Tim Batt’s exploration of the human experience starts at birth, arrives at call centres, takes retreat in the safety of a car and ends on a psychedelic mushroom trip.
In essence, not really the “human experience”, but Batt’s experience no less. He quickly dissolves any sense of superiority he might have over the meaning of life, nit-picking it down to some observational humour about his own life, squeezing in some philosophical and political anecdotes as he goes.
Batt mainly works in long-form storytelling, chucking in a few puns and short, sharp gags to move the central idea along. Some of the stories are a little too lengthy, and they do miss their mark, but nestled in amongst this not-quite-polished monologue are some real gems about technology dependence, Uber drivers and an existential crisis on the Manchester floor of a department store.
Some cheap lines about having the freedom to be as racist and sexist as you like as long it’s when alone in your car in the midst of road rage makes for an uncomfortable moment, as do some pretty unoriginal lines about religion. Batt’s ability to play with the audience and take cues from their reception does show some good technique, though, and he comes across as a likable guy with good intentions.
