Martyred, misconstrued

Last Tuesday’s ‘Giggle at the Guild’ was, er, interesting and, er, different. ‘Twas this punter’s debut at the monthly comedic club that meets at the fabled Gloucester Guildhall’s cinema area. A frankly dreadful compere, name of Nik Hill, bewilderingly high on confidence, regretfully low on talent/mirth, introduced three acts ranging from the adequate to the satisfactory. The finest comic was from Oxford, Oxon and I forget his name. He had a beard ‘n’ an electric guitar and carolled the throng with merry parodies of rock stars; the fellow proved generally whimsical, quaint and gently humorous. The other two, er, comics had travelled all the way from Oldham and London, a fact I found remarkable; the former produced a set, sporadically engaging, that dealt, rather predictably, with ‘hoodies’ and teenagers and stuff while the latter spoke about erections ad nauseam.