Ambition is our ball-and-chain. Careerism is our curse. We'd be happier, says Andrew Lawrence, if we acted as per the title of his new show: Don't Just Do Something, Sit There! Which might sound rich coming from a flourishing young standup twice nominated for the If.comedy award, but Lawrence speaks from the heart. He's one of life's outsiders, with a vengeful worldview and a self-image honed, presumably, by years of anti-ginger abuse. "Looking at my face is like reading in the car. It's alright for ten minutes then you start to feel sick."
I last saw Lawrence two years ago, and he's improved immeasurably. He still delivers much of his act in a cod-theatrical voice, and indulges in the odd sick reverie. But the obsession with shock, smut and gore has ceded to a comic prepared to talk honestly about the world. On the pursuit of physical perfection: "I like David Beckham. Most of us have skeletons in our closet. But he takes his out in public." On materialism: "Andrew, when are you going to take some of you crap away with you?" / "I'm not, Dad. It's crap. That's why I left it here." And on our over-worked society: how do you take a sickie when your colleague clocks in daily despite suffering from testicular cancer?
This sad state of affairs is thrown into relief by Lawrence's strangely tender idealism. Even his psychotic rants are just a means to inject passion into a soulless world, in which first-time house buyers are asked to provide "every tear you've ever cried", and a hairdresser can be described as "nice but, you know, orange".
It's not the most uproarious standup set you'll see: the biggest laugh came when Lawrence got hit by a moth. But it's compelling. I watched intently for an hour - and, incidentally, didn't feel sick once.
