Simon Munnery: Hats Off for the 101ers, and Other Material

One of the Fringe’s most prolific innovators, Simon Munnery has never promised polished or crowd-pleasing comedy. Instead, his is a brand of enigmatic, experimental humour which, this year, follows a familiar hit-and-miss trajectory.      

Appearing stage left with bubbles floating from his top hat, Munnery scuttles around the Stand One audience, delivering lines from an obscure song about the 1930s airship, the R101, and occasionally getting himself caught on people’s chairs and bags. This bizarre opening gambit features in the title of the show, but it’s quickly clear that there is no discernible theme or structure in this evening’s set. 

Instead, Munnery whips through an array of stories, songs and poems, filling any gaps with snippets of standup. And within the scattergun compilation there are definitely some hidden gems. The epic migration tale of a group of foolhardy head lice and a lecture on women’s studies by a perverted professor are particularly inspired, as is a satirical ditty about Sainsbury’s. But while Munnery’s shambolic approach only enhances the absurdity of his poems and stories, it loses its charm during the standup interludes. Munnery looks uncomfortable playing himself, and this awkwardness filters through to the audience, who look increasingly restless as the show progresses.

Every Edinburgh show needs a structure, Munnery quips at one point, referring to a bridge-like edifice he’s specially constructed to accompany him on the stage. It’s an intentional irony, an acknowledgment of his chaotic, form-bending methods. But while Munnery’s comedy often brilliantly subverts such doctrines, the experimentation can sometimes come at a comic price.