RICHEY Edwards, the presumed dead Manic Street Preacher, once notoriously carved "4 Real" into his arm during an explosive NME interview.
Among Wil Hodgson's array of tattoo markings upon his body, there is no similar claim to authenticity, but have little doubt that this man bleeds sincerity and honour. The Chippenham comic who arrived on the UK stand-up scene with his blazing Perrier
Newcomer-winning debut in 2004 has no time for fakery, whether it's in the field of American wrestling (the British kind being merely fixed rather than fake), women's bodies (he's a fan of the larger figure, seeing little point in Paris Hilton's existence) and internet pornography (whatever happened to the sleazy honesty of slapping Readers' Wives on to a newsagent's counter?).
Before unleashing more personal stories from the heart of smalltown darkness in deepest Wiltshire, he opens with a potted history to aid any Hodgson virgins seeing him for the very first time. Once his CV containing a fondness for Care Bears and hatred of lad mags is dispensed with, we hear tales of local hard men such as Nobby Webb, who fashioned his own prescription glasses out of other people's broken spectacles and Clint, the glass-eyed leader of the Chippenham skinheads (the non-racist but still crazy wing).
Having been advised early on in his career by Jimmy Carr to stand still and be himself on stage, Wil Hodgson has never looked back. Just over an hour in his breathless company is an endlessly captivating, frequently hilarious experience. And, above all, a real one.
