"I last saw John Gordillo at London's Camden Head in April and went home impressed. Elated. Clutching my sides.
"What I didn't know was there was more to come and it was gonna be even better. Not necessarily funnier or wittier or crazier, just - more honest.
"'Cause tonight John eschews the traditional gimmicks of comedy and goes straight for the jugular. The meat of the material covers his relationship with his father, a manic Marxist left to bring up the kid alone following the death of the mother. A father rabble-rousing... In the post office (clerk slams down the window? 'Warpath for the working class!'). A father reminiscing about Franco and comparing anyone vaguely right-of-centre to Adolf Hitler (cue an Alexei-Sayle-esque routine on the Fuehrer's post-war career opportunities: driving a bus maybe, or repairing tellies). A father whose extremism prompts John to ruminate on fundamentalism, never more appropriate than now... But don't worry, this is no shouldn't-we-just-hold-hands do-gooder speaking. There's also laughs galore as he lays into such topics as free-range eggs, school nativity plays and Zippo's circus. It's a bizarrely impassioned set and a momentum-gaining one too as we bound from ire to irony to giggles galore to...
"The final moments. Which I can't do justice to. Which go beyond comedy to - sorry - poetry. It's as if he no longer cares about garnering gags, he's just throwing himself pell-mell into life itself without losing the sense of humour that got us here in the first place.
"Comment would be puerile. Just go and watch."
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