Everyone loves a Scotsman in a kilt with a fast, loose tongue which is why Craig Hill always has lots of groupies. (Probably.)
Toying with the audience, picking out the fellow gays, trying to find laughs in our suburb names (Bicton was hardly a comedy gold ticket), Hill did the best with what was tossed his way and his snippy, bitchy improv remains an outrageous delight. A lot of his shtick relied on the constant reminder that he is as gay as a sequinned windmill, drawing big laughs from touring war stories and the perils of finding old flames in the audience. Waving his sexuality proudly, Hill was scant on shocking detail that would make your mum blush (with only a couple of moments to perplex the naive), but with just a one-hour show, Craig could have been playing with his selfie a little longer to leave us contently wanting a fag to suck on.
