Paul Foot ProfileTonight, there was a little bit of the familiar but also a whole lot of the unexpected for Paul Foot fans, or “connoisseurs”, as he calls them.
There was the usual out-of-control offstage announcement, the patented deconstructionist meta-comedy and typical chicken spasms of rage. But the bulk of the show was consumed by an excursive narrative that somehow tied together the administrative side of suburban orgies, famous snooker players of the 1980s and the Falklands War. It was delivered with what seemed to be a lurching yet immaculately timed spontaneity; on reflection, the vast bulk of tonight’s performance must have been premeditated and exact given how ingeniously worded it frequently was.
Although Foot’s oddball persona sometimes overshadows his writing, tonight proved that he can master a new long-form style that bordered more on surreal, divergent storytelling than conventional comedy. It also featured the best pun on military hardware/facial hair imaginable and a dreaded example of what you may be subjected to if you turn up late and in the wrong seats. Once again Foot proved to be in another league to his imitators.
