Daniel Simonsen: Stranger

Last year’s winner of the Foster's award for Best Newcomer returns to capitalise on his success. And how else but with, um, a mostly-improvised show culminating in something akin to comedic self-harm. You have to admire Simonsen’s kamikaze gumption, though the couple in front of me might disagree, squirming to be set free as the young Norwegian holds us hostage beyond his allotted time in the seemingly desperate hunt for a funny out.

Simonsen’s thick accent combines with a gawky demeanour in an instantly amusing package – his biggest laugh surrounds a bug-eyed expression he shoots at people who walk too slow in the street. His melodious lilt is funnier still as the exaggerated voice of his inner monologue – we’re constantly flitting in and out of Simonsen’s consciousness, as he grapples with his natural awkwardness and the discomforts of social interaction, in between more straightforwardly observational off-the-wall material.

He’s manoeuvring us into position for what looks like the gut-busting clincher with a steadily-building routine about a childhood sex fantasy, when the mic stand tilts and breaks his concentration. A few minutes later, everything’s turned to shit.

Whether intentionally—as hinted by a running gag about how standup is the only job where, if you mess up, observers feel sad for themselves—or otherwise, an approximately quarter-hour spiral of chronic un-funniness ensues, as Simonsen tries everything from personifying his Dictaphone to scrambling through his notebook looking for new material, while counting down the minutes until the end, then curiously outstaying them. It’s one of the stranger and more memorable endings to a comedy show you'll see, if ultimately a howling disappointment.