Part of Glasgow International Comedy Festival
”Time is a waiter- he offers you all these things on the menu, then takes them away… teeth, trousers… AHA! You won’t be needing those anymore”.
Ah, Dylan Moran, lovely Dylan, erstwhile writer of surrealist gem Black Books , with his tousled hair, crumpled disposition and seemingly shambolic, but really whip-smart, routines. Mocking his own middle-class mores and existential dread, whilst sipping on a nice glass of red wine, he is on top form tonight, berating the latecomers with a swift kick to their sense of self-entitlement.
His is a lovely warm self-deprecation,which has taken years to ferment: lyrical and sprinkled with the kind of storytelling that only arrives after years of night sweats. His realisation that he’s now an uncool middle-aged man being served by a barrista ”who resembles an Edwardian who invented the hot-air balloon” is delivered with equal parts scorn and…
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