Andrew Maxwell: The Lights Are On

With the fortune to live in interesting times and the comedic skills to capitalise upon them, this is a storming Fringe return for Andrew Maxwell. The Dubliner hasn’t been this sharp for many a year but he’s re-emerged as a social sage for a fast-changing world.

The mischief’s still there and the maturity only apparent in the wit of the analysis, for this is a conflicted individual who tries and fails to watch the London riots for gag-writing potential, a suburban father of two who’s as excited by a chocolate on a posh hotel pillow as he is by the thought of succumbing to rebellion and smashing the place in. He brooks no bullshit, his own notably excepted, demanding embezzlers face comparable justice to looters, ridiculing those who would chastise bankers for behaving like bankers, reiterating his right to laugh at fools who die in stupid circumstances – but finding genuine hope in the Arab Spring and folksy American friendliness.

UKIP are a constant inspiration, Tony Blair a recurring bad penny taken to task and Maxwell is bang on the money when pointing out the weirdness of a British psyche that can perceive Kate and Pippa Middleton so differently. He’s not the first to blame Abdelbaset al-Megrahi’s once-ill health on the Scottish lifestyle and he won’t be the last to characterise Wendi Deng as a ninja. But even here there are some good lines, and routines on junkie romance and sectarian stupidity afford variety. His conclusion on “tabloid shitstorms” isn’t fully developed, but by the time it arrives there’s been such a wealth of first-rate material that it scarcely matters.