Madeleine McCann, the Haitian earthquake, "our boys" in Afghanistan. Show Jerry Sadowitz a sacred cow, and it'll be mince before you reach the exit. Sadowitz's recent gigs have been two parts magic to one part comedy. But tonight, as if to shore up his supremacy in no-holds-barred standup, the comedy is unleashed. This is entertainment as a cannonade of misanthropy; a non-stop rant as remarkable for its intensity as for its determination to appal, disgust and amuse in as many ways as possible.
There's no theme to the show beyond the breathtakingly unpleasant outpourings of a misfit's mind. The easily offended won't outlast the first five minutes as Barack Obama, Stephen Fry and even Islam come under fire in his fearless tirades. Elsewhere, there's desperate stuff about middle-aged masturbation and a broadside against current standup. The only comedy boom of which Sadowitz would approve, one suspects, would be a controlled explosion on the set of Mock the Week.
It's not always funny, but even when Sadowitz is just ranting, it's cathartic. He's the demon at our shoulder, a blunt poet of impotent rage. The malice of his material is usually trumped by its lurid ridiculousness, as with one sexual fantasy involving a dwarf, a trapdoor, and 12 naked women spitting on him. Amid the hatred, there are unpalatable truths about the gilded turd of Modern Life that Sadowitz dares us to dismiss as comedy. This bonfire of proprieties casts a little light – and a fierce heat.
