Ari Shaffir: Ari S-P-E-C-T

The first thing you notice about Ari Shaffir’s show is the smell, a choking cloud of sandalwood permeating the space. On the day I attend, incense is burning at either side of the stage at The Hive. I’m guessing here, but this might have something to do with the club’s infamous ‘Hive Till Five’ promotion. Despite Shaffir’s claim’s that this is an "American hour in Edinburgh"—no theme, no pathos, just jokes—he has chosen the perfect venue. Hive till Five is where Scottish single life hits its most biological.

Sex in Shaffir’s world is not romantic; it’s a minefield of STIs and getting pregnant from Tinder dates. This isn’t news to the audience, many of whom know Shaffir from his series on Comedy Central, and a few of whom were probably in the Hive 12 hours earlier, putting theory into practice. Some of his lines strike painfully close to home and, while he flirts with being offensive, he’s practiced enough to (mostly) walk the line. The benefit of the American approach is that every line has been honed over and over again to hit its mark – judged to fall just inside the bounds of good taste. In fact there’s something sweet underneath his rejection of modern smartphones, and his visit to Anne Frank’s house threatens to be significant. Then it isn’t.

By the end, Shaffir comes through on his promise, and the show is no more or less than a funny man saying funny things about ugly subjects. There’s been no loving, no learning, and he’s ready to do it all again the next night.