Graham Clark: Afraid of the Clark

We’re so familiar with fully assimilated Canadian comedians these days that it’s slightly curious to come across one with only a scant knowledge of everyday British life. Indeed, it transpires that Graham Clark’s first impressions were acquired during a fraught weekend in Blackpool, which is a slightly skewed sample. He returned though, and the Roxy is a warmer place for it.

The scruffily-bearded, comically-shaped Clark is a wonderfully uplifting presence, emboldened by the hefty body of material you might expect from an experienced new arrival. Clearly enjoying the whole experience, he’s more than happy to quiz the audience about local quirks, confident that conceding a lack of knowledge needn’t also mean ceding control of the show. The moment you realise you’re in safe hands here is when he starts rubbing them sensuously across his almost perfectly round belly, and proceeds to wring fresh juice from an initially unpromising pregnant-man premise.

This is the trend throughout, Clark embarking on a subject that hardly sets the pulse racing—largely concerning food—then applying a novel twist, like the increasingly ludicrous stuffed crusts that keep luring him back to a certain pizza joint. True, he does tend to giggle at his own gags (every night, Graham?) but rarely in isolation, and it's intriguing to hear previously quiet corners of the audience suddenly guffaw 40 minutes in.

He’s back in sexy mode for the finale, which initially elicits ‘don’t ruin it now!’ concerns, but turns out to be laced with gold. Relax, you can trust him.