly personal exploration of identity. By the time the final notes faded, it was clear that the unpolished delivery and the erratic visuals were all part of the charm. It was a rare opportunity to see a master musician strip away the artifice of a traditional concert to reveal the vulnerable, funny, and talented human being underneath.

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IN CONVERSATION WITH: Celine Kuklowsky

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Celine Kuklowsky – a French/American comedian who can be seen across big stages in the UK (Angel, Top Secret, Komedia, The Stand Comedy Club) Los Angeles (Hollywood Improv) and Paris (Apollo Théâtre). They are currently writing and touring their debut comedy hour “Bed Boy” which will premiere at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026. You can find them and follow them on Instagram @celinekuk for updates and information about their upcoming tour.

This show runs at the Pleasance on 31st March as a WIP – Tickets here.

Bed Boy opens with the deceptively simple question: what is worth showing up for? How did that question evolve for you personally, especially while performing horizontally in a world that expects constant productivity and optimism?

I think we’re all expected to perform hyperproductivity and success under capitalism, and when you’re sick you can’t really do that. It’s a system that doesn’t work for so many of us and this show is in part about showing that: that this system doesn’t center people and their needs, and if you can’t make it work, it’s not your fault (also, girl same. You are not alone!) 

At the same time, we live in a world where it’s so easy to tune out, to not show up, to be disconnected from each other, and in our own bubbles. I think this show wants people to look at that in themselves too—to resist the urge to isolate and actually choose togetherness and showing up for one another in the ways that you can. It’s the only way we’re going to make it through. 

Performing the entire show from a bed is both a practical necessity and a powerful political image. At what point did you realise the bed wasn’t just a constraint, but the central metaphor of the show?

It’s my “emotional support bed.” I wanted to find a way to have my illness be onstage without making an entire hour about it. I have Multiple Sclerosis, and while I do talk about my illness because it’s part of my life, I didn’t want it to be the whole point of the show. A lot of us move through the world as sick people and I wanted the bed to be there as a symbol for that. 

It’s also the thing that’s always lurking in the background for me—like my little ghost bed that’s haunting me, telling me to leave the world and come back to it. I’m someone who spends a lot of time in bed because of my fatigue and it is something that can either be quite enjoyable (the relief of having a bed to retreat to) or can feel so isolating and difficult (when I’m too unwell to get out of bed). This push and pull is something I explore in the show, but I think it applies to a lot of people. When you spend hours in bed, are you resting or hiding? Rotting or recovering? In this show I try to play with that resistance to and then giving into the bed. It’s very fun.

The piece draws an explicit parallel between bodies breaking down—yours, the audience’s, and the planet’s. How do you navigate making that connection funny without diminishing the very real fear and grief underneath it?

There’s a lot of comedy to be found in the universality of how shit the world is right now. I mean we’re all in it together, right? Laughing about it doesn’t diminish the fear or grief—it allows us to engage with it and maybe even change our relationship to it in a way.

Every time I get up on stage to talk about the big scary things—right now I’m writing a lot about what’s happening in my home country in America—I worry I’m going to ruin the vibe of the night. Like, this is supposed to be an escape!  But I find over and over there’s a real relief, a kind of catharsis to being together in a room and laughing at the big horrible thing. It releases tension and makes you feel less alone.

Bed Boy skewers everything from party culture to capitalism to the rise of the far right. Do you see comedy here as an act of resistance, survival, or collective care—or all three at once?

All three at once definitely. Those things are all interconnected. The world we live in is trying to make us feel more disconnected and afraid of each other. This show is about telling us that we need each other and that the solution to all the big scary things lies in us getting closer, going out, building the muscle of togetherness on the dance floor and in the streets. Those things are connected in my mind. 

There’s a striking tension in the show between vulnerability and provocation: chronic illness, aging, and fear sit alongside sharp jokes and an “entirely inappropriate” tone. How do you decide how far to push an audience before pulling them back in?

There’s something really interesting about joking about the things we try not to look at, like illness or aging. Writing this show has made me realize how much time I spend “masking” or performing that I’m not sick (in order to get the job, to make people feel more comfortable etc). I think we all mask to survive in this world. So there’s humor in pulling back the mask and showing the truth behind the performance–we get to watch what happens when a sick person tries to insist “the show must go on” even when their body isn’t on board. And if you find the right balance between humor and vulnerability you can bring people closer to you, and that’s where the gold is.

The show builds toward what you’ve described as a “surprise gay ending” and a rallying cry to fight for each other. When audiences leave Bed Boy, what do you most hope they feel—energised, comforted, unsettled, or ready to get out of bed and do something?

I hope people leave feeling connected to each other in the room but also in the world around them. I hope they leave with the desire to be more playful and irreverent in the world. And maybe a bit more rebellious. It’s all gonna end, we might as well have a good time and fuck shit up while we can.