(For the Public Review)
WARNING: contains strong language.
Terry Alderton. Where to begin? The man is a hurricane. Condensing this comedian into a bite-sized chunk is as impossible as the realisation that one believed in the monkey war that was waging on stage. Ergo, not impossible. One has and one did.
The act opens with a little ditty and as Terry demands audience participation at the end of each verse (“She flew out of the window! What’s her name?!”), it soon transpires that this isn’t going to be a standard night out. Especially when the song ends with a torrent of profanities. (“What’s her name?! NO! F*CKING JUNE!!”). The audience may very well be in the hands of the mentally unhinged, but the sweet cascade of giggles softens the outbursts and Terry becomes strangely endearing.
For those new to Mr Alderton’s charms, it is terrifyingly easy to keep up with his bombardment of vocalised mind melts. Unfinished sentences ricochet all around while his microphone pounds away on various heads (that’s literally for those in the front row). A giant tennis ball (aka football – he left the giant tennis ball at a previous gig) looms disturbingly in the distance while the voices in Terry’s head battle it out. And there’s the odd somersault to boot.
Terry is the master of accents and characterisation. The act includes a sample of dialects from every corner of the globe, multiple sound effects, and every stereotype going – plus their extended family, the next-doors and the second cousins of the next-doors-but-one. The “don’t mess with me” wide boy, the campest gay in the village, the Devil, Eastender-Ricky’s protégé and Lee Evans all make an appearance.
Terry covers everything from dead squirrels to GILFs (like MILFs but with grandmothers) to monkeys with muskets between sporadic outbursts of song and barking fits. Yes, he barks. There’s also a drum and bass rave in his right kneecap.
Watching Terry is a bit like being repeatedly run over by a bus. A party bus.
Regardless of background, residency, race, orientation – at some point, Terry will say something that strikes a chord. Or chisels away at a nerve depending on one’s disposition. For instance, Essex is full of people who look like they’re broken and Norfolk is where all the backward people live. For Brightonians, there’s a quip about Dyke Road. And the scratch and sniff gag is as uncomfortable as it sounds.
It is surprisingly odd to find oneself falling in love with Terry’s feet, even though they’re gangster-esque by nature and revel in profanity. Judging by the audience response, the ‘shoulder stand/trainers take over’ is one of the highlights of the night, particularly when the right foot has a go at the left for doing “f*ck all” in the car.
In addition, Alderton shares many a story, including the time he found multiple sex toys (or “a f*cking warren”) in his wife’s closet and smothered Tobasco on them out of sheer belligerence. Then he re-enacts a recent finance-focused argument and his wife is represented by Terry’s left arm… naturally. Mr Alderton even treats the audience to the ending of the stage adaptation of Shawshank Redemption.
Song, dance, belly laughs, barking, Morgan Freeman…What more could one want in a comedy night?!