- Kirstyn Smith
- 23 August 2012
This article is from 2012.
Natural storyteller paints even overhashed topics a new shade of funny
Greg Proops is rambling (‘If there’s any critics in – fuck you. Why did you come on a Sunday night?’ Colour me chastised.) He finds tangents and embraces them, drawling on about the Scottish accent and his inability to understand that old chestnut: the ‘salt ‘n’ sauce’ dilemma. He grabs onto the weather – did we realise it’s a whole other climate in California? – and colours the subject with a causticness that’s entirely his own, all the while insisting that the pre-prepared jokes will be along any minute now. The thing about Proops is that, even when he’s just chewing the fat, he has a delightful turn of phrase that takes even these overdone topics and paints them a new shade of funny. His voice alone adds a wonderfully snarky overtone, an exaggerated whine that is particularly obvious when he is being self-deprecating on behalf of the whole of the United States, a manner he totally contradicts in the next breath by taking on the mantle of stereotypical American brat (‘Animals have two functions: to taste delicious and to fit well’). A natural storyteller, there’s a bizarre interlude where he relates the tale of himself, Malcolm Hardee and Bob the Taxi on a madcap, substance abusive cab journey up Arthur’s Seat. Where he really comes into his own however is when digging his teeth deep into his vast frustrations with the American political landscape. His vitriolic, profanity-laden, sweat-slicked but articulate rants about politics and religion are simply a pleasure to hear and this weary, lucid misanthropy really touches a nerve with anybody who’s ever thought the same, proving why, after so many years, he’s still a massive Fringe hit.