Will Andrews at the Soho Theatre

When Miles Jupp became famous as Archie the Inventor (the loveable eccentric from smash kid’s programme Balamory), he faced a dilemma: what to do when the teeny fans of your family-friendly work come to your very adult stand-up gigs?  Miles, being an upright sort of chap (I’m assuming: he likes cricket), felt honour bound to tone things down.

Will Andrews, one of stars of the CBBC show I’m Sorry I’ve Got No Head, has clearly not yet felt obliged to make the same choice.   And a good thing too.  Last night’s one-man show featured bad language, bad taste and two elaborate jokes about poo.  It was also extremely funny.  How can you not like an evening that begins with the theme from Indiana Jones and ends with silly string?

An on-stage slide show included a guest apperance from Sorry I’ve Got No Head co-star Anna Crilly.  Another cast member, Justin Edwards, was in the audience.  Sorry I’ve Got No Head, by the way, is easily the funniest sketch show on television.  It’s written, performed and directed by people who account for a significant proportion of the nation’s output of adult comedy.  Graham Norton, Mel Giedroyc, Marcus Brigstocke and James Bachman are all in it.  The director of the second series is Dominic Brigstocke, who has also directed the Armstrong and Miller Show.

Yet Sorry I’ve Got No Head is consistently cleverer, funnier and made with greater respect for the audience than its adult counterparts.  Like Pixar, it pulls off the trick of amusing viewers large and small at the same time.  No laugh track intrudes.  Many sketches are subtly subversive.  There’s the assertive snowman whose insistence on equal treatment in a variety of situations (the sauna, the curry house) culminates in his melting into a puddle on the floor: Richard Littlejohn would probably approve.  There’s the nice middle-class parents who buy their son tennis lessons and violins and extra maths tuition, but who won’t give him a hug.

But then there are also sketches which appeal on a more basic level.  I’m fond of the Delia Smith-a-like cook whose passion for blueberries is matched only by the ferocity of her bottom burps whenever they get mentioned.

Very often, the programme as a whole is funny enough almost to make one, as the cook herself puts it, go big on one’s smalls.  More please.


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