âYou know what I looked up today?â John Robertson asks down the phone line, joy in his voice as he adds, âthis is fun!â What heâs looked up today â and Iâm not sure whether he knew what he was looking for, or if he stumbled upon it â is a Wikipedia article about a serial killer. âItâs a guy called âThe Servant Girl Annihilatorâ, which is now my favourite serial killer name ever.â
Okay, donât get the wrong idea. John does appear a little too happy to discover the existence of The Servant Girl Annihilator, revelling in the description of Americaâs first documented serial killer who slightly predates Jack the Ripper and whom some believe was in fact one and the same homicidal maniac as Jack. But John Robertson, a fine comic who has been doing stand-up some seven years, is currently touring a show that happens to be called A Nifty History of Evil â which one promoter has astutely summed up as âthe comedy of your nightmares; a manic journey through historyâs biggest bastards, with the icky bits left in!â With that kind of description, you not only already know youâre gonna like the show, you also know that âThe Servant Girl Annihilatorâ is likely to inspire more material. And if you do like the show already, you should also know that youâre in good company: A Nifty History of Evil recently won âArtistsâ Choiceâ and âCriticsâ Choiceâ awards at Perthâs recent Wild West Comedy Festival. So you can understand the comicâs joy at discovering that such a thing as âThe Servant Girl Annihilatorâ exists.
âMy favourite element,â John says of the Wikipedia entry, âis that centuries later, some anonymous dickhead is attempting to claim, for the glory of America, that they had serial killers before Britain; thereâs a more obscure and less lauded serial killer more worthy of attention.â John likens it to the story of Jim Shepherd, publisher of superhero comic book The Phantom, having once written to Bob Kane, creator of Batman, and accuse him of being a hack for stealing Lee Falkâs work and Ray Mooreâs character design â since the Dark Knight is clearly the Ghost Who Walks, Man Who Cannot Die with ears and a capeâ¦
The reference is a little obscure, even for me, but it sums up the essence of John Robertson: extreme knowledge of precise minutiae, delivered entertainingly. Itâs part of what makes this Perth comic such an interesting proposition.
On first blush, Johnâs clearly an actor turned comic. Not because, like most actors-turned-comic, he declaims his routine on stage like a well-rehearsed script; no, heâs one of the good ones. But you guess heâs an actor because everything John says off stage could well be dialogue perfectly scripted for the character he happens to be in real life. Or, to be more accurate, the character he happens to be, in larger-than-real-life.
As a comic â and indeed, as a frequent host of sci-fi conventions â he keeps an audience equally spell-bound with hand puppets and ukulele-accompanied songs as he does purely with words. But before you even get to that point of the on-stage â or off-stage â performance, you might be struck, as others have, by Johnâs resemblance to other people. Like Melbourne comic Danny McGinlay, for example.
âOh, thatâs nice,â John says. âYou can mistake me for Danny McGinlay if I was a foot-and-a-half taller, and his voice was three feet deeperâ¦â
Actually, if you knew either of them well, you wouldnât mistake one for the otherâ¦ unless you were dealing with them over the phone â since Johnâs voice isnât three feet deeper than Dannyâs. Thereâs probably only a couple of inches difference and itâs hard to call whoâs actually ahead. However, if Dannyâs sideburns were a couple of feet broader, you would have trouble telling them apart. Johnâs sideburns are, after all, part of the source of the other comparison he frequently receives, to Wolverine of the Uncanny X-Men. âYeah, if Danny had sideburns that stretched from here to the Tasman Seaâ¦ although our shoulders are reasonably the same breadthâ¦â
Itâs hard to tell
if John is merely doing the comedianâs thing â taking an idea thatâs been
offered and running with it, turning it around to look at it from various
angles, to see which bits of it catch the light and so can reflect a new twist leading
to new humour â or merely running through thoughts that heâs toyed with
âIâve only met Danny once, actually,â John continues. âIt was like, âAhaâ¦! Two years ago someone told me I was a little like you, and now that Iâve met you, I wish I were. Because youâre quite handsome, you devil-may-care devilâ¦ââ
I doubt they were Johnâs exact words to Danny, even
if they had actually met. But Robertson insists theyâre certainly his
sentiments. âWith his well-developed chest, and me at five-foot-eight and
slightly overweight, Iâm so glad people think I look like him!â
John also accepts the allegation that he âcanât not have been an actor before he was a comicâ, adding the proviso that âit doesnât mean I was a good actorâ. Rather, he says, as a stage actor he found the âartificeâ of live performance to be âabsolutely ridiculousâ:
âA comedian will walk out onto a stage â which is an
area purpose-built so that a large group of people can look at you â and will look
back at the crowd and talk directly to them. Whereas an actor has to go through
this ridiculous contrivance of pretending that somehow the audience isnât there,
while at the same time talking to someone whoâs next to them in a highly
intimate manner â and by âhighly intimateâ, I mean, theyâre standing at an
angle and in fact yelling at the top of their voice, so all the people that
they canât see because they arenât there, can actually hear them.â
Clearly, stage acting had to be jettisoned for comedy
â Johnâs ability to see the absurdity in life wouldnât allow him to actually
live that absurdity daily without being able to call it, as a way of life. âIâm
too logical to be an actor. I like the idea of, I walk out, I look directly at
you, and I communicate directly to you. And if you like what you hear, you let
me know immediately.â That arrangement works best for John, he insists, because
heâs âan impatient, âonly childâ sort of a chapâ who likes his feedback
John doesnât quite engage with the suggestion that heâs
âplaying himselfâ larger than life off-stage, although he agrees that he does âadaptâ
who heâs going to be, depending on what he thinks of the crowd. I reckon itâs
as true of the people heâs with off stage, but I know heâs speaking
particularly of audiences. âYou can tell how high I think a crowdâs IQ is â or
to be fairer, how drunk I think a crowd is â by whether or not I roll up my
sleeves before I go on stageâ.
According to John, rolled up sleeves means âgâday, Iâm your everyman! Iâve just finished doing some heavy physical labour, and here I am now, to communicate to youâ. With his sleeves down, John just looks like âa reasonably well-dressed boyâ. Itâs the difference, he says, between giving a âhappy-and-funâ audience happiness and fun, and a rowdy, aggressive audience, some aggression. As weâre discussing this over the phone, I canât tell if Iâm chatting to the reasonably well-dressed boy or the physical everyman, but I remind John of one such gig where he had to roll the sleeves up; he talks about it on stage: a horror gig before an audience of pissed-up Yorkshiremen.
âThereâs a whole subset of comedians from my town who
were there that night,â John recalls. He relates the story in a tone that
almost sounds like warm nostalgia â and it may well be, now that time has
passed. âEveryone has a war story from that evening.â
The story goes, a âlovelyâ Perth promoter â a luv-er-ly cockney lad who used to book the comics for club gigs and corporate gigs, and whom John âdoesâ in character when telling the story, phone the comic up with the offer of a âlovely, lovelyâ gig to a âlovely, lovely young crowdâ, replacing the original MC who had dropped out. The âyoung crowdâ happened to be an audience of 80-year-olds at a golf club.
âThey were all old Yorkshiremen and women who had
been members of the club since they emigrated to Australia 20 years before. Every
comedian on the bill was 40 to 60 years younger than them and they hated us.â
Rest assured, the gig commenced as normal, with both sides trying to make the most of a bad situation. They respectfully sat through Johnâs opening slot, despite not really âgettingâ him; they tolerated the first act. But the second act was an American, at which point, John says, âthey lost their shitâ. A guy up the back yelled out, âAh donât lahk yanks!â It was followed by 20 minutes of âdeathly silence and Yorkshire grumblingâ.
Another comic â whom John describes as âbasically
like an Umbilical Brotherâ â got up and did sound effects, and while the agÃ©d
Yorkshirefolk didnât like him either, they eventually applauded him out of
respect âfor the sweat he producedâ.
It was during the interval, while John was taking a
leak, that revelation came. âI heard a large voice behind me say, âOh, aye, a
comedian. Ah lahk you. Some of your jokes are funny. You know who Ah lahk? Ah
lahk that Roy âChubbyâ Brown.ââ It was at that moment, John says, that he
realised theyâd been booked for the wrong gig. âAt the time, none of us were
punchline merchants. We are now. Thatâs what we learnt that evening: âWhattaya
know? We should write some jokes. People like those!ââ
True enough, although the extent of damage wrought by
lack of punchlines was yet to be unveiled. Somewhere during the night an
old-school open mic-er got up and delivered sub-book gag routines like ââ¦She
asked me to kiss her somewhere dirty, so I took her to Battersea Power Stationâ¦â
which went down a treat. So when the headliner, who was meant to do a fifty
minute set, told an internet joke, which the agÃ©d Yorkshirefolk loved, followed
by another internet joke, which they also loved, and then promptly ran out of
material agÃ©d Yorkshirefolk like, things were bound to come unstuck.
âI canât tell you his name,â John says of the
headline act that night, âbecause Iâm certain he doesnât want to remember this.
But he said, âIâm out of internet jokes; wouldnât you people rather be asleep? Or
And thatâs when the crowd â on the verge of hostility
all night â finally cracked: four minutes into a 50-minute set. He said, âAre
we all tired of stand-up?â and they said âYes!â and started booing.â The
audience booed the headline act offstage, and then started chanting for the
old-school open mic-er to return. So John got back up, thanked everyone for
coming while the booing and the chanting continued, and then all the comedians
fled from the venue, fearing for their lives. âAnd three of us pissed on the side
of the building,â John adds. âThatâs how aggrieved we were. And off we went.â
John recalls that he happened to be sitting next to
the promoterâs daughter while the headline comic was busy asking the audience whether
they wouldnât ârather be watching Gardening
Australia? Or Matlock? Or just
rotting in the ground?â, and she turned to John, demanding, âWhat is wrong with
him?â According to John, âthere was nothing to say. It was an age war. And we
lost. We were the Germans in this encounter. It was Perth comedyâs Gallipoli:
an Englishman sent us to the wrong beach.â
Close-knit fraternity community
The metaphor of warfare â a battle waged between the comics on one side andâ¦ well, and everyone else on the other â is telling. Perth comics are a closely bonded tribe, particularly evident when theyâre interstate.
âThis was one of the incidents that cemented the brotherhood,â John insists, before getting sidetracked by trying to correct âbrotherhoodâ with âfraternityâ and realising that âfraternityâ, like âbrotherhoodâ, appears to overlook the female Perth comics. âThis is one of the problems with the English languageâ, he says, hoping to opt for âcommunityâ but deciding against it since âfraternityâ at least implies âfamilyâ whereas âcommunityâ, he argues, âcould be anythingâ.
âYes, you are a close-knit family,â I agree, âbut donât change the subject. I want you to talk about it.â
âYeah, letâs do it!â John insists. What I want is the story of how the Perth comedy circuit built itself up from nothing; how it is comedian-based, since they set up and run the rooms as a collective and â Shock! Horror! â everyone gets paid. Instead, John wants to concentrate on âthat incidentâ that took place a few years ago at the Yorkshirefolk golf club. âWe were all younger then,â he reminisces â as though heâs the one whoâs hit the other side of 80 having died in two World Wars. When I point this out, he cites his own old age and physical decrepitude: âIâm 25 now, and my thighs are goingâ; having just hosted a scifi convention in Sydney, his body is âabsolutely coveredâ in bruises, the provenance of which he cannot trace; his legs ache. âIâve no idea what I did,â he says.
âYou need to regenerate,â I offer. Lame as the Dr Who reference is, itâs the best I can offer. Like a properly trained out-of-work actor who plays a lot of theatresports, John knows better than to turn down the âofferâ: âI think I will,â he says, âbut the adamantium in my system is corrupting my body.â
Ah, a Wolverine reference. How apt.
âI was so delighted to find that out: the only reason Wolverine is not immortal is because of the adamantium in his body. There you go. Thereâs a fact.â
John receives comparisons to Wolverine far more than he does to Danny McGinlay. But, I point out, it is Wolverine whom Robertson resembles; not Hugh Jackman, who played the character on the big screen.
âHugh Jackman is from my town,â John says. âWeâd all like to look a little more like Hugh Jackman.â At this point, he realises the interview has mostly made him sound âparticularly uglyâ. But thatâs down to John; itâs come out in his answers, not in my questions.
âAh well, you see, thatâs humility,â John replies. âIf I were to be fair to my own self-image, Iâd have to say that Hugh Jackman styled that look on me. I am a tremendously attractive deep-voiced soul, all 5-foot-8 of me. I have the build of a rugby player who doesnât play rugby anymore.â
âYes,â I add, in a downright un-Australian and cheeky manner, âbut you just havenât had your
âallegedâ marriage of convenience yet.â
I regret the cheap and nasty Perez-Hiltonesque remark before itâs even finished coming out of my mouth, but John â ever the gracious professional â keeps moving in a different direction .
.âI canât imagine a convenient marriage,â he counters. âI had a look at the two men from whom we get the term âsado-masochismâ, Leopold von Sacher-Masoch and the Marquis de Sade, and both of them had some good ideas, just that they were really shit at using them.â
According to John, âall Leopold wantedâ was for his
girlfriend to sleep with other people, but she was reluctant. âIt was illegal at
the time, and she would probably be shot, so he had a nervous breakdownâ.
Meanwhile, all the Marquis de Sade wanted, apparently, was to have orgies, but âhe
was such a dickhead about it that he kept telling everyone that he was doing
it, which was unheard of at the time, so he kept going to prisonâ. Johnâs
conclusion? âI should find some nice bohemian combination of the two, and then
never mention it to anyone, ever.â
I know it looks as though Johnâs taken the opportunity to chase down another tangent in order to side-step discussing the nature of Perth comedy, but what heâs actually done is deftly led us back to the topic of show heâs doing, A Nifty History of Evil. Still, in the process, it does look as though heâs having a much better conversation with himself than with me.
âThatâs what comes of being an only child,â John
counters: âa need to respond to a simple question with a nine-part answer, none of which
parts are inter-connectedâ. Indeed, he concludes, âIâm the Old Testament version
of my own life storyâ.
Raymond and Cat Cat
There is the tinge of the Old Testament to Johnâs life just at the moment, an example of the
Good Lord who giveth, taking away. A key point of his performances has been the
appearance of two adorable puppets â a sad guinea pig and a hideous cat. âI donât
know what it is about them,â he says, âbut audiences find Raymond the
Manic-Depressive Guinea Pig and Cat Cat the Munt-Faced Cat utterly enchanting.â
Turns out John found Raymond on the floor of the childrenâs entertainment centre where he used to work. âHe just looked so miserable and so desperately sad that I took him home. I literally stole him.â John used to walk around the place with the guinea pig on his hand, speaking with in its voice all day. âI absolutely loved the idea of a sad hamster. It was just so much fun. You could make it look like he was cutting his wrists; he could cover his eyes; it was just this great moment of pathos. It could make an audience so sad.â¦â
How sad? The way Raymond was first incorporated into the act was, John says, in the middle of a stand-up performance where all of the various lines, jokes and act-outs worked, and everyone was having so much of a âgenerally crazy timeâ that he decided to take the gamble and ask the audience if theyâd like to see the puppets. The drunken audience loved the idea. So John pulled out Raymond the Manic-Depressive Guinea Pig and made him start talking and covering his eyes. The crowd was utterly hushed, until a man broke the silence by shouting, with tears in his voice, âMake us laugh! Make us laugh!â
âIt was a nice moment,â John says. âThat was Raymond sealing his part of the deal: girls would squeal in delight when Raymond came out, and then they would be moved with intense sadness. This is something I think we could do more of.â
You donât need to do more of it if you can do it well. The moment of sadness in a comedy show â if done properly by someone who knows what heâs doing, is magical. It makes the release of the funny, when it returns, even funnier, because thereâs been some patently ânot funnyâ (but no less powerful) to compare it to. After all, if everything was uniformly hilarious, how would you know? And itâs worth noting, Aussie comics do pathos very, very well. Consider Grahame Bond and Rory OâDonohueâs âsinging trampâ characters Neil and Errol on Aunty Jack, or Paul Hoganâs winoâ¦
âItâs true,â John agrees, âand we handle it well, too. But we treat it like a foreign concept whenever it appears.â So much so, that it only works if the performer is totally committed to it. In fact, he adds, the lesson heâs learnt is that, with everything you do, âyou have to really commit to it, or it doesnât work. That seems to be the secret to the universe.â
Having reached the point where Raymond had more-or-less reduced an audience to tears, heâd pull out Cat Cat the Munt-Faced Cat, another item purloined from that place of work. âHeâd been touched and played with by some 40,000 school children, so this once beautiful cat had been rendered almost black with dirt; his face was pushed in; his eyes were just blazing and sinister.â
Before an audience wracked by sadness, the repulsive cat did the business. âCat Cat could scrunch his upper lip into his lower lip and then flap out his mouth, whereupon he would speak like Jabba the Hutt: âWaka jawaka, Solo. Bring the Wookie to me. Waka jawaka jawaka.â The release in the room would be amazing every time.â
I have experienced this firsthand, but what didnât quite twig that time â and Iâve no idea how or why I missed it â is that Cat Cat spoke like Jabba the Hutt. The Han Solo reference should have been a give-away.
âI donât think anyone remembers it. Thatâs the nice thing about puppets: they get a biological response. Who gives a crap what the puppet is saying, providing itâs moving, and looks funny?â
John has used these puppets, he says, in places where it should almost be unreasonable to use them. Thereâs a YouTube clip of him entertaining a 1,200-strong anime convention with a kidâs story featuring Raymond and Cat Cat in prominent roles. âThey lose their shit,â John says. âA little girl yells out, âeverybody loves Raymondâ¦â They love it.â He also pulled Raymond and Cat Cat out while doing the support slot for Wayne Brady. âThat was 2,500 people. And I learnt something that day â visual jokes donât carry to the back of the room!â Three tiers of people laughed while the fourth tier â who had been making a lot of noise up to that point â fell silent. John knew it was time to put the puppets away and pull out the ukulele.
Unfortunately, John lost Raymond and Cat Cat during the most recent Melbourne International Comedy Festival, on the way to a sci-fi convention. âI hadnât pulled them out for the whole festival because theyâre not part of this yearâs show,â he says. âI was taking them to the sci-fi convention I was hosting. I got off the tram and realised Iâd left them on it.â John ran through traffic to catch up to the tram, but couldnât reach it. He jumped onto the next tram, and had that diver contact the driver ahead, but to no avail. âBy the time the driver on the first tram looked, they were gone. I rang my girlfriend and we wept. It was like losing some kids. Except that now, itâs months later, and itâs like losing some kids we didnât really care about. I loved those guys, but I donât burst out crying. Anymore.â
Well-meaning friends have sent John replacement puppets, but they know theyâre not the same. The new kitten puppet is far too adorable. Even though it can be very funny when you âmake it a Nazi and give it the voice of Christoph Waltz, from Inglorious Basterdsâ. Indeed, John says, itâs amazing how many puppets can do the Nazi salute. âItâs one of the first things people do when they grab them. âCan I make it touch its dick? Can I make it do a Nazi salute?ââ Those things are hilariously funny, clearly, but itâs the pathos that the other puppets presented, that made Johnâs onstage shtick what it was. âI like my pathos,â he explains. âI like my animals weird and munted.â
Better acting as a musician
The puppets may be gone, but John still has his ukulele, which, like the puppets, doesnât exist for what it is, so much, as for what it isnât. âItâs not even there, necessarily, to be a musical thing,â John insists. âItâs just a point of difference. âLook, Iâve just done however minutes of high-energy stuff on stage, maybe weâve gone a few places, maybe weâve done some weird shit, maybe Iâve yelled a whole bunch of jokes at you; now letâs see what I can do with this happy instrument.ââ
What John usually does with the âhappy instrumentâ is perform three songs, two of which âappearâ to be âvery happyâ â although, when you listen, he points out, âneither of them areâ â and the other one, really depressing. The âdepressing songâ is mostly conveyed through Johnâs facial expressions. He finds the âface workâ to be liberating. âPlaying a slow, sad song where you donât sing and all you do is look out into a large crowd as if you are dying on the inside is one of the most enjoyable things you can imagine,â he insists.
âBut a lot of the time you canât see the crowd,â I offer.
âI can,â John argues. And in a way, he can. Because âit isnât about âseeingâ the crowd; itâs about âhearingâ them. If youâve got a really large crowd and you walk across a stage looking incredibly sad and youâre singing a song that is amazingly pathetic, and youâre looking out at people, itâs amazing to hear a ripple of response go through them.â And, he reiterates, âhaving it carry through the entire room as you walk the length of the stage is a really gorgeous thing. It also makes you think âChrist I must look sad! Iâm a better actor than I thought!ââ
Nifty history of the show
Weâre almost back to the point where we began: John Robertson, the actor-turned-comic â except that we actually began with Johnâs infatuation with serial killers and evil, which heâs turned into a live show, A Nifty History of Evil. I quite like the poster graphic â John as a cross between the Nosferatu vampire (from the film of the same name) and that character Ron Moody played â or rather, that character Noel Fielding of the Mighty Boosh plays, based on a Ron Moody character, that has âPolo mints for eyesâ. It also reminds me of Screaming Lord Sutch, an English rockânâroll character from the â60s. But John reckons itâs accidental that he looks as though he might want to talk to me about eels; rather, the look grew out of the costume, first and foremost. âI just thought, âHey, letâs put on all of our steampunk gear today and see how we look. Oh, I look a little like an aristocratâ¦ââ
The âsteam punkâ clobber comes from Gallery Serpentine, a âgoth shopâ that sponsors John by slinging clothing in his direction âevery once in a whileâ. So, he says, âIâm wearing one of their frock coats. Iâve got one of their corsets on, Iâm wearing their shirtâ¦ the hat was mine.â As to the poster image for the show, Johnâs feeling was, âhow good would it be if I were to have these really horrifying distended fingers?â His buddy Mel, âthis tremendous graphic designerâ that John insists is on par with Shaun Tan (Tan is âa more dream-like, less photo-realistic versionâ of Graeme Bass, according to John), âknocked it upâ for him with little effort.
âItâs the finest piece of graphic design Iâve ever been associated with,â John says. âMelâs been my best friend for years and she really hates it. So much. Tim Ferguson wrote to me and told me that he likes it. I told Mel, and she was so embarrassed. She would have preferred if heâd seen any of her body of work that wasnât that.â
The show A
Nifty History of Evil itself, according to John, is about âmarketing, blood
and styleâ. Itâs an historical journey through âobscure moments of evil
mythologyâ. So it features âPhilippino vampires, a puppet show about the
Marquis de Sade, a happy song about Stalinâs Purges which is basically Goldilocks and the Three Bears retold
from a soviet perspectiveâ¦â â a little bit of everything, really. If itâs
inspired by anything, itâs the facts gleaned as a kid from childrenâs
âI really liked those entries youâd stumble across that would end, âand then he massacred all of themâ,â John says. âWhen itâs been divorced from context by about 400 years and then phrased in a childrenâs encyclopedia, it usually tends to be great. I basically wanted to put together a horrible history of the world, and some of these things are just excruciatingly funny.â
What sort of things are excruciatingly funny? He
offers the possible alternative endings to World War II as an example. Both the
Russians and American were working on secret weapons that would finally bring
the conflict to an end, once and for all. The Americans were developing the
deadly âBat Bombâ, essentially âa bat with dynamite strapped to it,â according
âThey were going to release these over Tokyo. They never did it because the first day they were experimenting with the bats in a secret army base, they flew up into the roof and, when they exploded, took out the base.â The historical consequence of this was the Americans developing the more cost effective nuclear fusion. âIt was cheaper to develop the atom bomb.â
At the same time, John says, the Russians were
developing the âdog bombâ â a dog with a landmine strapped to it. Dogs were
being trained â no doubt via Pavlovâs classical conditioning, to run under
German tanks, by putting food under tanks. âBut the Russians didnât have any
German tanks for the dogs to practice on,â John reports, âso the dogs would go
out into battle, look at German tanks and freak out, then look at Russian tanks
which they associated with food, run back to them, and explode.â
These ridiculous historical factoids are great, but better still, for John, are the moments in the show when people hear about stuff they already know, but werenât aware others were into.
âIâve seen a large guy dressed in footy shorts cheer when I mention
Countess Elizabeth Bathory,â John says. And why shouldnât an apparent rugger
bugger cheer at in recognition of the horrible Hungarian ruler who used to
bathe in the blood of young virgin women â since beauty products containing the
stem cells of discarded fetuses werenât yet on the market â in order to remain
Likewise, âtroupes of young women high five each otherâ when John begins to discuss Lilith, the first woman. Well, sheâs the first woman according to the Kabala and variations of the original myth from which the Adam and Eve story is reportedly derived. Apparently, Lilith was banished from the Garden of Eden by God because she refused to acquiesce to Adam as husband and boss. Depending on the version of the story, Lilith disappears, becomes a howling wind, or becomes a vampire who preys on children and pregnant women. No guesses which version of the story A Nifty History of Evil deals withâ¦
This has been a long conversation, admittedly, John concludes, but itâs the last chance weâll get to have one for a while. âThe minute I finish the show in Sydney,â he says, âIâm flying home to Perth where Iâll spend four hours changing my bags over so that I can fly to Edinburgh and do 44 shows in 22 days. Then Iâm doing club work in the UK until October.â
There you have it. If you want to see A Nifty History of Evil in Sydney, Johnâs doing it at the Comedy
Store, Sunday July 25th. Until then, heâs featuring in the Storeâs season
of âHeavy Weights of Ha Haâ featuring Bruce Griffiths, Chris Wainhouse, Smart
Casual, Jackie Loeb, Joel Creasey, Amelia Jane Hunter, Rhys Nicholson, Umit Bali and Emma Markezic. Oh, but during August you can see A Nifty History of
Evil in Edinburgh!