Lorna Irvine reviews the Scottish comedian's latest tour.
The seemingly ageless and colourfully kilted Mr Hill bounds out like Tigger, doing his trademark shimmy and shake before threatening to teabag some of the front row.
Ebullient and cheeky, he is half pixie, half sexual predator as he proceeds to chat up straight men and goad two latecomers at the back- but, unlike many, lesser stand-up comics, his banter is never more than people can take and governed by common sense, not malice. He's an equal opportunities offender, if you like—all backgrounds get a gentle booting.
All of his banter is a tad risqué, like his stories of teaching sex education in Dundee ('no wonder there's so much teen pregnancy there- “let's call the kid Chlamydia”’ he quips) or an eye-watering anecdote about a misunderstanding in a hairdressing salon, but you could take your most prudish relative and they would relish his warm and witty PC-baiting. He is also a fantastic mimic, and almost vaudeville at times in his physicality.
Effortless, Hill's material is built on improvising riffs with the crowd and autobiographical anecdotes alike, even sending up his own campness at times,but more singing would be welcome—his elastic voice is gorgeous, and a Frisky and Mannish style cabaret format, albeit with full band, would do wonders for him. But that is a small criticism of a seamlessly endearing set.
He is enormously great company—like the funniest guest you would long to have at a party, and at over an hour and fifteen minutes, still never outstays his welcome, barely pausing to catch his breath once. Could that be said about the obnoxious Frankie Boyle? The naughty wee man from East Kilbride has smashed it again, and the Tron just melts.
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