There’s no messing about with David Ward. He’s got some jokes and he’s going to tell them. There’s little concern with projecting any particular image, or clever point of view, or even of linking his material together with much skill. He just has his collection of accessible gags from everyday life, and wants to share them.
Such a no-frills approach is unlikely to make him the toast of the circuit – but put any notions of fashionability aside, and you’d have to concede that the man is funny.
He has an innate likeability, and banters easily with the audience, which makes him a useful compere. When it comes to his own sets, he playfully undermines the pretence of audience interaction, happily admitting it’s only a contrivance to get from one chunk of material to the next, which only underlines his workmanlike approach.
His physical presence helps, too. He’s a big man, but comfortable with it. When he pulls up as stool to prop himself onto it’s a combination of wanting to take the weight off his feet, and engender a relaxed, chummy atmosphere. There are the expected self-deprecating lines about his own size, as well as his lack of his success with women. But he doesn’t dwell on his perceived failings to the extent that this is a one-subject set.
Ward’s delivery is a bit too declamatory, pushing his punchlines with an unnatural force, but it seems to contribute to their impact. There are no illusions that this is an ordinary conversation that happens to be funny – the moments when you’re supposed to chuckle are very clearly signposted. And, usually, the audience needs no other hint. He has them doing what they came to a comedy club to do: laugh.
