It is, says host Suzi Ruffell, the only gig where you get heckled by gulls. Or worse: the man next to me at the interval got spectacularly soiled by one. It’s also “colder than I expected it to be”, says headliner Phil Wang, who apologises for coming on stage “looking like your dad’s come to pick you up from a party”. The dad jacket was an unforeseen necessity: 10pm in an open space in Brighton starts to feel less park, more parky.
And yet, there’s something charming about the city’s annual Comedy Garden, an outdoor event big enough to resemble a summer festival, and small enough not to need large screens beaming the performance to the cheap seats. We’re still operating on a scale where John Kearns, for example, can tailor his whole 20-minute set around its opening, malfunctioning interaction with someone in the front few rows. Miffed at the ambivalence with which he’s greeted, Kearns undertakes an impromptu survey of what starts to feel like every member of the audience. “Have you ever seen me before?” Over and again. “Would you call yourself a fan?”
