Paul Pirie: Me

Has there ever really been a good midget joke? Who is the club circuit comedian that can be blamed for inspiring a procession of admirers to plumb these depths? Because it’s as reliable an indicator as any, that if you hear a midget joke in the first five minutes, the rest of the hour is going to be rough. Paul Pirie doesn’t disappoint on that front, assaulting us with a veritable litany of poor taste. From midgets we segue to a baffling demonstration of some questionable Chinese accents. He shines his satirical lens not on the government or big banks or anyone in a position of power, instead making an effort to take down the deaf. How? Yes, with an impression of how they speak.

As always in the hack comedian roster, it’s in attitudes towards women that things step up a level. Pirie’s tales of working in Primark facilitate some genuinely saddening comments on fat women, at one point reveling in the anecdote that he told a woman she would need the Primark paper bag on her head for him to fuck her. To which, apparently, his manager said ‘nice’. That’s the thing about Pirie’s storytelling, it’s so boorish that it’s totally unbelievable. He paints himself as a real wisecracker, always ready with a quip on rape, Josef Fritzl, Jimmy Savile, aids or paedophilia. There’s strong physical humour and assured delivery that keeps some laughing and demonstrates a command of the craft, but ultimately this is tiresome work.