There are some great lines in Robin Ince’s Melons. As well they should be, given they were written by the likes of Marty Feldman, Barry Cryer, John Hegley, Ian Cognito and others.
It’s not gag theft, mind. The show is billed as his love letter to comedy, and Ince is eagerly sharing his favourites with the audience with a fanboy’s geeky enthusiasm that has endured, despite more than 30 years in the business. His love stems from his childhood - he still treasures his original copy of The Goodies File, published in 1975, which he managed to get signed by all three of the stars later in life – and burns just as bright today.
It’s perhaps lucky that it has worked out this way, as Ince’s early career went down routes that could easily have drained his love of the art. It’s hard to imagine his days as an audience warm-up man, given it does require you to stop speaking now and again, but that’s one job the garrulous Ince once did.
His Edinburgh debut some 19 years ago was a flop. It ended with him punching a melon with the face of Vernon Kay – exactly how this show starts – which many critics and audience members took as signs of a genuine breakdown.
The mauling prompted a reappraisal of all he was doing, abandoning the signposted route to comedy success to indulge in pet projects such as alternative variety night The Book Club, which he ran with Josie Long, and ultimately leading to his partnership with Brian Cox, both on Radio 4’s Infinite Monkey Cage and created comedy-science hybrid shows that have filled the Albert Hall with like-minded people.
Now he couldn’t be happier, having cut his own niche in the comedy landscape. He has become an amateur in the original Latin sense of the word, doing things for love alone. He has taken to heart the philosophy of late Python collaborator Neil Innes: ‘Before you try and become rich and famous, you should find out who you are, because you might find out you are someone who doesn’t want to be rich and famous.’
His life is full of delightful little moments that have come only because of the path he’s taken, and here adds personal showbiz anecdotes to the encyclopaedic collection he holds in his head. In this aspect, he could lay rightful claim to being the heir to Barry Cryer, another man who maintained an infectious, inclusive love of comedy until his dying day, long after many contemporaries turned bitter and angry at alternative comedians rather than appreciating the craft.
Among Ince’s lesser-known talents, such as tropical fruit art, he’s a handy impressionist, able to effectively mimic the subjects of his stories, such as Stewart Lee, Alexei Sayle, John Hegley. Even a comic called Simon Happily who ran an LGBT-friendly night in London two decades ago, is relatively accurately portrayed - even though absolutely nobody in the audience would have known it.
Otherwise, Ince’s delivery is breathless and digressive. Like so many comedians, he has relatively recently been diagnosed with ADHD, confirming the diagnoses of scores of unqualified audience members down the years. Understanding this has also contributed to his happiness.
Many of the heroes and friends Ince cites in Melons have passed away, and he urges comedy fans to praise people whose work they love while they are still alive, rather than saving it for the obituary. Given that credo, it would be heartless to give Melons a poor review….
Yes, it has flaws: not all the digressions go anywhere (how did we get from Alexei Sayle to Antiques Road Trip?), and if you’re a die-hard comedy fan you’ll have heard some of the anecdotes before. But in the rear-view mirror the messiness fades away, and you’re left with the joy and optimism of the bigger picture and, hopefully, a renewed appreciation of comedy.
In a Fringe that can sometimes feel jaded, even poisonously cynical, Ince will rekindle a love of the art.
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