IT’S BEEN 20 years since Jeremy Hardy first came to the Fringe, and 13 since he last performed. He looks a little tired, running his hands through the hair he worries about losing and rambling off on tangents that forget their conception. Fortunately
, it suits him rather well, this agitated, avuncular presence, less kicking against the pricks than poking them with a coffee spoon. He’ll undoubtedly tighten up as his run goes on, but for now this is more than enough.
Assured in his own intelligence, Hardy is having the most superficial of mid-life crises by allowing his daughter to dress him in Top Man, and despite his protestations you imagine he’ll enjoy his forties, explaining to young Labourites where it all went wrong. With a sigh, he debunks the myth of living every day like your last and bemoans the passing of Buffy as the last bonding ritual of teenage girls and their fathers. He cuts through the marketing guff of men’s grooming products, before coming, almost reluctantly, to the small matter of putting the world to rights.
Unconcerned about settling his audience ("Am I boring you?"), Hardy is a strident advocate of Scottish, Welsh and even English independence, if only to annoy Ian Paisley. He flatters and flattens his audience, reminding them of a socialism in their blood that the English have to learn in higher education, before rounding on this country for its role in the empire and Northern Ireland. From here it’s just a short shake of the head to the Palestine question. It’s here Hardy really hits his stride.
A better prepared and structured set would have been preferable, but for penetration of the issues affecting grumpy, ageing socialists there’s no-one to touch Jeremy Hardy, a comic of greying distinction.
Until 30 August. Today 8:55pm
