Anglia Comedy Allstars

I was disappointed to learn that our MC for a night with the Anglia Comedy Allstars was going to be Russell Hicks—but only, I hasten to add, because I was hoping to hear more from him than the warm-up snippets we tend to get from the compère. This was the third time I’d seen Hicks and, yet again, my abiding thought throughout his brief appearance was why he isn’t better known—or, indeed, better appreciated. Less of a mystery is why he gets to host gigs, such is his mastery of the art. I'm surely not alone in finding the traditional warm-up routines - “What do you do, sir? Yes, you on the front row, don’t look away” – wearisome. Yet Hicks manages to inject warmth and freshness into his interrogations, making you regret when he leaves the stage. Unusually for an American comic, he strikes just the right balance between detached bewilderment at our eccentric British ways and rapier-sharp charm, albeit (as Tracy in the back discovered) laced with acerbic observation. No matter that he was the only person in the room to miss Mulbarton being name checked. He is, after all, not from around these parts.

I wonder if we give Hicks a pass because an American commenting on the British is more palatable than a Londoner judging the yokels of Norfolk. It might go some way toward explaining why Rhys James’s set went off the rails. Only some way, though, as he kicked things off by taking an unnecessary pop at the venue.

Why was the bar so brightly lit? (Because Epic is also a nightclub, Rhys.)

Why are there barriers in front of the stage? (Because Epic also hosts live gigs, Rhys.)

Why is Magdalen Street such a shithole? (Is it really, Rhys? Well, thanks for that.)

Of all the venues in Norwich, Epic puts on the widest variety of events and is willing to take a punt on subjects as diverse as serial killers and hallucinogenic mushrooms. This was the venue pushing the boat out again, with a comedy night that packed the place with punters prepared to literally take a punt on, title notwithstanding, relatively lesser-known performers. In these tricky times, for both audiences and performers, I would have expected a more gracious start to the night.

Counter intuitively, James then got it into his head that the crowd was disproportionately posh and therefore failed to empathise with jokes about trains and Turkey. Increasingly grumpy that the belly laughs weren’t forthcoming (“Can you actually hear me?” he repeatedly asked), he concluded that the audience was the problem, like a bad workman blaming his tools. Ironically, people were laughing - perhaps not loudly, but folk were doing their best - which made his palpable insecurity all the more inexplicable. Affronted by, rather than embracing, a repeated heckle of “Liberating!” he stumbled through what remained of the contractual obligation (his words, not mine) of a 20-minute set.

“Normally, I would say have a great night,” he finished, petulantly adding, “but tonight I’ll just say goodbye.”

As is so often said of heckles—perhaps that sounded funnier in his head.

After that, Laura Smyth had a lot of heavy lifting to do, not least of spirits. Fortunately, she was more than up to the task. Much of the ground she covered may have been familiar territory - parenting, menopausal fury, mother-in-laws - but she attacked her material with such splenetic ferocity that the cavernous space of the Epic quickly filled with laughter. To my mind, it wasn’t just louder, it was also tinged with relief that we were back on course and sailing toward a successful night out. Even when she went down the odd niche rabbit hole - I can't say I was fully on board with her Burrata versus Mozzarella debate - she still managed to be funny through the force of her delivery and the warmth of her personality. How else to explain her getting away with a dodgy Madeleine McCann joke amidst a Disney diatribe? In contrasting the two acts, it struck me how, with a few notable exceptions, we laugh longer and harder when we like the messenger. It’s probably why the best jokes are always those told by your mates.

I can’t imagine Donald Trump, Theresa May or Kanye West are mates with the evening’s headliner, Simon Brodkin. Our appreciation of his stunts relied less on affection for him, and more on our disdain for the victim. His pranks were funny, but merciless—and they only worked if the audience was on side with diminishing a public figure. To be clear, he got my vote—but I wonder if Brodkin wearied of his Lee Nelson persona, pushing against an open door, playing to a gallery eager to cheer him on.

Whatever the reason, he’s now more likely to be seen without disguise, performing stand-up as himself. He does so very well, albeit with surprisingly safe material. There were chuckles to be had in his winsome take on parenting and the horrors of family camping. The VAR stuff was well done, as was the material about driving, the pretentions of his hateful friends, while his version of Poo sticks sound like an improvement on the original. But do we really need to be told, yet again, that teenagers are prickly, or that siblings quarrel? Coming from a man who used to put his neck on the block for a laugh, I was hoping for something a little more (in both senses of the word) revolutionary.

All in all, a variable night, and that’s how it should be with a comedy showcase. If one act didn’t fire on all cylinders, then worry not – another one will be along shortly. Plaudits are due to Epic for hosting an evening that was never boring and, for the most part, hugely entertaining. I look forward to the next time the Anglia Comedy Allstars come out to play