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Ian Stone in Petersfield

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“God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.”
And God of the comedy world is, as it turns out, Ian Stone. A few months ago, I visited Balham’s Comedy Store (blogged here), and witnessed the comedian reduce me to tears of laughter for a good 30 minutes. And as I relieved myself in the Little Boys Room (a phrase Gary Glitter must surely have uttered at some point…) at The Follys in Petersfield last Saturday night, I noticed he was visiting our little town the following Monday. Lucy H and I toddled along, and after a vaguely amusing compere and two young pretenders to the comedy throne (perhaps I’m selling them short… Rhod Gilbert and Simon Feilder were very funny), we got Ian Stone. And I was in tears within seconds, laughing continuously for 40 minutes. He even had to do a 5 minute encore, “for free” as he drily pointed out.
I heartily recommend seeing him, if only for his enormous nose.

BBQ and a Comedy Club

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Now, last night WAS fun. Michelle, Jac and I packed ourselves off to Elli and Mel’s in London for swift barbeque and a visit to their local comedy club. The barbeque went without a hitch, with Jac and I reminiscing about our previous debauched parties there, while flipping the burgers and tossing the sausages like the true barbeque professionals we are. I almost tipped myself over the first floor railing (that broken fence is a deathtrap, I tell you), and we all drank substantially, in an effort to deaden the embarrassment if any of the night’s comedy acts were as funny as a dustpan and brush.
But we needn’t have worried. As all eight of us settled in the front row of the venue and the first act started, it dawned on us why our seats were the only ones available – we were picked on mercilessly. Well, most Jac, to be fair. By the end of the night, he had been accused of both sleeping with an 11 year old girl, whilst also fathering her baby.
4 comedians paraded their wares in front of us, and as is usually the case, each one was better than the last. The comedians of the night were Ian Stone, a self-effacing and self-parodying Jewish man and Reginald D Hunter, a black man who had kindly come all the way from America to make us laugh.
The tables were cleared away after the acts, and the obligatory stupid dances were in full view as Jac and I twirled around the dancefloor, strutting our stuff. Ed, Michelle and the other girls could only look on in embarrassment.
I’ll be honest, I was worried about the comedy – about the awkwardness if the acts just weren’t funny. But on the strength of that I am most sincerely up for another one.