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Hampstead Comedy Club
‘The Adelaide’
143, Adelaide Rd, London NW3 3NL
Reservations from 2pm on day of performance
Call 09 44 20 (0) 0207633 9539
Tickets £8.00 - £9.50
Running time 2 hours with intermission
Every Saturday at 9 pm. Doors open 8pm
Laugh out loud funny
The joy on the faces of the punters told its own story. Hampstead locals and the art form that is stand-up comedy were both well served last Saturday night at the jam-packed opening of the new home of the Hampstead Comedy Club, upstairs at the Adelaide pub, in Hampstead, North London.
We know and love Woody Allen, Eddie Murphy, Gene Wilder, Seinfeld and Billy Crystal, et al, stand-up comics become superstars. Britain can sport Billy Connolly, Eddie Izzard, maybe, who have made that leap, but it doesn’t happen often here. More’s the pity, for the talent lurking in our dark corners can produce moments to savour.
Anyone looking for something other than standard theatre fare could do a lot worse than have look at who’s on at this buzzing spot, although, for non-smokers, it would be best to wait until July when the long awaited non-smoking laws make the air breathable again.
The club is owned and run by the veteran comic, the droll Ivor Dembina, who attracts special talents to his venue, and he didn’t go wrong. Opening his line-up was Harvey Oliver, witty, confident and in control, giving the impression that he could handle as much responsibility as you threw at him. He approached the edge that the best observational comedians thrive on, and more power to his elbow. That’s where the money is. (As Murphy told the judge why he was always breaking into the bank).
Next up was Paul Foot, all stomping and exasperated ranting, pouring scorn on anything and everything. Especially on homophobic heterosexuals, as they have only themselves to blame for creating homosexuals in the first place, because try as they might, gays just can’t manage it. Original material from a mind festering with disapproval.
After intermission Jeff Innocent took the place by storm. His dangerous persona was milked for all it was worth, his gravelly cockney delivery giving him the right to say what he wanted, to whom he wanted, and get away with it. His audience in the palm of his big fist, his glistening bald head and earring making you glad he was on your side, they wouldn’t let him go. Laugh out loud funny, and a pleasure to watch? Guilty as charged, Mr. Innocent.
In between acts, Dembina, with his world weary, forgetful mien, warmed his faithful with a skilful working of the house, eliciting often hilarious contributions from the willing and the unwilling in equal measure.
The attack by the comics, like antibiotics on the warpath against the diseases of hypocrisy, prejudice and stupidity left me feeling that life was improved a little that night.
Highly recommended
Saul Reichlin
London Correspondent
Talk Theatre in Chicago Podcast
www.ChicagoCritic.com
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