Roisin Connaty may describe herself as ‘almost good looking,’ but she has a weapon of attraction quite independent from her sunny, open expression or her bleached blonde hair. Roisin Connaty is gorgeously funny.
It’s refreshing to see a set that claims to be unified by a theme and delivers. Connaty’s is a good one too: she’s interested in the pursuit of happiness. Because, as she points out, we’ve come up with various solutions to the question, ‘What can I blame my malaise on?’ Starting with those who blame unhealthiness, Connaty’s observations are both surprising and spot on. Take, for example, her description of the pumped limbs of gym goers as ‘curly.’ It’s funny because it’s perfect. Her material about religion is similarly delightful - Connaty’s expert hands lend this oldest of topics a new lease of life; she’s just as witty when discussing the less likely solutions. Connaty is perplexed and depressed by those who seek happiness in bumhole bleaching. It’s as amusing as she is bemused.
Connaty also gets the balance just right between autobiographical and observational comedy. She’s endearingly open about her unhealthy tastes - ‘I’m a Grade A drunk’ - and her views on relationships and having kids. The autobiographical stuff is accompanied by some great bits of dramaturgy too. Connaty treats us to impressions of being horrendously drunk and horrendously bored, of unhappy dancing in clubs, of children who talk frustratingly slowly, of the angry ram she faced when on holiday. Though often silly, her comedy is always neatly structured, but it looks effortless. She’s a Grade A comedian.
Connaty ends on the sort of humiliating anecdote that most people would be embarrassed to repeat even to themselves. Often in stand up the recognition of a joke provokes one laugh - not so here. Connaty’s triumphant finale caused proper, uncontrollable laughter. She’s original, sparky and irresistibly amusing - I didn’t want her set to end. If you seek happiness at Roisin Connaty’s gig, you’re sure to find it - for an hour, at least.
