Yesterday evening, on my way to see Kevin Bridges, I hadn't even turned onto George Street when I saw a gargantuan queue snaking down the road from the Assembly Rooms, writhing along the pavement, bending round the corner and finishing about half way down Hanover St. Some queue, though, according to the woman behind me, 'not as long as the queue for the X Factor auditions'.This might give a false impression of the typical Kevin Bridges fan, but then Kevin Bridges is that rare beast: the sort of comedian everyone likes. He mingles meditations on the origin of the universe and political satire with teen parties in Clydebank, 'yak-wanking' in the Himalayas and watching porn with his dad, in separate rooms. It is underpinned by a wonderfully minimalist delivery and a subtle perspicacity that belies (but enhances) the coarser elements, and that sets him apart from shock-jocks like Frankie Boyle.This set is an unalloyed joy from start to finish, and perhaps Bridges' greatest strength is the blend he concocts between humble affability and superior acuity. He is never snide or gratuitous, but boils his set down to winner after winner. Only 23, his technical maturity is even more striking than his looks, which he likens to those of a 'darts prodigy'; one particular callback he makes late in his set is the smartest I've seen at the festival so far. He is sharper than Michael McIntyre, but possesses the same universal charisma. Thoughtful, charming and with an eye for detail at once savage and sensitive, he is the most exciting Scottish comedian since Billy Connolly.
