The Lunchtime Club

"This is all very bawdy for twenty past one," says Fin Taylor, the Lunchtime Club’s penultimate turn. The lanky Bristolian isn’t wrong: an extended wife-swapping riff with two couples in the front row that began almost an hour ago shows no signs of letting up. A few minutes earlier compere Max Dickens procured a bowl, which now sits onstage half-filled with keys.

The Lunchtime Club has become something of an Edinburgh institution: Tom Rosenthal, Joel Dommett and Ivo Graham are just some of the comics that have graduated from the Tron’s hot, sticky basement space to better things.

Once the razor-sharp Dickens has warmed the room—and identified the putative swingers at the front—Suzi Ruffell—full of sparky nervous energy—makes her entrance. Her short set brims with wry observations about coming out, breakups and middle-class travails. Even if not all the material is the freshest, Ruffell’s charm and comic timing are enough to see her through.

A self-avowed political comic, Joe Wells is a different prospect. There are some well-worked gags about Nick Clegg and the coalition but a slightly over-preachy section about the British working class falls disappointingly flat. After Fin Taylor’s nicely realised quips about love and life, John Kearns' dark, surreal persona is a rather abrupt change of pace. The confrontational shtick wears a bit thin but there are enough laughs and wacky antics—an audience member is forced to impersonate a whale on stage—to keep interest up.

With five comics spread over an hour and a half for just seven quid, if you fancy a ribald lunch you could do a lot worse.