Southsea’s Gaiety Theatre in Portsmouth isn’t quite the ‘end of the pier’, as the old trope goes, but it is on a pier; looming over the shimmering Channel Sea this brisk Thursday evening – while paddle-boarders drift beneath the wooden boardwalk and Fitbit enthusiasts cascade down the wide Victorian promenade.
From the outside, it’s the picture of coastal serenity, but inside The Gaiety, the mood is voracious and indignant. Because underneath the stage lights, Jim Davidson is addressing his audience: ‘I don’t know about you,’ he booms at the crowd, ‘but when I turn on the telly, there’s a lot of comedians who I don’t find very funny. What we’ve got here tonight… is proper comedy.’
There are no prizes for guessing who Davidson is alluding to here. In recent years a new generation of TV-friendly comics has arisen, one which bears a striking resemblance to the ‘alternative comedy’ scene of the 1980s. Comics like James Acaster, Joe Lycett, Sara Pascoe, Nish Kumar et al have become near-on household names peddling a softer, ‘better’ kind of comedy. In their version of stand up, out-and-out gags seem to play second fiddle to likeable personas and agreeable politics. Jokes about Hinge dates and Conservative Party policy sit side-by-side, and they are able to apply this across a variety of forms; from sold-out theatres to panel shows, travelogues, sitcoms and branded content deals. Despite their leftist credentials, they are undoubtedly the ‘in crowd’ of British comedy.
Whereas going to a Jim Davidson show is, in itself, something of an antisocial act. Davidson is surely one of the more disreputable characters in post-war British culture, a man who sends shudders down the spine of left-minded Britain. His most famous character is that of ‘Chalky White’, a fictional Caribbean man with a crudely drawn accent who becomes the butt of endless racial stereotypes. Modern comedians often talk about ‘punching down’, and Davidson has built a career on it – a motif best exemplified when he cancelled a show in 2003 because there were too many disabled people in the front row. According to a spokesman for Plymouth Pavillions, ‘Mr Davidson cited the fact that a proportion of his act was aimed at disabled customers, and that he would be unable to perform under these circumstances.’
Now aged 69, Davidson has also endured a chaotic personal life, struggling with cocaine and alcohol addictions, five failed marriages, being accused of (and half-admitting to) domestic abuse by his ex-wife and being questioned by Operation Yewtree. He also gave evidence at the trial of cocaine dealer Brian ‘The Milkman’ Wright, acted in a Peter Greenaway film and was thrown off reality cooking show Hell’s Kitchen for using the term ‘shirt-lifters’.
Aside from this show, his latest venture is an unlikely foray into subscriber media. Jim has brought the Red Scare model to the back-end of cable telly with his USTREME channel, where for £47 per annum, you can indulge in his personally curated content. Tonight at The Gaiety, there is a big promotional push for USTREME taking place. There’s a pamphlet under every seat and huge screens showing trailers for the channel. Its slogan is ‘laugh like you used to’ – and Davidson appears to have bought up the catalogues of his contemporaries, many of whom are now departed (Jethro, Freddie Starr) or simply unbroadcastable (before the show starts he assures the crowd that USTREME is the ‘only place you can watch Roy Chubby Brown on telly’).
Thumbing through the USTREME promo material are perhaps the highest concentration of men in short-sleeved shirts seen outside of a Mormon convention. They sit, pints at their chests; sporting Blue Harbour jeans, brown suede boots and unseasonal poppy lapel pins. Some of their wives have come along, too, all sparkly cardigans and freshly-blown hair. The table seats at the back are laden with huge pitchers and ice buckets of brown ale. This is a drinking crowd, evidently, and before the show begins Davidson alludes to some trouble in the crowd the night before. ‘Anyone who turns up drunk will not be admitted,’ declares the e-ticket.
The first act of the night is Ricky Lane, an old-school Blackpool comic who admits to looking like a ‘fat Harry Hill’. To my surprise, Lane avoids most of the culture war schtick and drops a few killer lines. ‘I met a fella outside… Falklands veteran,’ he announces to the navy town crowd, who erupt into a patriotic cheer. ‘… I don’t know what you’re laughing for, he were a fucking Argentinian.’ It’s a fine joke, and one that represents the best of this dying form; timing, delivery and a cold, anarchic streak running through it.
