Howling to the point where both sets of cheeks are clenched from laughing and fear of pissing yourself is the sign of a good night. Jimeoin doesn’t point at the stupidity of the world, he points at us, and we can’t help but grin back at him because his bulging eyes, lolloping tongue, and pelvic thrusts, mean we know he’s one of us. Even his pub-bloke jokes about The Missus are kept tongue in cheek enough to not grow stale. He wants his show to be for women too, he says, pausing for a moment then adding, “don’t you just hate it when you get an itchy fanny?”
There is a place for high-humour, dry delivery and cynicism, but on a wet Thursday night mid-February it does everyone well to have a good laugh about a fart. And that’s not to say Jimeoin’s comedy is cheap, he’s a master of pregnant silences, one liners, and using the space on the stage. At one point he creeps over to the far left out of the lights, and chuckled, “this is where I’ll do my dark material,” with a delivery that’s so simple, but subtly reminds us of the brilliant lightness of his humour.
We don’t travel far with Jimeoin, we’re not taken to other worlds or deep inside the self, just to familiar places like the car, the fridge and the mirror. But his insight is always spot-on and dealt with originally, mumbling off with a look of sudden perplexity, so we’re not even sure what is improvised.
It’s a risky note to play, but the likes of Bill Bailey and Tim Minchin have married music with laughter, and Jimeoin’s closing guitar pieces were an unexpected highlight. This is because he does it in tune with the show, strums a few mindless chords against the title, “asparagus makes your piss smell,” and then forgets what he’s doing. In fact, this is Jimeoin’s real skill, because we appear to move so easily from one musing to another, as if with the currents of his own private daydream.