Andy Hamilton

Norwich finally got to see Andy Hamilton last night, over six months after he cancelled his scheduled appearance at Epic Studios due to ill health. It wasn't clear whether he wished to keep the nature of that illness to himself, or just assumed we already knew, but he only mentioned it obliquely before settling down to an evening of cosy chat. I say "cosy" not in a snide or condescending way, but because it's simply the best word I can think of describe the warm hearted disposition of the man whose company felt like time spent with the uncle everyone wishes they had. I don't think I can recall seeing live a person who so exactly comes across as personable and grounded as you hope they will be.

Avuncular charm aside, his sharp wit was evident from the outset, albeit an old school Barry Cryer variety. Cryer, indeed, was one of many comics he credited throughout the show that emphasised comedians were custodians, as much as creators, of jokes. To make the point, he illustrated it with five jokes so old the audience must surely have heard them before. He told them well, and enough people chuckled appropriately, but I can't have been alone in wondering if this was what was in store all night.

I should have known better, as Hamilton then proceeded to deconstruct each joke, explaining why each one worked in what he described as the fantasy land of joke. In a masterly takedown of pious preciousness - this isn't an anti-woke lecture, he insisted, somewhat unconvincingly - he took issue with over sensitive concerns about sexual impropriety, death, religion, cultural appropriation and Jacob Rees Mogg. Gently persuasive, in contrast to more bellicose advocates of freedom in comedy, he seemed more worried than furious that his chosen profession was suffocating from the pillow of misplaced compassion.

And what a profession he has had. With the greater part of the second half of the evening devoted to audience questions we were reminded, via point of detail inquiries, just how many successful shows he has been involved in. Drop the Dead Donkey and Outnumbered inevitably came up, though it was the radio program Harry's Game - which he wrote and starred in as Satan - that seem to win the greatest audience affection. 

 "Ah," he said, the penny dropping. "You're a Radio 4 audience. Instead of heckling, you write a stern letter."

Assuming the questions were genuine, and he was quick to assure us they were, each seemed to act as the catalyst for him to draw from a rolodex of hilarious anecdotes. Despite his insistence on needing notes at his advanced age, there was little evidence of this as tale after tale was reeled off. Neither was he afraid of taking trickier questions head on. Bernie Winters, it transpires, was the least talented comedian he ever worked for.

At one point in the evening I recall thinking that we must surely have gone past the scheduled end time of 9.15 - not that I minded, as I'd have happily sat there all night listening to him. Sure enough, after just one more story about a brolly attack in a Norwich car park, we emerged out onto Magdalen Street at around 10 o'clock. I think it therefore reasonable to assume he was enjoying himself as much as his audience.

The evening was one of an increasing number of the Norwich Arts Centre working in collaboration with Epic Studios. Bluntly put, he was presumably deemed an NAC type act that could draw a larger audience that can fit in St Swithin's Church. Long may the relationship continue, my only gripe being that as a consequence I had to choose between Hamilton and the magnificent Acid Mothers Temple playing to a St Swithin size audience – hopefully the venue won’t compete with itself too often.