With a title like that this show can only be: a) a joyful celebration of awkwardness from an effusive optimist; or b) a tirade against the world from a bile-filled misanthrope. Pick b).
And what a glorious misanthrope he is. Lawrence is almost the poster boy for “person most likely to be picked on”. Ginger-haired, diminutive, odd-looking (or ugly, as he insists) and with a voice that sounds like he’s about to break into a full-blown impersonation of Frank Spencer from Some Mothers Do Ave Em. Lawrence delivers hilariously complex rants with nasty adjectival phrases heaped upon each other like a club-sandwich of pessimism, building up the pressure until the audience is left with no other avenue but to whoop and cheer at the eventual climax; the verbal version of an ice-skater finish their routine with a series of triple axles.
In the hands of a lesser comic a cynical rant can run out of puff or become repetitive. Andrew Lawrence, however, is blessed not only with a keen sense of the negative but also with the arsenal of expression to articulate it for the full hour. If jokes were human then Lawrence’s show would be occupying the steps of Flinders street Station.
Fingers crossed that he comes to Melbourne.
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