Andrew Clover
27 July 2003
Sadly the last in a series of Edinburgh Festival Previews ‘Andrew Clover – Supercub’ to give the show its official title is a long rambling shaggy dog story around infantile aggression, a philosophical treatise on the terrible hypocrisy and superficiality of a world dumbed down with Big Brother and Classical FM soundbites as well as an extended love letter for everything to with The Cubs (‘Akala is like god but unlike god he is definitely there and rewards good behaviour’).
I loved his love for the lady on the 1471 answering service (‘like a very posh lady whose constantly being frightened by a special needs child every time she says ‘o’), he was also very good with his puppy impressions. His love of snails (‘voyeurs with their eyes on stalks,’) was palpable, as was his, obviously, enduring memories of sperm, shower rooms and dib dib dib woggle love.
It should also be noted that Clover has great comedy hair. When he comes on stage he’s sporting a fine crested Grebe of a Beckham/Stan Laurel Mohican, by the end it’s a slick sweat encrusted mess. Clover admits to becoming a father to a child with an extremely large head but is concerned that he may becoming his dad who only knows one tune and dribbles milk onto his jumper while drooling opinions on everything from the internet to IBM as a company (‘Not transparent at all you know’).
The cub uniform hung to one side of the stage – a forlorn and poignant reminder of Clover’s refusal to take on the full mantle of recovering Scout and an slap in the face of everything to do with the adult world – its low moral sense, its worship of the obvious and the banal. Like a lot of comics Clover’s attitude to life is like a bright child tremendously disappointed by the adult world and a scabrous attack on the poverty of imagination that creates it.
Clover is obsessed with shit, sperm and the mating of small dogs. (He wants to give out beaver badges for good oral sex technique). He has never recovered from the trauma of the playground and his comedy is an attempt to channel this early environmental crisis into something that is both upsetting, shocking and ultimately hilarious. He doesn’t take drugs anymore but copes with stress by tiding up the Cup o Soups in the kitchen cupboard. The stresses of adult responsibility obviously weigh heavily on him and indeed there is something of the child who causes trouble but when pulled claims (in Clover’s words) to have been, ‘only trying to stop it!’
There is something too about his persona and manner that remind me of the late Kenneth Williams, a nasally London accent and the way his mouth shrivels up and you see his nostrils. The gawky child-like glee with which he talks about sperm and snails and the beautiful English tradition of finding enduring solace and humour in the contemplation of ones own bowel movements is of course classical in its comedy subject matter.
I think it should be said that the range and quality of the comics pitching up at The Cavern is first rate and is a unique opportunity to catch top acts on their way to Edinburgh (and back again). This has been an excellent year for the Cavcrn (Daniel Kitson appearing twice) and I’m gutted that The Cavern is taking a break for August. Thankfully skilful, robust compere Geoff Whiting (amazing how he got two the audience to admit to their most secret sexual peccadilloes on Sunday) is back in September with some top more names to relish.
The Cavern is comedy heaven and I can think of nothing better to do on a Sunday night than sit here and laugh my socks off to these people, brave enough or foolhardy enough to take the stage and tell it like it is (for them).
Lee Coombes.