It will come as no surprise that a critic should instantly become a fan of a comic whose debut show at the Edinburgh Fringe (for which Alun Cochrane received a Perrier Award nomination) was a show titled My Favourite Words in My Best Stories. Anyone who loves words is a hit with me - we’re ploughing the same furrow after all, just in different ways.
In fact, the first time I tried to see that show in 2004 I was the only person at a London preview; there had been a misunderstanding between his promoters and the venue, and Cochrane and I had turned up for a gig that no one else knew was happening. So we adjourned to the pub downstairs and over a couple of pints he entertained me with the gist of the show, and I was chuffed (itself the kind of word Cochrane, a thoroughly amiable Yorkshireman, would use) that he liked some of my favourite words - “schadenfreude”, “moist” and “tmesis”, since you ask.
In fact, watching Cochrane on stage is like listening to a very funny mate talk about his life down the pub, as his latest show, Jokes. Life. And Jokes About Life, suggests. So it’s a wonder to me that Cochrane, one of the more erudite comics on the circuit, has not made more of an impact on upscale radio and television panel shows that his sardonic and languid wit is perfect for. But no matter as Jokes. Life. And Jokes About Life is another perfectly formed show, lo-fi but with big laughs.
Observational comedy can sometimes be obvious, predictable, by its nature quotidian, but Cochrane has two distinct advantages in that he has a very individual take on life and a beautiful way with words. Who else could make jokes about his wife and mother dying and make them funny? And who else would describe a laptop being used as a beer tray as “a perfectly usable beverage plinth”? Yes, there’s the now obligatory mention by an observational comic of satnavs, but here it’s turned into a running gag with a neat twist. And along the way, other seemingly unpromising material - the allure of denim clothing, the seams in jogging socks, Cochrane’s favourite biscuits, or his nan’s Alzheimer’s - is transformed into razor-sharp insights or poignant reflections on life.
He may be in a communication industry but Cochrane has no great desire to communicate any more than strictly necessary, he tells us. To start with, he’s a misanthrope, and the phone, email and talking are quite enough for him to keep in touch with his loved ones; Facebook and MySpace are simply unnecessary, and Twitter is just “minor celebrities talking to each other” while their fans can follow them but can’t join the conversation. Quite.
Cochrane is happy to flout comedy conventions; he tells stories rather than jokes (although he dips into a box marked JOKES and pulls out gags to punctuate the show), there are few punchlines, and he even deconstructs his act as he goes along. At one point where he has exaggerated something for comic effect, he acknowledges it’s not true and says: “You know that and I know that, but I’m just trying to make you laugh more.” And he does.
In fact, watching Cochrane on stage is like listening to a very funny mate talk about his life down the pub, as his latest show, Jokes. Life. And Jokes About Life, suggests. So it’s a wonder to me that Cochrane, one of the more erudite comics on the circuit, has not made more of an impact on upscale radio and television panel shows that his sardonic and languid wit is perfect for. But no matter as Jokes. Life. And Jokes About Life is another perfectly formed show, lo-fi but with big laughs.
Observational comedy can sometimes be obvious, predictable, by its nature quotidian, but Cochrane has two distinct advantages in that he has a very individual take on life and a beautiful way with words. Who else could make jokes about his wife and mother dying and make them funny? And who else would describe a laptop being used as a beer tray as “a perfectly usable beverage plinth”? Yes, there’s the now obligatory mention by an observational comic of satnavs, but here it’s turned into a running gag with a neat twist. And along the way, other seemingly unpromising material - the allure of denim clothing, the seams in jogging socks, Cochrane’s favourite biscuits, or his nan’s Alzheimer’s - is transformed into razor-sharp insights or poignant reflections on life.
He may be in a communication industry but Cochrane has no great desire to communicate any more than strictly necessary, he tells us. To start with, he’s a misanthrope, and the phone, email and talking are quite enough for him to keep in touch with his loved ones; Facebook and MySpace are simply unnecessary, and Twitter is just “minor celebrities talking to each other” while their fans can follow them but can’t join the conversation. Quite.
Cochrane is happy to flout comedy conventions; he tells stories rather than jokes (although he dips into a box marked JOKES and pulls out gags to punctuate the show), there are few punchlines, and he even deconstructs his act as he goes along. At one point where he has exaggerated something for comic effect, he acknowledges it’s not true and says: “You know that and I know that, but I’m just trying to make you laugh more.” And he does.
- Alun Cochrane is at Soho Theatre, London W1 until 5 October
- Then touring until 5 December
