At the beginning of his show Ant Dewson delivers a short warning to those who don’t appreciate overtly crude humour: leave now. He’s right, but inappropriate jokes – covering necrophilia, cancer, and incest – are not the only element of this show which can be considered offensive. Dewson’s show is billed as a musical comedy, but there is very little that’s musical about it. Dewson describes himself as a ‘poor piano player and singer of stupid songs’. Maybe the stupid songs can be excused, but the complete lack of musicality really can’t. Dewson’s singing is weak and uncharismatic, and he often stumbles on the piano keys. He does claim to have booked the smallest venue at the Fringe, however, so perhaps part of the reason that he appears so stiff is that he has very little room to move.
Although devoid of any real musical talent, Dewson does still produce some laughs. His word play is witty at times, and the jokes about former Countdown presenter Carol Vorderman are initially funny. One song which records a British binge-drinking night out is also sung so speedily that it’s impressive, but it’s all downhill from there. A particular low point is the compulsory aerobics, where a reluctant audience is asked to jig around for an entire song whilst Dewson dons his sport headband; everyone gets back into their seats very hastily afterwards. Unfortunately, Dewson also explores his theory that one might be able to write a song about anything – cue two minutes of particularly graphic singing about some imaginary warts. Dewson exclaims that it turns out you can write a song about anything, but you probably shouldn’t.
To me, Dewson’s supposed musical comedy has few redeeming features, although, as he stated himself, his show is ‘less about the songs and more about the beer’. It was sometimes mildly funny, but I wouldn’t recommend wasting your time on it.
