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the jam is on the bottom shelf

"when i matter, this will be a wonderful quotation"

School pride is a very strange thing.

I have often found myself comparing it to patriotism or nationalism, however the funny thing with that comparison is that I often relate nationalism to racism. Hmm.

Since arriving in Berkeley in the fall of 2012 I have been able to experience the elucidating pleasures of the pep rally, the monotone dictatorship of the American football chants and a lot of pricks wearing a lot of Cal merchandise. I’m not saying that this is a bad thing, I’m just saying that it’s quite a strange thing for me, as I’m simply not used to it. At my university in London, and at most British universities, very few people care about this kind of thing, no one really attends sporting events and only occasionally will you see certain attendees of Oxbridge sporting their schools jumper along with scarf, deck shoes and history of elitist inbreeding. Most other schools simply don’t buy into it.

In comparison to Berkeley’s many stores that feel it necessary to sell paper that has a bear on it, my university in London simply has a small corner shop that sells hoodies, water bottles and key chains and even then the main custom is found by way of London’s population of wandering Asian tourists. Some things then are universal. (That just there was a joke about the huge Asian population on the UC Berkeley campus, people here do that a lot whilst pretending not to be racist, so I thought I’d have a crack.)

Even now, one semester into my stay here, I find myself bewildered about the huge fuck everyone seems to give. The most aware I became of this was at the Cal vs Oregon American football game. I noticed that for some reason UC Berkeley seems to have hired about 3 guys who like to wear brown chinos and who really like to shout random shit at a crowd of people whilst they are wearing said chinos in hope that the crowd will repeat what they have just shouted in a way that doesn’t sound shit and conceited. And, apart from the last bit about it all sounding very shit and conceited they pretty much nailed it.

If this occurred at a (genuine) football game in England this is how it would play out:

Dude in brown chinos: "Every body repeat after me… Roll on you Bears…Roll on you Bears!"

This difference I have found to be quite huge. Let me explain: from what I have gathered quarterbacks at high school in America are very popular and get more than their share of girls. Most of what I have gathered is admittedly based on High School Musical, so I have decided to believe that most of said quarterbacks (or basketball central persons) do not also have musical talent and that they choose to attend to the awaiting onslaught of sluts rather than pursuing an inexplicably hot transfer student whom is good at math(s) but also has a convenient musical talent. In contrast, I was the captain of my high school football team for a while, a seeming equivalent, but seeing as though no one from my high school came to watch any of our games it is understandable that there was no slut onslaught waiting for me. Bummer. Although to be honest, I’m not even sure if my high school had any kind of mascot, I think we were ‘The Sheep’, but I’m not sure whether that was meant in its singular or plural sense. Nonetheless, I doubt that a lot of sheep is that much more intimidating than one sheep, so I shan’t worry about it too much.
At many sporting occasions here at Berkeley, and I imagine it to be similar at other American universities, people are picked on quite nastily for wearing a shirt that is the color associated with a rival school. Hundreds of people shout mercilessly at a single outcast person until they have removed that particular item of clothing. Here’s the punchline: It’s almost as if the American student population aren’t aware that people’s choice of clothes do not necessarily match, through the random and arbitrary association of color, their actual views, opinions and sporting inclinations. Boom. I mean I have literally witnessed huge groups of people scream ‘TAKE OFF THAT RED SHIRT!’ (Stanford colours) at a certain individual until said individual is forced, out of embarrassment and a retarded version of shame, to take of said red shirt.

Again, if this were to take place at an English university I think it would play out as such:

Crowd: "Take off that red shirt!"
Dude in red shirt: “No! Collectively you are a cunt.”

Admittedly I did try and get involved with the spirit of things here, I mean I tried to join in the chants of ‘GO BEARS!’ at the American football games but I always found that I was too self aware to take it seriously. I understand that people embrace school pride to feel a part of something and that is no bad thing in itself, it is only when you take that sense of belonging to the extreme of excluding people from that community just because they are wearing a red shirt or something equally arbitrary that the comparisons to nationalism and racism can come about. I simply made this extreme comparison for comic effect but there is some truth to it and it is for this small reason that I can’t immerse myself into the overwhelming school pride that resides on this campus. So although the films make out school pride to be a glorious and all-encompassing thing (‘films’ = High School Musical) we need to remember that these people actually think that they, as academic communities, are a bear, and that’s just a little bit weird.

By Daniel Cooke

The Reality of Having a British Accent in California

When I decided to leave London behind for a year to study abroad in California all I heard in the months before I left was something akin to the following:

 ”Mate! I mean seriously mate, America is like one big tumble dryer full of pussy, it’s going to be coming at you from all different directions, I mean you are literally going to be drowning in pussy. I once used to know this guy right, and he went to California right, and then one day right, this women just gave him a blowjob in the street because he was wearing an England rugby shirt.”

Now, I want to swiftly move past the notion of drowning in a tumble dryer to address the issue that this semi-fictional quote does in fact summarize quite nicely the British understanding of having an accent in America; that being, that it allows you to pretty much get with any girl at any time in any place.

The Accent (A) at a time (t) in a place (p) = PUSSY (P!).

Now the truth of the matter is this; the having of (A) is at first quite a luxury. It acts as a conversation starter if nothing else and is, on a level somewhat below that of sporadic street fellatio, quite an admired feature. To most this would seem to be a rather positive thing right? Well my deer chums, frankly it isn’t all that. It isn’t for example, ‘hella sick bro’, nor is it, ‘dank’ as my American friends would have me believe; in all honesty it’s just quite nice. I shall explain.

My first point is this; most Californian girls (well most Berkeley girls) are very aware that most Californian girls view the English accent as attractive, this is, as you will soon see, a bit of a problem. They (without merit) presume that I expect to be able to sleep with them and, as such, they take up a particularly defensive stance from the get-go, this, as you may have rightly presumed, makes the accent somewhat redundant in regard to it’s assumed power, or to stay with the previous metaphor - the tumble dryer, in such instances, becomes a little chilly.

I shall turn to my second point; I have found that the most entertaining junctures with the accent around campus and at parties are those wherein a girl believes the accent to be fraudulent; statements along the lines of, ‘so where did that accent come from?’ ‘Nice try’, and ‘fuck you dickhead’, have become both increasingly common and thoroughly enjoyable. Initially this disillusioned me, however I have grown to enjoy these moments as I find that it offers me the delightful position of A. knowing that I am completely correct and B. knowing that the girl in question is both an idiot and a bitch. In such instances I find it socially acceptable to be a bit of a dick for a decent period of time as she clearly isn’t a good person and is therefore deserving of any form of wrath that I feel inclined to bring upon her.

It has come to the point where I find myself yearning for conversation that doesn’t begin with the phrase ‘Oh my god, do you have an accent?’ or any of its equally obnoxious and evil counterparts. In the beginning, I admit, it was rather fun and for a while I even played up to it. - I had two very simple ways to do this: firstly I would find things that were slightly different to things in England and then I would talk about that thing all the time, for example, ‘I have to be 21 to drink, that is not like where it is that I am from, I’m from England by the way, where are you from?’. The second way to exploit it was as follows; when a friend had some food, and I wanted some of that food, I would just explain to them how we don’t have said food in England and every time they will offer it to you. Also, based on the fact that most Californians don’t know anything about British culture this can work even with things like burgers and ice cream, and to my surprise this even worked when I explained to them exactly what it was that I was doing.

For the foreseeable future then I shall try to enjoy the perks that come with the foreign accent but I shall do it in a way that does not misrepresent its power. Too many horseshit stories have been fed back across the Atlantic (for the American readers, that’s the big ocean between Europe and North America) which has resulted in most British people being just as misunderstood about American culture as the majority of American people are about British culture, which, based on my experiences is not a great thing.

It is then a complete fallacy to say that the having of an accent is anything akin to a tumble dryer full of pussy, if it is like anything at all I would say that it is similar to a slowly paced conveyer belt that occasionally has pussy on it, and that this pussy is by its very nature irrationally skeptical about the adventitious. The truth it seems isn’t always that pretty but is often quite wordy.

By Daniel Cooke

Why the Pope is a cunt, and why the next Pope will be a cunt.

This week, with the aim of staying relevant, I offered myself the choice of either writing about the Pope’s resignation or about the Oscars and Seth Macfarlane’s role as host. So, I could either write about a sexist bigot who is, for some strange reason, allowed to speak a load of horse shit to millions of people to disguise his interest in rape, or I could write about Pope Benedict XVI.

However this is all I could muster for a title about the Oscars, ‘Why the Oscars are a cunt, and why Seth Macfarlane is a cunt’. Not as punchy right? Thus I chose the Pope thing.

Let me proceed. Clearly Pope Benedict XVI is a cunt. I used to merely assume this however, after a spot of research, I am now rather confident that no counter argument to this position is possible. Now I’m not an idiot, obviously most people of Catholic faith would argue this point, yet with their history of reasoning I wouldn’t describe myself as worried.

Catholics: ‘I believe that Pope Benedict XVI is not a cunt’

Me: ‘Pope Benedict XVI is actually a cunt; I have these reasons and everything’

Reason 1. Under the regulation of Pope Benedict XVI hundreds of Priests who were publicly accused of peadophilia were able to elude their native law enforcements and resettle in positions that brought them into contact with children. (I normally choose my words carefully to avoid potential obscurities in meaning; I did not do that on this occasion.)

Reason 2. Pope Benedict, throughout his papacy, staunchly championed a complete return to fundamental Christian doctrine to counter the up rise of secularist views such as the denial of absolute moral truths in the western world. That’s a bit like seeing that all of your classmates have just gone out and bought the PlayStation 4 and then concluding that it’s probably time to pop into the loft and dig out the Sega Dreamcast as Pixels are easier to understand in small amounts.

A:’Who is that kid with the Sega Dreamcast?’
B: 'That's little Joey Ratzinger, he's a bit of cunt'

Reason 3. Pope Benedict XVI is on twitter. Admittedly I am also on twitter, however I am not the Pope, so that’s not an issue. If I ever get on friendly terms with a deity I promise I will delete my account.

Reason 4. Pope Benedict XVI tweets things such as,

During the season of Lent, we renew our commitment to the path of conversion, making more room for God in our lives’

Notice that here he says ‘our lives’, we must remember however that Pope Benedict XVI is the Pope and as such his life is pretty much the most full of God possible. Although if he didn’t have to worry about covering up certain scandals he could jam just a little bit more God in there. Thinking about it, maybe that is exactly what he tells the choirboys. 

Reason 5. He resigned from being Pope. If he resigned because he no longer wanted to be seen as a cunt and he thought that it was the being Pope that made him a cunt then he was mistaken.

I feel that these 5 reasons are enough to substantiate my case, however please feel free to contact me for more if your will inclines as such. For now I will turn my attention to the new Pope and why he also will be a cunt.

In 1139 Archbishop Malachy had a strange vision about the future that consisted of the names of every Pope who would rule until the end of time. A touch far fetched it seems, but lets roll with it. Archbishop Malachy’s prophecy named 112 Popes in total, our papal pal Pope Benedict XVI being the 111th, meaning that just one remains. This prophecy consisted of Malachy saying, in alignment with the 111th spot on his list, ‘Gloria Olivae’, which means in English ‘the glory of the olive’. (This is the good bit) As the order of Saint Benedict is also referred to as ‘the Olivetans’ Malachy is deemed to be correct. Now, apart from Pope Benedict’s quite smooth and dark complexion I can’t see any further reason to agree with this, but I shall anyway for the sake of this next bit.

The next and final Pope will, according to Malachy, be ‘Peter the Roman’; it seems then that all of this fuss about the changing of a 500-year-old policy to allow the cardinals to decide on the next successor is a bit of a performance. Old Pete has probably been sitting by the fire for many years now preparing his mass service for the coming palm Sunday. And I bet its still shit. Not only that but who do you think everyone is going to blame at the end of time: the Christian God has turned out to be non-fiction, everyone needs a finger to point at, you cant point at an immaterial God, therefore in that small juncture of time between our realizing that the world is ending and the world actually ending Peter the Roman will be globally and unanimously viewed to be a cunt. I think it will be fitting to end with the words of Bill Hicks quoting his friend Jimmy Pineapple, ‘case fucking closed’.

By Daniel Cooke

The River

The boat did not rock. It moved straight, so straight in fact that I became unsure as to whether the boat was harnessed to a pulley system beneath the clear black water. We crossed the river perpendicularly. I do not know why I presumed it to be a river. There was no current and I could see no decline or direction to the water. To say that the water was still only serves to allude to the scene, it does not express exactly what it was that I saw; I knew it to be water for we passed through it, yet we did not displace it. The water disappeared allowing for our mass to take its space and then it seemed to reappear in the vacuum that we had left in our wake.

I did not look at the oarsman, nor did he look at me. I did not know how many trips he had already made, or if indeed I was to be his first. I presumed this not to be the case. He breathed heavily and indolently. He may have escorted an uncountable number of people across these waters; perhaps each of them had found the thoughts that I had in these turbid depths. Perhaps it was these depths that were the cause of these thoughts in me and in each traveler before me, mine were surely not inimitable. Each clean reflection on the pervading blackness seemed to be soaked in retention and remorse, each flicker of light bearing a story that will now remain untold, at least in the words of its owner. What fragments of these tales remain with the people who heard these stories when they lived, what sentences, what details, what tones have been laid to rest, buried with their owner, immortalized in death.

The oarsman has gestured to me now. His breathing reduced to forbearance. We have arrived at the once further shore. I most go now and leave the oarsman behind to make the lonely journey back to the shores from whence we came.


By Daniel Cooke


The following letter was found slotted into a ‘Big-Mac’ hamburger next to the strangled corpse of Peter Sam Mallard on New Years Eve of 2012. The burger had been ordered without cheese and it is believed that it was preemptively ordered this way to create ample space for the letter whilst maintaining the aesthetics of the burger.

Peter was known to the public as the face of the McDonald’s restaurant franchise under the name of Ronald McDonald. He was 67 years old.

The entry bears the date December 31st 2012, and was signed by Peter using the name of his pseudonym in red gel pen.

A further name ‘Grimace’ was also signed on the letter; it was in peter’s handwriting and was written in a purple gel pen from the same pack as the red one mentioned above.

 The act that we will undertake tonight is not without thought and I feel it necessary to divulge the detail of the process that has lead us to this point. We feel that we are victims of the consumerist capitalist and burger-fueled society that the western world has become. We need you to pity us, to make an example of us and share our case with the world. Enlighten them and change may come. May no one else suffer at the greasy hands of the major corporations. You must use our example and create a united front against them, hold together like melted cheese on a bread bun and fight them. You can beat them.

This is my story. As a 19 year old, in 1963 I had very little going for me. I was not doing well in school and I turned to food and clowning for the comfort that I craved. I had aspirations of traveling the world and seeing the native cultures of far off lands, seeing what the world had to offer outside of my small hometown. One day whilst out casually clowning, a man who worked for a restaurant company approached me, he spoke in an enticing tone and the way he looked at me made me hungry. He spoke to me about an opportunity to be the face of his company, and that I would be able to travel the world posing for photographs in locations that would be suitable for the location of each restaurant in the chain. I thought that this was an opportunity that I could not pass up and I signed the contract that he had already written up in excited haste.

It was a lonely job, but I was getting to travel just as I had dreamed. I’m not sure exactly which outing it was where I met Ballooballoo, it was around the early 70’s I think and we have appeared in photos together for decades now, myself as Ronald McDonald and Ballooballoo as Grimace, the big purple character. However the good times came to an end quickly, I was told that I was never allowed to break character; I was to remain Ronald Mcdonald forever. Family get-togethers and high school reunions were immediately awkward and I was constantly being laughed at and teased, ‘look at that crazy clown’, ‘mummy, why is that weird man dressed as a clown at the dentist?’ ‘Oi, clown cunt!’ It was hard to take. They tried to sweeten the deal by offering me unlimited burgers. I found comfort in this once again. However I became too fat for the clown suit so they would be forced to give me lippo suction to bring me down to their preferred size. I would eat all that I could, and then I would go in for surgery, every week this went on, year after year. I call my stomach ‘Scar City’ because there are a lot of scars on it. Ballooballoo likes it when I call my stomach that. So I do it a lot.

Mcdonald’s dangled a dream in front of my eyes then made me too fat and full of hate that I could no longer chase it. I became a prisoner of the franchise. Used at their whim. They tried bringing in other characters like Mayor McCheese, the Hamburglar, Birdie the Early Bird and The Fry Kids. But they never let me go. I was their lead man. My only true friend is Ballooballoo, and after The Fry Kids attempted to rape him our group became split. I wanted to leave the corporation but I was the face of their company and they would do anything to keep me as their own.

In brief this is our story and this is why I am here now along with Ballooballoo ready to do what we are about to do. Do not remember us as martyrs heading for a world bursting with salad, self assurance and virgins covered in cress, think of us as Peter Mallard and Ballooballoo, victims of the corporation unable to continue our forced tacit support of the growth of their cancer.

Peter Sam Mallard was found alone. It is understood that he believed that Grimace, the big purple blob character, was in fact a real creature that was his greatest friend. This was not the case. The Grimace character was fictitious and has appeared in photos with Peter through the use of digital enhancement technology since 1971. It is supposed that Peter strangled himself under the belief that he was in a suicide pact with his friend ‘Ballooballoo’.

By Daniel Cooke

Quick get a photo of all the people in the streets of Berkeley celebrating Obama’s election win!
Fuck that, have you seen how long this dude’s neck is!?

Quick get a photo of all the people in the streets of Berkeley celebrating Obama’s election win!

Fuck that, have you seen how long this dude’s neck is!?

The Ice Cannot Always Be Seen Here.

It was dark and he pointed at the street. ‘There is frozen?’, the guy said in an accent.
Hungarian or something.
I said yes, the street was probably frozen.
‘But I cannot see ice’ he said, ‘How can you know there is ice?’
I said that you just had to expect it, in this cold. You had to expect ice this time of year.
The dog pulled at the lead, my husband’s dog.
If the dog was pulling at the lead it must have been cold.
‘I need to be careful, right?’ the guy added, smiling and pulling his collar to his throat, ‘The ice cannot always be seen here.’

Written by Rich Fox.

Our Four Day Fringe Continued.

Day 3:

Having just invented the game gig-roulette we found ourselves in an intimate venue for a show called The Committee Meeting, which featured three Welshmen  (one of whom was in some way connected to Rhodri Gilbert) as a set of characters who’s lives revolve around their local workingman’s club. The hour show, which at times was too reliant on the audiences participation, was hit and miss throughout- with the bigger laughs coming mainly from moments of improvisation and technical malfunction. Although somewhat enjoyable and easygoing, there was nothing particularly special or original enough to ensure its format remained fresh. As such, we have henceforth decommissioned gig-roulette and assigned it to the graveyard of shit games.

With only Rhys Montague Darby arranged for the evening, we found ourselves with a large chunk of time to kill. We not only killed it, we crucified the shit out of it. As we loitered around the Royal Mile we overheard a team of evangelical preachers who had amassed a small crowd. Assuming it was some kind of ironic interactive theatre art piece we wandered over. It wasnt. After 2 hours of what to them may have seemed like discussion, we parted from the 3 men who remained adamant that if they continued groping the tits of reason for long enough then God would pop out. We went to Pizza Hut. Textbook.

Rhys Darby was shit.

Day 4:

Lights up.

Tom and Danny, two devilishly handsome young men sit about a brown coffee table, a single lamp in the corner lighting the whole room. It is visibly dark outside. The pair drink milk and look particularly lethargic. A laptop sits open in front of them with its blank screen clearly noticeable. Its clear that they are at a loose end.

Tom: Do you think we could review Kitsons second show in dialogue form, to like mirror the nature of his piece?

Dan: What?

Tom: Do you think we could review Kitsons second show in dialogue form to like mirror the nature of his piece?

Dan: What?

Tom: Fuck you.

Dan: (Laughing) At least that would look funny written down if we were to do a review like that.

Tom: What?

Dan: Fuck you. But wouldnt we get carried away and try and like out do the depth of his narrative?

Tom: It does seem likely Though Im not sure we could usurp such genius. It was fucking amazing.

Dan: It really was. He took the notion of a narrative within a narrative and just played around with its limits whilst mocking the very idea itself. Also, I dont know about you but Im finding it quite difficult to review in this format, I cant see it working in the way that we want it to at all.

Tom: It is a bit tricky, though we can edit it later and refine it a little bit. The reader wont even know what has and hasnt been omitted. Thats exactly what Kitson did- stepping out of the play to give the audience little red-herrings that we merely accepted as real, but were in reality just as scripted as everything else.

Dan: Exactly yeah, it seemed as though it was a work in progress as he came out and explained it as such at the beginning, yet that explanation was part of the show.

Tom: Glad we took that itself off the end of your last line, sounded far too contrived. But yes, essentially, little more has to be said: It was genius, It was a show within a show within a show within a show within a show and he incorporated the writing of the overarching show in the layers of each meta-show. I dont even know if it was comedy or theatre.

Dan: I would have interrupted you earlier but that would have meant more editing, but you should have just said that it was a show to the power of five. Like in maths and shit. Im writing mine as if Im speaking man, like putting in man, that shit works to that effect. I think youve purposely made your statements more intellectual and lucid than mine to try and show me up.

Tom: Indeed, though to the power of five displayed a level of opacity I was not comfortable with, forgive me for making this more accessible. Perhaps youre correct, Im writing mine as if Im writing me speaking rather than writing me as if Im speaking. Anyway, not everyone can comprehend our jargon-filled and objectively hilarious definitely not written beforehand conversations, so Im swaying away from clearly asinine, fatuous and idiotic comments such as: Like in maths and shit. You bell end.

Dan: Ah that reminds me of Scrubs. Speaking of Scrubs, we should probably manufacture a way to move away from Kitsons show so we can talk about how we saw The Blanks perform later that evening. Any ideas?

Tom: Nothing springs to mind but we can always edit one in later. They were swell though. Musically, the four were quite incredible, and the way in which the sketches and songs were linked was ingenious. Not only that, the way the band involved the audience throughout the performance and never let the atmosphere become stale was testament to their indelible professionalism. Gee, it sure was a great show for the whole family at a reasonable price.

Dan: I feel this is dragging on a bit now, how do you think we should end this?

Looking reasonably satisfied with their effort and their inspired ending the two stand up. Danny yawns with a stretch. Tom shuts the laptop and begins tidying things away. After a few moments they both head for bed (but not in a gay way). Tom notices the Lamp and heads back into the room. Danny exits. As he fiddles with the lamp Toms face is momentarily illuminated, and we see that he is almost certainly more attractive than Danny, with a more impressive head of hair. The light switch clicks off.

Lights down.

Lights up.

The room is empty. Danny runs back in and opens the laptop once more. Spying an opportunity, he types out the words Tom is a dick at the bottom of the page. He clicks save, shuts the laptop and leaves.

Lights down.

Written by Daniel Cooke and Tom Gledhill.


Our Four Day Fringe. A Written Retrospective.

(04.08.12) Day 1:

Having indulged ourselves with a spot of Partridge on the 1” square screen of my 3rd generation ipod nano, our megabus belatedly arrived in Edinburgh. After finding our way to the Caladonian Backpacker’s Hostel (which we definitely recommend) we headed to the old town for our first gig, Marcus Alexander Brigstocke’s ‘The Brig Society’. Performing to a decent sized crowd in a stuffy room he delivered a satirical and well structured critique on the elitism of the conservative party and their economic policy. A roughly-worked illustration of the inanities of big banks with well deployed audience participation was a notable highlight, as was the very apt labelling of ITV’s Patrick Joseph McGuiness as, ‘Peter Kay, with less to say!' Although if what you are saying is genuinely shit it really doesnt matter how much of it you say. 

(05.08.12) Day 2:

What can I say about day 2? A fucking lot because it was awesome. With only our evening planned in the form of Phillip Christopher Jupitus we stumbled gleefully into Simon Douglas Munnery’s ‘Fylm Makker’(YA!). It was quite simply the most original and inventive hour of comedy that I have ever seen. Whilst sat intimately amongst the audience a live projection of his face served as the focal point for an act, which, consisting of crude animation, monologue and song, left some of the crowd bemused and the majority amazed at his irreverent genius. (It’s like 9 quid. It costs like three times that to watch Francis Martin Patrick Boyle swear at things. So go.)

A sketch show called Firenado (a tornado of fire) is, I think, also worthy of note. As part of the free fringe the two guys entertained an audience of 5 with well written but poorly acted sketches. Their breezy charm, though, was infectious and the show achieved its tallest heights with the phrase PHDick - which I think remains funny even out of the context which I cannot remember.

Our evening agenda, Phillip Jupitus’ ‘You’re Probably Wondering Why I’ve Asked You Here’, was frankly a delight. We went in with an expectation level somewhat analogous to that of no expectation whatsoever having seen little of his work beyond Buzzcocks. Split into three parts he portrayed a trio of dead characters including a ‘life-cast’ of his late self from the future. In each instance he set the scene and then provided a virtuoso display of surreal improvisation, character acting and impressive historical knowledge which maintained the laughs throughout. Again a definite must see at the Fringe this year for anyone who is not a cunt and/or deaf. You deaf cunts better stay away.

Later that night we were disappointed to find ourselves just missing out on the last 2 tickets for Daniel Kitson’s ‘Where Once Was Wonder’, yet our luck was in and we managed to scalp some tickets from a couple of twats. Our luck was even inner when Dangerous D delivered the best show of ever. 100 minutes of intentionally self-contradictory existentialism is all we can muster by way of description. Maybe we would be able to remember more if we weren’t retarded by laughter for the shows entirity. It is also somewhat tricky to pick out any particular highlights of the show as it was performed so fluently and consistenly as a collective piece, rather than a contrived series of ‘bits’. I wonder that perhaps he has developed this trait of imbuing his act with an air of ineffability to render the writing of a review of his show almost impossible (though as he states in his show, 'we constantly move from the impossible to the immutable'). The closest comedy comes to Philosophy and the closest Philosophy comes to comedy. 

Written by Daniel Cooke and Tom Gledhill in a variety of tenses.

Days 3 and 4 coming shortly…

Amsterdam to Split 2012. A Retrospective.