COMEDY UNDER ThE STARS CANON’s GAIT (VENUE 78) HHHHH
LAsT year, I gave Peter Buckley Hill five stars. Under which he laboured, he tells us. Risking what he calls “the power of the Scotsman’s poo poo” he explains to his rapt audience the problems that visit a comic like him when they get five stars. I apologise, but, even at the risk of ruining his career, I cannot give him fewer than four this year.
But please, dear reader, don’t expect to see the show I saw. That is not how PBH works. He does have a set list. several set lists in fact. We only needed the one. An hour with PBH takes you away to a much nicer place. We all join in a version of The
Wheels On The Bus that refers to the Large Hadron Collider, we make the sounds of a sleazy French bar at three in the morning and, at PBH’s request, we simply imagine seamless transitions from one section of the show to another while he wrestles with his guitar.
He ponders the identity of the makers of “unwritten rules”, sings the complete history of the universe to a tune made famous by Frank sinatra, explores some of his favourite paradoxes and sizes us up, before deciding to cut the Magritte gags.
One-liners and random thoughts pepper the set, along with references to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs and schrödinger’s Cat. PBH is looking for love this year. Mainly in the Guardian. It is not going well. “I’m aware that I have digressed considerably,” he says, waving his set list at us. We don’t care. No one digresses as delightfully as PBH. But don’t think the genial giant cannot be utterly appalling. His closing “historical” love song was accompanied by the sound of sphincters snapping shut all over the basement of the Canon’s Gait.
Until 29 August. Today 6:05pm.