Rich Hall: Fifty Cent Words

“Comedy writing is bullshit!” proclaims Rich Hall ten minutes in to Fifty Cent Words, one of a pair of shows he's performing at this year’s Fringe. Who knows, maybe he’s right. But like a farmer spreading horse manure on his fields, Hall finds that certain kinds of shit can make for very fertile ground.

This is a simple show that does nothing more than live up to expectations, but with Hall this is nothing to be ashamed of. He is an immediately familiar figure, the weather-beaten face and gravel voice lending immense charm to this selection of readings of his own short stories. Taking in shaggy-dog tales from the American west, a bitter description of a trip to Scotland’s granite city and the difficulties of trying to teach softball to the English, Hall’s scathing criticisms of contemporary life on either side of the Atlantic can’t hide a genuine affection for both Britain and the US.

A consummate storyteller – he might be called a raconteur were he from somewhere other than Virginia – Hall is immediately at ease in the cosy confines of Assembly’s Wildman Room. He seems to have been around forever, and as a consequence there are few surprises here. Scotland’s weather, London’s advertising industry, and Britain’s love of queues and booze are all fairly well-trodden ground for American comics at the Fringe. But few comics have Hall’s charisma, and an hour in his company is an absolute treat. No bullshit!