Less than 5 minutes into the gig, it becomes apparent that the audience is composed of about 1% prick. There are four young men, presumably arrived in Trinity College through some perverse exchange programme with Burn nightclub, who seem content to have their own conversation, loudly, punctuated by the odd exclamation of their own fucking legendary, memetic in-jokes. All I can muster, being a complete and utter coward, is the occasional disapproving glance, carefully performed so as not to make eye-contact with four people who, despite being about 2 years younger (I think) and quite a great deal shorter than me, could each, individually, beat me up with relative ease. In my mind, the situation could escalate almost instantly to such a point, should I raise any objection to their behaviour on a vocal plane. Ben Clifford, head of the DU Comedy Society (who is sitting ahead of me), confronts them every so often, but to no avail. They don’t seem willing to accept the objections of a man in a festive jumper, for whatever reason, and his travails earn him the temporary nickname “Jumper” (genius!). After this, as their merrymaking and general buffoonery become louder, Ardal O’Hanlon questions gently their behaviour and unsuccessfully tries to involve them in some way through the usual comedian-audience-member banter. Eventually, he tells them to shut up or fuck off (in slightly more eloquent but equally profane terms), to uproarious applause from the crowd, whose enjoyment of the evening has been hampered through the unfortunate presence of cunts. As O’Hanlon remarks, “It’s awful, isn’t it, when you’re just trying to have your own conversation and some bollocks comes and builds a comedy club around you?” Quite. The security of Goldsmith intervene, and the quartet remain silent for the rest of the performance, the mood of which has now improved considerably. I wonder why there isn’t an interview process for college admission.
This incident, in which O’Hanlon’s willingness to engage with a potentially very problematic situation highlighted his improvisational capabilities and genuine courage, simply showed, in stark contrast, how bland his prepared material is. Observational routines about the weather in Ireland, the difference between Irish people and Americans and the recession are easy topics from which to wring a gentle laugh, but there’s nothing ground-breaking or largely insightful about them. Am I asking too much? O’Hanlon has carved out a career in a somewhat similar mould to the stand-up stylings of Michael McIntyre, and his reluctance to confront reality with anything other than a blithe but inoffensive misanthropy is both boring and familiar. Admittedly, I laughed a few times, but mainly so as not to seem to the people around me like I wasn’t enjoying myself. Again, in my mind, such a slip-up might have had violent consequences. I certainly didn’t not enjoy the gig, I was relatively indifferent towards it. Having tasted the sweet comic nectar of Stewart Lee less than a month ago, my standards had been raised beyond Mr O’Hanlon’s ability, but it still felt like he was phoning it in. It’s the kind of show you could take your grandmother to without fear of her being offended (unless the very mention of “sex”, “condom” or “India” is enough to push her over the edge). His self-deprecation seems rehearsed and insincere; although his chronic inability to open brassieres is an admittledly funny concept, the ends to which the joke is taken are all too predictable to elicit anything other than a lukewarm reception from an enthusiastic crowd. If he wasn’t such a nice bloke (he seems to be, at least), I’d probably be more critical, and were it not for the fact that I am certainly not his target audience, then a more negative review would surely be forthcoming. It’d be like slating Twilight for being a retarded book/“film saga” made for retarded people; there is little point given that it is a product, a superficial commodity rather than a sincere piece of art. The people who watch it don’t care, and are often very indignant when confronted with their own stupidity. A bad review won’t make a great deal of difference. Obviously, Twilight is much more stupid and insidious than Ardal O’Hanlon. He has his audience, and evidently isn’t interested in challenging them. He’s certainly a capable comedian, his delivery is very good, but his material is well and truly moribund. I was on the verge of boredom for the majority of the gig, disappointed by the inevitable staleness of the comedy on offer. Other people seemed to like it though. What a divisive man.
I clap enthusiastically at the end, afraid of violent reprisal.
