What happened at the eclectic Suffolk festival

Emo Philips

This was the big draw, the comedy arena headliner after three days of seven-hours a day stand-up – the return of Emo Phillips. It’s the first time he’s been here since his fleeting visit to the Newbury Comedy Festival back in 2006, but judging from the size of the audience, he’s still got fans from his Eighties heyday.

I say Eighties heyday, but his powers are a strong now as they ever were. Those powers being the ability to craft perfectly oddball one-liners, as efficient as they are bizarre. Some of the gags in his set seem to have been there since time immemorial, admittedly, but they are comedy’s equivalent of protected historic landmarks, always worth revisiting.

Then, of course, there’s that persona. Many a comic affects the stance of the deranged weirdo for the sake of a gag, but none has the same commitment as Emo. With him, you truly believe the sociopathic creepiness could actually be real. He speaks in that strained, sing-songy alto that’s instantly identifiable, the punchlines followed by the laboured breathing of a nervous pervert.

At Latitude, he took to the stage in flowing orange dressing gown and waistcoat, frequently brushing his asymmetric grey fringe from his face, looking like an early Doctor Who who now has to sign a register every couple of weeks.

The circumstances of the gig sometimes troubled him. As the chords from The Temper Trap on the main Obelisk Arena gatecrashed the comedy tent, he was visibly put off, comparing this to a comedian’s version of hell. But the audience had no such qualms, savouring every deliciously exotic joke. And for an apparent surrealist, he touched on real-life topics, from politics to his divorce, his antipathy for his ex-wife, whether genuine or fabricated, fuelling more than one stinging put-down. There are a few adult jokes, too, but the youngsters at the front had heard far more explicit over the hours that preceded Philips.

It’s always a joy to see the man work – and with an impending Edinburgh show plus a smattering of other gigs, you should grasp the chance while you can. Steve Bennett

Rufus Hound

Rufus Hound has to be extra-careful at a family-friendly festival such as this, issuing an unequivocal warning early in his set that even though he stars in a kids’ TV show, the ensuing performance is wholly unsuitable for youngsters, however broad-minded the parents. The fact he’s had his face painted probably isn’t helping his argument, though.

‘The thing is,’ says the star of CBBC’s Hounded, ‘I quite like working on children’s TV, and the only way can continue to do that is if no one complains. I know what happens to Jonathan Ross.’

Initially, parents may wonder what the fuss is about, as Hound describes how men communicate through the all-purpose clarion call ‘way-hay’ before launching into his atheist arguments, which may follow a very familiar train of thought but are given emphasis by his slow and deliberate, Stewart Lee-style repetition of the key phrases.

Sticking to the theme of ‘things Professor Richard Dawkins knows quite a lot about about’, Hound moves on to evolutionary biology. But all this is in support of his powerful panacea; the answer to all mankind’s troubles for which there is a strong evolutionary drive: more blow jobs. That’s why the kids were asked to leave the tent as he drives home the message time and time again, sometimes quite graphically.

It’s a routine he admits was forged in the heat of rowdy gigs full of stags and office parties, more than something designed for the genteel Latitude comedy tent. But the repetition that is the joke, more than the actual words he says, still has the audience transfixed. It isn’t what you say, it’s the way you say it… SB

Mark Watson

The archetypal Latitude comic is probably Robin Ince, that walking bundle of educated, well-meaning liberal middle-class aspirations, wrapped in a cardigan. But while Ince spends his days on the literary stage, the polymathic Cambridge graduate Mark Watson epitomises other aspects of the Latitude attitude – being friendly and earnest, trying to do the right thing in a world that can often overwhelm his mild-mannered ways.

And, indeed, his breathless patter went down a treat, with the audience easily identifying with his fluid tales. Watson, possibly more than any comic around today, tries to break down the barrier between performer and audience as much as possible. Sure, there are physical manifestations of this – such as walking among the crowd to deliver some of his act. But more it’s in his whole naturalistic style, talking without sense of occasion as if this was just a casual chat with friends, as he describes seeing a fat bloke missing the train, becoming a dad or being prepared to suspend his disbelief and finally accept that the popular spread is not butter.

He says the curse of his life is that he feels the need to commentate on everything, as if a sports reporter; but it’s proving invaluable in comedy as he spontaneously and almost involuntarily describes how the gig’s going, adding an genuine freshness.

This afternoon, the youngsters in the front provide plenty of fodder, as he teases them with the illicit pleasures of bad language – which, of course, they knew all along – and engages them in idle conversation.

And that’s what the whole set feels like: a conversation. Only better. SB

Terry Alderton

Terry Alderton’s the stand-up equivalent of ADHD, with a set that’s a fast-cut cacophony of noise and gags and gimmicks and action, always keeping the audience surprised. It’s like watching TV while a cat plays with the remote, changing channels at random, sometimes dropping you back on something you’d been watching before, sometimes settling on something new – only to flip again when you’re getting into it.

As a technique, it’s as effective as it is original. You have to pay attention to keep up – as if you could ever let your mind wander with this human Looney Toons on stage anyway.

‘I like noise,’ the Southend lad tells us, redundantly given we’re midway through a set that frequently showcases his mean beatboxing skills, although always in the service of a gag, even if apparently tenuously. Plus he has a versatile voice, not only able to impersonate the likes of Lee Evans and Alan Carr, but slip into mini-characters of his own making at the drop of a beat. It means he can keep returning to gags such as his sad-sack Fathers4Justice campaigner with just a single, out-of-context, barked-out line suggesting a whole back story of anguish.

His trademark routine, though, is to vocalise the voices in his head, turning away from the audience to offer a running commentary on the performance, occasionally glancing demonically over his shoulder to glimpse those he’s talking about.

The set’s a maelstrom of activity, full of energy, verve and disorientating snap cuts that continually surprises and entertains. SB

Kevin Eldon

With a list of credits as long as Mr Tickle’s arms, Kevin Eldon was surely one of the bigger names to grace the comedy arena this weekend. Yet he had only the briefest of slots, which he used to showcase his musical talents more than his comedy ones.

Strumming on the guitar, he gave the audience a small handful of elegantly witty, if not hilarious songs – including one in French – before taking on the guise of a rapper MC (that’s Mortgage Consultant) to drop some beats about pension planning, ignoring the fiscal irregularity that such topics wouldn’t come under the mortgage remit.

It was all well performed, but rather baffling, with not enough time to put the numbers in any context, or to work out quite where Eldon was coming from. More an interlude than a set… but then his much-anticipated Edinburgh show is called Titting About, so maybe such randomness IS his shtick. SB

Popcorn Comedy

Stand-up Holly Walsh and producer Jon Petrie’s clip-based comedy night received a run-out at Latitude. Compared by an animated popcorn carton called Poppy, this is possibly the only stand-up show to be hosted by an unhealthy, overpriced two-dimensional character full of hot air since… well, you can finish the joke yourself.

The idea of the night is to present the funniest clips from the jungle of online comedy. Most of the clips I’d seen before – and, indeed, had featured on the front page of Chortle, where we similarly post the best online video content – but not everyone will have done. Plus, films are always funnier when viewed as a shared experience, rather than alone in front of a computer monitor.

To make it more of a live experience, some of the film-makers are invited to perform. Tonight they were Doc Brown, doing his crowd-pleasing ‘introduction to hip-hop patois’ routine he’d performed on the comedy stage the previous day, the double act Cardinal Burns, with their strangely plaintive song about two Addison Lee drivers seeking romance and Robert Popper introducing some of the prank phone calls he made as his easily bemused alter ego Robin Cooper. However, these slow-burn clips were, in truth, better seen on the medium for which they were created, the big screen and the personal appearance of the writer adding little.

There is a mass of good-quality comedy on the internet, even if it can sometimes be swamped by footage of pandas sneezing or cats playing piano, and Popcorn Comedy is an enjoyable way to find it. And if you can’t be bothered with actually going to a live show, there’s an app for that, too – an iPhone widget that collects the clips together. SB

Daniel Kitson and Gavin Osborn present Stories For The Starlit Sky

This is surely going to be sacrilegious, considering Daniel Kitson would have every right to the title of best comedian of his generation, but I was underwhelmed at this story session. The hour was quietly enjoyable, but lacked the powerful romantic pull of his usually divine monologues.

The stories were those he performed at Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre in London last year – three interlinked but standalone yarns designed as bedtime stories for grown ups; although who goes to bed as early as 1am at an outdoor festival is a moot point.

Also, the setting wasn’t as idyllic as it sounded. The idea of this warm, whimsical word-weaver sitting on the edge of a beautiful Suffolk lake as the audience huddle on the banks is more than slightly spoiled by the noise from ‘ironically’ cheesy discos spilling in from every direction, and rowdy crowds trooping past on Latitude’s main thoroughfare.

Such distractions notwithstanding, this second part of the triptych tootled along amiably enough. The twin narrative concerns a ten-year-old insomniac who needs bedtime stories before he can doze off, so one strand follows the yarn about a community of retired assassins now living in one sleepy English village made up for the youngster’s benefit, with the other is the real-life adventure as dad lets his son stay up through the night for the first time ever.

This secondary plot might have provided more moments of evocative magic – but was underplayed in favour of the hitmen story, which had the feeling of a quirky but not quite credible TV show – a Tale Of The Unexpected, maybe. But the twists were predictable and the ending riddled with holes, which Kitson acknowledges as a flaw of the father supposedly improvising the action.

However, even if the stories aren’t as rich as we’ve come to expect, the charmingly vivid language was as delicious as ever. Hearing the phrase ‘Hot chocolate o’clockolate’ is probably worth an hour sitting on dried mud alone – and one of the few times Kitson went for a laugh, perhaps for fear of breaking the story’s spell. Between the ‘chapters’, the delightfully talented Gavin Osborne provided suitably tender songs, maintaining the whimsical nature of the experience.

Perhaps this piece works best in concert with the other two components, and certainly more tranquil surroundings are a must, but the second Story For The Starlit Sky was more of a gently calming experience than the compelling must-see of Kitson at his unassailable peak. SB

Angelos Epithemiou

Angelos Epithemiou isn’t what you’d call a crowd pleaser. His deadpan, cantankerous anti-comedy involves just three gags, the gaps in between filled with awkward banter and bad takes on light entertainment. All of which makes for fine character comedy, as Renton Skinner, the man behind the reluctant, Asperger’s stand-up, tests the audience’s patience to hilarious effect.

The method has served him well and his regular telly slot on Shooting Stars with kings of the non-sequitur, Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer, ensures that the Latitude comedy tent is packed with punters who ‘get’ him and lap up Epithemiou’s insults and poker-faced diatribes.

Shuffling onstage in his trademark anorak, too short trousers, too long tie and enormous bins, Epithemiou resembles the kind of bloke you’d hope wouldn’t sit next to you on the bus. Clutching his carrier bag of props as if it’s a security blanket he delivers a series of beautifully judged mis-gags, from a spectacular sing-a-long, in which the audience is encouraged not to join in, to his, um, interesting tirades on the MPs’ expenses scandal and the impending environmental meltdown.

Epithemiou is an expert at killing the atmosphere and does so whenever the crowd appears to be enjoying themselves. Messing with the tempo at such a sprawling gig is a brave move – but one that pays off. A quick-fire round of spot-on impersonations (Chris Eubank, Bruce Forsythe, but not Hitler – ‘as if I’d do him!’) get the audience onside for Epithemiou’s finale to Mud’s The Cat Crept In, which is possibly the biggest test of endurance yet, as our ham-fisted hero mainly stands still for the song’s duration. It’s a perfectly uncomfortable end to a wonderfully graceless se. Mickey Noonan

Ardal O’Hanlon

It’s an astonishing 15 years since Father Ted made Ardal O’Hanlon a household name. Still, there remains an aspect of Father Dougal-like bafflement to the Irish comedian’s stand-up and it’s no doubt the reason why his early afternoon slot in the big purple tent is well-attended.

No longer a wide-eyed innocent, O’Hanlon may now be a middle-aged man, but he'd have us believe he still isn’t sure what he’s doing when it comes to surviving and understanding the world.

Concentrating on what he knows, O’Hanlon’s engaging tales of his marriage, fatherhood, extended family and home country are solid stuff, a steady stream of laughter elicited by his purported inability to actually cope with any of the above.

He’s a charming storyteller, detailing his DIY inadequacies and annoyance with RyanAir with a gentle and occasionally daft touch that takes done and dusted material and makes it fresh.

There are topical moments too: his embarrassment at being a Catholic due to the recent scandal in the church; the economic doom’s affect on Ireland and his recent invite onto Strictly Come Dancing (sadly, he said no).

O’Hanlon is strongest when he’s engaging in surreal flights of whimsy, where his inventiveness is impressively natural, from his reasoning as to what makes a bloke ‘manly’ to his put-down of ants bound to leave the little critters feeling slighted.

The whole set is wrapped up in a message: be positive. If at times O’Hanlon forgets he has a theme, he makes up for it with a charming self-deprecation that’s hard to resist. Father Dougal McGuire won our hearts and O’Hanlon isn’t letting them go anytime soon. MN

Dominic Holland

We don’t see much of veteran stand-up Dominic Holland on the circuit any more. Perhaps he’s too busy writing films that, by his own admission, probably won’t get made, or perhaps because his son Tom is playing Billy Elliot in the West End, the Holland family hardly need the extra cash.

At this Latitude appearance, ahead of a half-run at the Edinburgh Fringe next month, he showed some of the distinctive flair that made him one of Britain’s most astute observational acts… as well as some signs that he’s a little gig-rusty.

Being a 43-year-old father of four, you can perhaps forgive him for not wanting to hit the local Giggle Garage every night of the week. But his family has given some of his best routines, even amid a crowded field of ‘hapless dad’ chunks as the once-young vanguard of comedians advance into middle age.

Holland’s segment about getting his lads changed in a cramped swimming pool cubicle has the sort of first-hand frustration that can’t be faked, while his depictions of picking out dog shit from a youngster’s trainers invokes tears of laughter and recognition.

Not all of the set is this assured. There’s well-worn jokes about chavs wearing tracksuits but hardly looking sporting, while sometimes he overplays the grumpy old man card, muttering about new-fangled phones as if he’d only ever seen them with dials on until now.

But even then he eventually winkles out the laughs, even if occasionally he has to address the fact a few of the punchlines en route don’t quite hit the mark. SB

Jimeoin

Probably because he spends so much time in Australia, it can be easy to forget just what a sublime observational comic Ireland’s Jimeoin can be.

He started his Latitude set with probably his greatest hit: showing how a subtle eyebrow movement can change a sentence’s intent – a bold thing to try in such a cavernous venue, but surprisingly effective. That was followed by an inspired description of the virtual reality of memories that surround is. This great routine shows his greatest strength – the ability not just to observe foibles, but also to posit an apparently credible, though clearly fantastical, theory as to why this may be so.

As opposed to telling us things we could probably have figure out for ourselves, Jimeoin goes microscopic in his detail, offering such delicate, precise conclusions invisible to the untrained eye.

He can be equally inspired or silly, sometimes both, such as when he mocks his own slapdash mime work or emulating the spin cycles of a washing machine. This is a fortysomething man just making noises on stage, proving him as hilarious without words as he is with them.

He delivers all this at the ‘speed of cheese’ – the slow-burn, pause-riddled rhythms you would expect from someone with so much time he can ponder these insignificant details in such depth. But although soft spoken, his delicate, devastatingly accurate comedy comes through loud and clear. SB

Josh Widdecombe

Outside of the mini new act competition Latitude holds, reigning Leicester Mercury Comedian Of The Year Josh Widdecombe was probably the least experienced stand-up to take to this intimidating stage this weekend.

And although he has some fine material, much of it from the point of view of an anally over-analytical chap uncomfortable with lad culture, he struggled to raise much of a titter from the thousand-plus audience, in contrast to his much more assured performance in front of 100 or so at Kent’s Lounge In The Park festival last weekend.

But his gags often deserved more than this muted response. Observations about such fresh topics as narrowboats and Madame Tussaud’s are both lovely and obtuse, while his inventive new routine about heightened senses was quirkily funny.

True, he occasionally pushes his premises too far: he might have been amused by spotting a sign in the Co-op offering legal advice, but his extrapolation stretches the idea too thin. Other routines are empirically impressive for the clever lines of thought that have gone into them, but don’t quite make that emotional connection to bring a neutral audience on-side.

But the aforementioned routines, plus witty takes on being dumped and (separately) burgled indicate a promising future once he can build an audience empathy with large crowds such as this to match the craftsmanship of his best material. SB

Holly Walsh

Comedians have two options at festivals when it comes to choosing material: either take the opportunity to road-test new gags in front of a big crowd or use proven patter. Holly Walsh largely went for the latter option at Latitude.

She rolled out her routine about living in run-down Peckham which she did the first time I ever saw her, way back when we had a credible Labour government – and these days Peckham is becoming positively posh. It’s still a good routine, though, and the crowd certainly liked it, so Walsh's choice clearly paid off.

It is no surprise that Walsh is making a name for herself on TV. She is clever enough to appeal to the sophisticated comedy nerds but also skilled enough to make the passing punter laugh, with stories about Wetherspoons pubs laminating everything so it is easier to wipe up the vomit, being mugged by an eight-year-old or – something that is rapidly becoming a decidedly over-popular topic – self-service supermarket checkouts.

Hopefully she is banking up new material for a proper show, but for this short daytime slot her old well-polished vignettes did the trick. She has a particularly good line in spotting the oddities of languages – why indeed do we say ‘Excuse my French’ whenever we swear? It was a good indication of Walsh’s skill that I remembered her extended anecdote about being flashed at almost verbatim and yet it still made me titter on another hearing. BD

Andrew Lawrence

Every now and then a rumour circulates that the perma-scowling Andrew Lawrence is starting to mellow in order to get more TV exposure. There was not much sign of it in the comedy tent where he was as fiercely filthy as ever. While Frankie Boyle channels his misanthropy into non-PC one-liners, Lawrence has a distinctly different approach, telling fairly reasonable stories and then piling vitriolic adjective upon vitriolic adjective in one bleak, breathless, abusive punchline.

It’s a trick he uses repeatedly, but it works every time, whether putting the boot into Australia, inspired by a miserable trip to the Melbourne Comedy Festival, or recalling the vile bile he imagines dishing out to a traffic cop who stopped him for dodgy driving. These are hugely powerful pay-offs, not just witty but also expertly delivered, or rather expertly spewed out.

Of course, there is no point speaking fast if you haven’t got plenty to say and Lawrence certainly has. Some might not like his dark, self-loathing worldview, but it certainly lends his set a consistent tone.

Yet maybe he is mellowing slightly. I’ve never seen Lawrence get an entire audience to join him in singing the title music from a popular Seventies comedy before, and pulling this off at Latitude was a masterstroke. It might have been a trick of the light, but I was sure I could see a smile flicker across his wispy-bearded face as the Benny Hill theme echoed across the Suffolk fields… BD

The Great British Country Fete

Comedian Russell Kane’s first play is being developed by West London’s Bush Theatre – although ‘play’ might be an ambitious term for a collection of cartoony two-dimensional comedy archetypes in what amounts to a series of sketches. Exposition is always spelt out while the only real dramatic element is resolved through convenient deus-ex-machina solution that comes out of nowhere.

Yet the versatile cast of Katie Brayben, Graham Lappin and Gabriel Vick throw themselves into pantomime-like performances with such vigour and freshness that there’s still fun to be had, especially with the musical numbers.

Subtlety isn’t a strong point, though, with some jokes and characterisations that could have come out of a Carry On film. The setting is the farm of Camel Toe – yes, really – on the village of Upham, and should you miss the joke, the first song’s chorus rhymes it with ‘lets stick it up ’em!’ With similar lack of imagination, we know the farmer’s son is gay because he loves musicals and wants to move to Brighton; there’s a racist who hates blackcurrants and will only eat white bread; while the middle-class Guardianista newcomers have set up a hummus farm – a motif familiar from Kane’s class-obsessed stand-up.

The plot, such as it is, involves the Tescoisation of the countryside, with a supermarket rep urging Farmer Joe to sell the family land for progress’s sake, given that rural life is largely shunned by anyone mobile enough to move to the city. Our hero stages a village fair to help save the community – which means a separate scene for each of the stallholders in turn. As well as the aforementioned, these also include a sexually frustrated female vicar, a trade unionists who thrives on bureaucracy and factional in-fighting and a trio of Bulgarian migrant workers who might have to be depicted in silly folk hats and wielding an accordion, but get the best, and gloriously narrow-minded, song of the show: What The Fuck Is In Bulgaria?

It’s the songs – composed by Michael Bruce – that provide most the fun, since audiences are so used to ignoring broad caricatures in musical for the sake of a barnstorming singalong, and the zest with which the multitalented cast sing them raises the spirits.

So while the show is overlong and underplotted, and the characters very underdeveloped, this sense of knockabout entertainment, enhanced by flickers of playful ad-libbing, shines through nonetheless. SB

David O'Doherty

‘My name is Florence and this is my machine,’ David O'Doherty says, with the tunes he bashes out on his tiny Yamaha keyboard offering more modest production values than the day’s Latitude headliners.

The shaggy-haired Irishman also explained that he has been gigging a lot lately, and while some material was well-worn he is about as match-fit as a comedian can get, which showed in a great performance.

Outside stand-up, O'Doherty has also been promoting his quirky book, 100 Facts About Pandas. He treated us to some brilliantly silly excerpts, as well as extracting laughs from recalling how one ill-prepared radio interviewer thought it was a serious nature study, and introduced him as an anthropologist, albeit getting the wrong ‘-olgy’ too.

But there is something of the Desmond Morris about O'Doherty. Much of his humour unpicks the oddness of human behaviour and the embarrassing situations he finds himself in. His smartest anecdote involves travelling on the quiet train carriage and feeling that his fellow passengers are simply ‘waiting for things to kick off’. Which they inevitably do.

Despite appearing to be a master of lo-fi geekiness, O'Doherty is as sharp at observational humour as Michael McIntyre, noting the universality in the way people send texts or use superlatives such as ‘awesome’ too much these days. Some purists might take the comparison as a superlative insult, but it is meant as a compliment.

Bruce Dessau

Daniel Sloss

Scotland’s Daniel Sloss has been trading on being one of the youngest comedians on the circuit for a couple of years now and at still only 19 he makes 23-year-old Kevin Bridges seem like a grizzled old trouper.

For Sloss however, his age is both a help and a hindrance. At the start of his well-received short, sharp set, he said he was too young to do sex gags like more seasoned stand-ups – but then proceeded to pepper the gig with plenty of bedroom-based banter.

But even when the material is on the unimaginative side, touching on reliable comic staples such as the Churchill dog, internet porn and James Blunt, Sloss is technically impressive. His delivery has a confidence way beyond his years which helps to drive home the obvious routines. And he can think on his feet too. When a heckler tried his luck, Sloss went for his jugular with the brutal efficiency of a veteran.

Despite having written gags for Frankie Boyle, Sloss does not have a particularly nasty sense of humour. Or maybe he does but cannily chooses to keep the cleaner material for himself. Whatever the reasons there is a neat, natural fit between his boyish persona and his boyish, uncynical style. Not the most original performer to come out of Scotland in recent years, but certainly one that has all the tools to make it into the mainstream. BD

Sara Pascoe

Some comedians are suited to the canvas-covered crowd-pleasing festival gig and some, however talented, aren't. Sara Pascoe falls into the second category. She is a feisty, passive-aggressive stand-up with an enticing streak of twisted humour, but just after lunch this was not what the families and sun-kissed shade-hunters wanted.

It is never a good sign when your opening gambit of 'I don't actually do jokes' is met with funereal silence. This kind of arch anti-comedy might work at your own Edinburgh gig but rarely in front of a non-partisan demographic that has come precisely for jokes.

Pascoe has been on the circuit for a while now and she is getting progressively closer to finding a distinctive voice. Like Jack Whitehall in his early days, there is a bit of Russell Brand here, a little bit of Stewart Lee there. Pascoe mixes things up further with a bit of Sarah Silverman's non-PC confessional agenda.

Material includes 9/11, iPhones, Richard Dawkins and an anorexia quip which does have a genuine punchline, albeit one that many may see coming. There was also a decent Take That riff about the band being like Jesus, but it would have had more of a kick if it had taken into account the topical angle of Robbie Williams’ second coming.

While she was patently glad to get offstage there was certainly plenty of promise here. When Pascoe manages to get the right tone – and the right audience – she will be a force to be reckoned with. BD

The Razzle Presents: The Working Man's Club

Having reinterpreted the Office Party for an entertainingly immersive show at the Barbican Centre and Edinburgh Fringe, the same team have now had a bash at the working men’s club; an atmosphere that’s surely ripe for reinvention.

This first outing at Latitude has a marvellous spirit, but doesn’t go nearly far enough in creating an all-round experience beyond the turns on stage, huge fun though these undoubtedly are.

Chris Green – the man behind Tina C and Dame Ida Barr – here channels the spirit of Eighties comic Duncan Norvelle to play compere Derek Diamond, a man with an intriguingly hinted-at back story that involved an injured child and the need to change his stage name from Daz Vegas. As you might expect, the character’s well-formed, and Green sets the perfect tone for the night, inviting audience member to make use of the pool table and buy tickets for the meat raffle.

His frequent collaborator Ursula Martinez plays Dazzle’s deranged stalker Maureen, with a surprising twist for anyone not aware of the signature move that defines her career. Also in the line-up is Australian circus performer Jess Love, here performing an inventive, wonderfully witty – but all-too brief – burlesque turn.

The night, though, belongs to Mrs Barbara Nice, the housewife superstar of the North West, utterly at home in an environment that could have been built for her. She banters affectionately with the crowd, leads the singalongs and generally celebrates the joys of life, however modest. Grabbing a bargain at TK Maxx is source of infinite pride for this middle-aged mum, as warm and sunny as a fortnight in Benidorm.

In fact, this pretty much was the Barbara Nice show, with a few side attractions thrown in. But you can see how there’s plenty of potential for this fine idea to be extended into a whole word the audience can be absorbed into, entirely separate from the Phoenix Nights route of cheesily bad entertainers. SB

Tommy Tiernan

It’s often said that the sign of a natural comic is that they could read out the phone book and make it funny. Tommy Tiernan would read it and somehow get passionately opinionated about its content.

He’s a man with a fiercely strong opinion on everything and an unquenchable drive to communicate it. He testifies with the fervour of a firebrand preacher, his voice almost hoarse with the emphasis he injects, commanding the audience to listen.

Attitude is only half the story, though, and Tiernan not only has fire in his belly, but inspiration in his mind. There are some exquisite turns of phrase here – the description of the diaphragm as ‘a small rubber Pringle’ stands out in a forest of similarly inventive examples. This contraceptive routine also showcases the physical aspect of his powerhouse performance in a very visible way, but he uses his body to reinforce almost every joke.

His fluid set takes in an eclectic range of subjects. This afternoon, it included immigration, how the Irish are ill-suited to the boom years of the Celtic Tiger, an hilarious anecdote from his school days and the tribulations of being a father of five – and always with an interesting, funny and fiery approach.

It’s a festival phenomenon that the comedy arena gets quieter as the day goes on, as the range of options widens. So it’s a shame that fewer people saw Tiernan in full flight as the day’s earlier offering, because he’s one of the finest exponents of the stand-up craft. Surely it won’t be long until he achieves the same God-like status in the UK as he has back home in Ireland. SB

Charlie Baker

Charlie Baker struggled to interest the sparsely populated comedy tent with tired, pedestrian material, but his disproportionate response to the heckler who dared point this out left a worst taste in mouth than the dodgiest festival falafel.

His dull shtick on being a fat bloke, odd stereotypes about him being ‘gay enough’ to eat quiche but man enough to have onion rings with it, and his repeated assertion – without any gags to back it up – that nothing in life is better than taking a shit with the Argos catalogue as reading material was largely met by listless silence.

Then one bloke piped up, out of frustration rather than hate: ‘What you should do in shut up’, and Baker turned. Getting nowhere with his bullying tone urging the dissenter to ‘stand up and say that’, Baker wandered into the crowd and dumped the best part of a pint of cider over the naysayer.

Latitude is so polite such unprofessional behaviour went unchallenged, but it was surely an utterly inappropriate response. Baker should have defeated him with wit, not assault.

It was, at best, a misguided attempt to inject some excitement into the moribund atmosphere – but then Baker also created that in the first place.

In his favour, he does have a very strong singing voice, able to emulate greats like Sinatra, though he only does so to change song lyrics to make them slightly ruder. And singing the jingle of the Bodyform ads has been used as a punchline replacement service since the campaign first appeared in a previous century.

Poor material and an unpleasant streak… not a winning combination. SB

Tom Basden

Walk idly past the cabaret arena when Tom Basden is on, and you could mistake the sound emanating from the tent as yet another earnest acoustic musician, strumming his guitar to poignant and melodic ballads.

But listen for even a moment to the lyrics of songs such as I Was In A Snuff Movie But I Made It Out Alive and you’ll be in little doubt you’re in the presence of a sublime comedy talent.

For Basden may have a mellow presentation, but it hides a killer wit, with delightfully obtuse and surprising gags at the heart of every song, often using he rhythm and pacing of the tune to add extra impact.

Even better than the musical numbers are the extracts from his new novel Hot Moon – still criminally unpublished. A mix of just about every literary genre going, its failed metaphors, linguistic dead ends and superfluous detail would surely win it a place among the literary travesties in Robin Ince’s Book Club had every clunky phrase not been beautifully crafted for maximum embarrassment. Basden proves that the term ‘inappropriate language’ need have nothing to do with swearing, but be a devastatingly effective comic technique.

Not content with mastering musical and narrative comedy, Basden’s superlative set is illustrated with pithy, uniquely funny cartoons and photo-montages; while his list rundowns on such topics as ‘Five reasons why t would be bad to be raped by Sting’ put David Letterman’s Top Tens to shame.

Basden also got to show off a strangely serious side in his Latitude set, thanks to the punter who insisted he perform his non-comic version of Abba’s Mamma Mia! – in which he managed to turn Europop into a surprisingly profound ballad. He told us it wasn’t funny, and it wasn’t, but there’s more than a touch of genius about it, and it made for a suitable offering for a cabaret tent.

It was just an extra layer on what’s been *the* comedy performance of the festival so far. SB

Stephen K Amos

What can we say about Stephen K Amos that we haven’t said before? This is his bulletproff ‘best of’ set for the festival, a few bits of well-rehearsed crowd banter mixed with similarly tried-and-tested material.

Some of the audience jibes, especially those assuming the target is peculiarly posh or young, might be showing their age, but even if one of his punchlines could easily be reworked to suggest he’s got gags older than the teenagers in the tent, the jokes still work. After all, he delivers them as if they were freshly minted, while his upbeat, likeable demeanour works wonders.

He’s at his best when gently challenging outdated attitudes to race, whether it comes from a tactless Adelaide DJ to Prince Harry. He does this not through angry polemic but by gentle teasing.

The good humour and light touch which pervades these stories, as well as his general ribbing, are all about ‘the feelgood factor’, as he might put it, ensuring it’s always a delight to spend time in his company. SB

Doc Brown

Latitude isn’t just a music festival, but it seems fitting to have a few musical turns on the comedy stage. Step forward Doc Brown, who uses rapping in his comedy the same way Tim Minhin uses piano.

Rather than cheap parodies, he’s a bona fide rapper who once toured with De La Soul and was in a band with uber-producer Mark Ronson – a talent he uses to create tracks that would stand up even if they weren’t funny. But thankfully they are.

Now older, and possibly wiser, his days of touring as a musician are, however, behind him and his new career takes him to the dives of the comedy circuit – as well as prestigious gigs such as this.

The stand-up patter between his raps is amiable enough, though it wouldn’t be enough to set him apart from many of his comedy contemporaries, speaking about how he copes badly with things such as relationship break-ups and fatherhood – though he barely looks old enough. But there are laughs, and he seems to be having fun, which is infectious.

That comes to the fore in the music, whether it be recalling the first rap he ever did – a naively earnest anti-racism number – or taking us through the hip-hop patios, not the most unique of ideas but done with style here, by a confident, natural performer who truly owns the stage.

Then there is the more personal, lower energy, tracks such as Why D’you Leave? And an excellent audience response showstopper, which slightly reminded me of one of brilliant poet John Hegley’s set pieces and really gets the audience into the swing of things.

‘Latitiude’s got flow,’ Brown concludes. And so, too, does he. SB

Craig Campbell

It may be only just after noon, but Craig Campbell easily holds the attention of a couple of thousand Latitude-goers, packing the vast comedy tent and beyond.

The Grizzly Adams of stand-up projects the sort of rugged outdoorsman person that these one-off campers can only aspire to; a no-nonsense, get it done attitude that commands the marquee.

As a ‘Canadian who live among you’, Campbell tells the British they are a nation of frugal, emotionally stunted drunkards. He means it as a compliment, and having lived here for 12 years knows how to flatter, however unlikely it may seem.

At face value, his set is based on the compere’s favourite trick of mocking various nationalities. But Campbell largely avoids the obvious stereotypes and speaks both from experience, and with love.

His own compatriots are mocked for their meek compliance, whereas their southern neighbours are teased for their over-reaction to everything, as illustrated by a story of his encounter with highway patrol cops. In fact, brushes with authority are common for this imposing but affable figure.

His experiences as a foreigner in these lands provide the flip-side to the nationalty-baiting, and the way he’s impressed by everything from the NHS to our lax attitude to the Highway Code can’t be faked.

And that’s the essence of Campbell’s appeal; he’s 100 per cent genuine, with entertaining yarns from his life and an obvious joie de vivre that’s nonetheless subdued. He is, after all, not American. SB

Published: 16 Jul 2010