Highway to Devon

“. . . AND SO the next thing you know, the hotel manager is on the phone wondering if the Australian comedian in room 320 could kindly refrain from shouting: ‘Butter your muffin you beauty!’ at the television set as it was 3am and he was beginning to upset some of the other guests.”

Exeter is a four-and-a-half hour spin from London, with an additional 30 seconds if you slow to a crawl for the obligatory gander at Stonehenge along the way. It’s a long haul, but one that’s shortened considerably when you’re flaked out, hung over and half-asleep in the passenger seat of Australian comic Brendon Burns’ Rover, chuckling at stories about his compatriot and our mutual friend and colleague, Matthew Hardy’s penchant for soft pornography.

“I bought this car back in the days when I used to make good money,” laughs the former presenter of The 11 O’Clock Show and MTV Select who – for the time being – is forced to make do with occupying a lofty niche in comedy’s pecking order.

One of the most popular draws on the English club and international festival circuit, this abrasive Aussie’s unique brand of spiky, hard-hitting, gatling-gun stand-up has earned him no end of critical acclaim, several slaps, the unbridled respect of his peers and a devoted legion of adoring followers throughout a decade spent peddling intelligent, carefully-crafted polemic for a living.

The quintessential beautiful and angry young man, Burnsy’s the comedian other comedians go out of their way to see: the consummate professional who can open or close any show and fill or empty any room. Or arrive at a gig naked in the boot of someone else’s car, fall off the stage, knock over several members of his audience and their drink-laden table and yet still leave them howling for an encore one hour of scintillating stand-up later.

“You’ll like them in Devon,” he mused as we hurtled through the English countryside on our way to bring a little sunshine into the lives of the good people of Exeter, Torquay and Barnstaple. “It’s like a little holiday for comedians because they’re nice people who are just genuinely pleased anybody’s bothered to come down from London and put on a show for them. They’re good shows, but Barnstaple is usually a quiet affair.”

How right he was. One show and several hours of lavish hospitality later, a cluster of locals are shouting encouragement from the bank of a freezing cold river in Exeter as our hero wades knee-deep among the rushes in a futile bid to win a bet by rounding up and apprehending one of about 30 local swans.

“How the hell do you call a swan?” he enquires, as the haughty lily-white armada of long-necks glides past in lofty disdain, tantalising out of reach.

“Hey swan, come over here you fucker!” suggests one helpful onlooker.

“Nah, that’s too aggressive,” argues Burnsy. “I don’t want to hurt them, I only want to borrow one.”

No swan, a long lie-in and one leisurely lunch later, it’s time to head for Torquay. We accept the gig promoter’s kind offer to drive us the 30 miles to the venue, only to discover his car is so overloaded with traveling comedy buffs that the star turn volunteers to travel in the boot. In the 30 minutes it takes to make the journey, he contrives to remove every stitch of his clothing, all the better to enable him to leap naked from the boot and scare the shit out of several innocent bystanders as soon as it’s opened.

It was a most spectacular exit, but one which palled into insignificance compared to his subsequent entrance on to the venue’s stage an hour or so later.

The Torquay venue was wedged. Entry to the stage was via a very steep staircase, and rather than skip merrily down it, as I had, Brendon decided it would be great crack altogether to slide down the banister with his back to the audience, turn in mid air at the bottom before landing nimbly on the stage and grabbing the microphone out of its stand in one fluid movement.

As the compere announced his name, he zoomed down at a frightening rate of knots, twisted in mid-air and landed running. Sadly, the momentum he had gathered on the way down the banister ensured that stopping simply wasn’t an option. Had the microphone stand been screwed into the ground tragedy could have been averted, but it wasn’t. He grabbed at it frantically in an effort to stop himself, failed utterly and instead, took it with him as he crashed helplessly into a table laden down with drinks and surrounded by punters, situated at the opposite side of the stage.

This act of unmitigated folly and the ensuing carnage earned Brendon Burns an ovation which lasted the length of time it takes a disoriented Australian comedian to pick himself off the floor, untangle himself from several yards of microphone cable, brush several thousands shards of broken glass from his head and shoulders and help several girls, their table and three chairs back to their feet before apologising profusely, checking them for injuries and ordering them a new round of drinks.

The ensuing 60 minutes of stand-up was equally amusing but totally unnecessary. Even if he had chosen not to open his mouth for the rest of the evening it would still have been the funniest, most memorable comedy show of all time.

Barnstaple, by comparison, was a quiet

affair.