Picture Chris Addison in your mind for a minute. Just picture what he looks like. Here's a question. How old do you think he is? Go on. Guess. You're wrong. Chris Addison is thirty-eight. THIRTY-EIGHT.You might be forgiven for thinking he's twenty-five, or even a spry thirty. He invests his show with such an over-abundance of youthful energy that his real age feels like some kind of cosmic joke; he paces in circles like a fretful child, talks at hyper-speed, and delivers even his most near-the-knuckle material with an impish, schoolboy grin. This is the show's main weapon his pizazz and infectious enthusiasm (or at least, agitation), carries through jokes that might not quite hit the mark in the hand of a less skillful comic. Once or twice I did wish he could stand still, vary the pace and calm down for just a few seconds but in general this comedic ADHD is part of the appeal.This also applies to the structure of his set, which comes off as an outburst of spontaneity even though it must be meticulously planned new stories and jokes suddenly jump out in the middle of other routines like a series of nestled jack-in-a-boxes, leaping from the British terror of snow to his dangerous lust for Nigella Lawson, to the fact that his laziness at all physical activity also makes him rubbish at sex. Frequently it feels like each interruption is going to stop the previous bit finding its ending, but somehow everything is tied up on the other side in the manner of David Mitchell (Cloud Atlas, not and Webb).His main target is the middle classes, by which he means himself and, in the Assembly, you. While snarky university comedy about how dire we all are for liking stuffed olives might not be to everyone's taste, Addisons waspish observations trigger peals of laughter in recognition and his general demeanour as a performer (after a bizarre, misleading start) is as fresh and lively as his looks, damn him.
