There have been many schools in the art of surrealist comedy. From the anarchic, raw beginnings of Spike Milligan, to the self aware, Oxbridge intellectualism of Monty Python; right through to the daft apothery of Reeves and Mortimer up to the modern day uber-cool rock and roll slant of the Mighty Boosh. However it is to the irreverent clownery of an American, Andy Kaufman, that I believe Paul Currie owes his greatest debt. From his bizarre and often disturbing puppet interactions right down to his obscure musical interludes and protracted silences this stinks of the man on the moon all over. But that’s no bad thing. While Andy may have got there first, Mr Currie continues his legacy with great aplomb, and it is a legacy worth continuing. From his opening hand routine to the closing cornflakes bit the show is performed with such charisma and energy the audience is left almost as sweaty and exhausted as Mr Currie himself.
Just before the show my neighbour asked me if we were foolish to sit in the front row. I assured him we were safe as this was surrealist comedy. After being fondled, molested and at one point force-fed (but never insulted!) I realised I couldn’t have been further from the truth. One for the brave then. And no-one is spared. That hand reaches a long way. Unfortunately this was one of the last shows on the fringe so I fear this review will have little impact. But should you choose to read it I suspect you will see Paul Currie again next year in what – if there’s any justice in the world and he continues with this level of invention – should be a bigger venue. One to watch and one which I feel personally elevated for watching myself. The best kind of surrealism makes sense, so I implore you to see Paul Currie next year, ‘cus you know it makes sense. Ostrich. FOUR STARS