Theatre

Kent Valentine—Sex, Maths and Eric Clapton

Alan Hindle | Saturday 13 August, 2011 15:47

Outside, London was burning. Inside, Kent Valentine was teaching us how to make napalm. It seemed sensible to know what we were potentially facing out there, as masked nine-year-olds ransacked the city for flatscreens while documenting their crimes on Twitter. About two thirds of the way through his set Valentine offered a choice: Should he continue with his show- funny enough but running long- and try to pack forty minutes of material into twenty? Or should he teach us how to make napalm? The vote would be decided by which option got the loudest fingersnaps from the audience. Valentine, however, had no idea that in my youth, jealous a couple friends had got both whips while holidaying in Mexico, I had spent hundreds of hours other boys would have wasted on masturbating training my fingers to snap at 12 decibels. Today, as a grownish man I still don’t know how to abuse myself properly but I can demand lessons in making Greek Fire with the same ease I can attract the attention of dogs and summon bills in restaurants.

Like many comics, Valentine is better spinning jokes out of interactions with the audience than he is with his own material. Becoming a father, which mostly consisted of observing the nurses while his wife was in labour 45 hours; Agonising over the decision to circumcise their baby (boy); Growing up in Australia with nothing whatsoever to do but torch yourself. These were solid bits, but nothing to justify all the comedy awards he’s won. But then, the Napalm Odyssey. I don’t want to spoil any of it. Practice your fingertips now, though. Work those digits ‘til they bleed. Should the chance arise, take the course. It is one of the most brilliantly funny twenty minutes I have ever suffered through. Teary eyes, aching sides, wheezing. The man burned my funny bone. I can never laugh again. I will have to learn to wank as a way to express amusement.

Camden Fringe Festival pages

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