COMEDY REVIEW: Mark Watson

Mark Watson

by Michael Upton

ATTEMPTING to explain what Mark Watson’s tour show is about is both a tricky task - and a pointless one.

There’s no tangible theme to what is essentially a serious of unrelated rants, rambles and reflections but the ride is so much fun, the lack of direction doesn’t matter at all.

In fact, the meandering and apparent lack of structure are part of the charm and fit perfectly with Watson’s nervous, earnest stage persona.

Ostensibly setting out to relate his troubles in flying to Australia for a comedy gig, Watson spends an hour-and-a-half wandering off on numerous comic tangents, taking in such widely-varying topics as the consequences of being mis-recognised, the dangers of taking song lyrics too literally and whether a radish can ever be thought “essential”.

Watson comes across as eager but ill-at-ease, admitting to being both grateful for but underwhelmed by his status as a “middle-ranking” comedian.

One of the highlights is when he pauses midway through one supposedly unintended digression to explain how — given the Leadmill’s legendary status in music folklore — he would be delighted if audience members would help themselves to the knickers, plastic flowers and confetti cannons he has placed at stage-side, consider during the interval “if you might be able to give me a piggy-back” and ready themselves to demand an encore when he leaves the stage prematurely.

When a front-row punter accidentally lets off one of the paper-filled tubes while Watson is at the bar, leaving him to return to a litter-strewn stage, it seems entirely appropriate (and provides the comic with another opportunity for rumination).

Hecklers are not shot down but gently teased and even encouraged, particularly one who helpfully suggests he ease his own workload by contracting out 20 minutes of his set to “special guest” comedians, Watson observing wryly that inviting everyone to tweet during the interval about such fantasy performers might boost future ticket sales.

Watson seems genuinely happy to be here, explaining he has traded the Memorial Hall at the City Hall for a date at the Leadmill’s relatively-new comedy club, noting how the likes of Pulp, Arctic Monkeys and Slow Club - “I threw them in to seem up-to-date”, he confides - have trod the stage before him.

Invoking the way that Jarvis Cocker would send on a lookalike first to take the crowd’s acclaim before walking on himself, Watson suggests he should pull the same prank using David Baddiel, except of course that Baddiel is older, shorter and, er, Jewish. Dreaming up such a copycat stunt and then deconstructing it is classic Mark Watson.

It is to Watson’s credit that he takes on such hackneyed areas as travel, shopping and domestic life and manages to find original, well-observed humour (albeit with the odd near miss).

This show is like having a nervous, awkward but inexplicably funny friend round for the evening and both enjoying and feel guilty about laughing at them.

Even if Watson’s son, as referred to in one analytical skit, may once day bemoan to his therapist that while his dad was on TV, it was “mostly on Dave” and wish he had Spider-man for a parent instead, the likeable serial panel show contestant is unlikely to struggle any time soon for an audience in the Steel City — especially if he can namecheck the likes of Chris Bart-Williams.