After the recent success of his light entertainment programmes on television and radio, Frank Skinner, dressed in his typically conservative fashion of a blazer and smart shoes, has fostered a genteel reputation – the sub-optimal pie whisperer on Taskmaster, the well-propped raconteur on Room 101. To see him pacing the stage of the Gordon Aikman theatre at ease, dropping c-words and f-bombs withaplomb, is almost disconcerting. Yet it is all entirely within Skinner’s comfort zone, reflective of the person he is, the comedic analyst he appears to have become.
30 years of dirt is partially a review of both Skinner’s CV and his own act in and of itself. His speech appeared meticulous, steady in its delivery. The anecdotes were well-honed, whilst easily adaptive around his audience, whose behaviour and anecdote quality are managed smartly and with good humour.
With only a stool for company, Skinner is in his element, his routine drawing on his comedic upbringings, the pre-internet pub debate, and the demographics of his audience that he presumed reflected his own maturing. Yet his humour appeared universal, jokes referencing the fat on a George Foreman grill, the eroticism of a mermaid through atraditional English folk ditty, and the poetic steam of factory machinists. It is all sandwiched within royalty as Skinner clutches only straws from his reality in recounting his MBE ceremony earlier this year – attracting a noble and adroitly managed heckle. At his heart, Skinner is filthy, acknowledging the adoration he continues to hold for the humour that brought him into the industry long ago, only now wrapping it in the soft plastic film of intellect. His show’s title reflects that.
Towards the end of his hour, his pacing gently slowed, his words flowed with increasing rhythm, as Skinner indulged his passion for poetry that has spawned a hit podcast in recent years. Using the unedifying metaphor of 70s strippers, he reflects aloud on showbusiness, all that it holds, all that it gives, and everything that continues to sustain him 30 years on from his Perrier award.
Few can squeeze Cristiano Ronaldo and Shakespeare into a single set, let alone an antelope in Blackheath and linguist P.M. Roget. It is almost indicative of Skinner’s self-awareness that he does, likening his own non-sequiturs to the behaviour of a footballer dribbling the ball towards the corner flag, running down the clock by whatever joke possible. But this is to undersell the skill with which he operates, aware of what jokes land, and how to time them. A joke’s cheapness is often acknowledged, its strengths immediately cheered on by their creator. At times, it appears safe, teetering around greater topics or commonality in favour of harsh self-deprecation, the f-bomb used on occasion to break the ice of an otherwise unengaging sentence, eliciting half a chuckle in a way no other quantifier ever could. But the floor was unquestionably Skinner’s, and the audience – packed to the rafters – appeared to agree. The Breakfast Show host remains as sharp as ever with his bite, the excited youth within him still weaving comedy through his now multi-generational audience. All of whom may never see Cristiano Ronaldo’s six-pack in quite the same way again.
Frank Skinner is performing at the Gordon Aikman Lecture Theatre (Assembly) until 27th August. Tickets can be found here.
Image provided to The Student as press material