Earlier on Sunday, the words “it’s coming home” from Frank Skinner and David Baddiel’s footy anthem “Three Lions” once again echoed across the UK. Yet that very evening, on stage at the Edinburgh Fringe, Skinner makes no reference to the Lionesses’ World Cup loss. Given he’s a breezy improviser, with no dearth of football material in his reflective show 30 Years of Dirt, it’s an odd choice. On stage, he ricochets from tangent to tangent, frequently chuckling at his own jokes. It’s as if Skinner is playing it by ear, disappearing down whatever rabbit hole he feels like in the moment. He’s having a ball; our enjoyment is a bonus.
As the show’s title suggests, this is Skinner’s chance to show off the comic skill he’s honed over his three-decade career. His hour consists of a loose collection of anecdotes – nearly all true, he tells us, because he doesn’t have the imagination for anything else – paired with some groan-worthy puns and cheeky crowd work. Dressed casually in a dark suit with a red T-shirt, he barely breaks a sweat on stage, making it all look easy. Bar a short mime section and a physical bit about lateral flow tests, it’s a fairly static affair. But what Skinner lacks in visual intrigue, he makes up for with his knack for improvisation, his instantly recognisable voice still drawing the audience in.
Indeed, the material feels secondary to Skinner’s improv abilities. The front row is barely given a moment’s respite. A man wearing a sequin shirt and kilt and carrying a fancy walking cane provides ample opportunity for casual homophobia (fortunately well received by its subject). It’s clear, however, that Skinner could clearly squeeze material out of anyone and anything. One moment, he’s chiding an unfocused crowd member with the words, “You had a good text come through, mate?” The next, he’s wiping imaginary snot off his jacket when an audience member on the back row sneezes. The cogs whirr as he picks and chooses which gags to tell, then wonders aloud if he’ll ever repeat these random selections of words on stage again. “I kind of wish I was taping this, it’s a f***ing one-off,” he muses, drawing us in again.
Skinner is at his best when thinking on his feet. The moments when he sticks to the script can feel comparatively sedate. Given the show’s title, it’s a little surprising the ribaldry is confined to one short end segment. When he brings up political correctness in comedy with the metaphor “if you’re vegan, don’t go to the f***ing butcher”, there is a brief moment of tension, but his views on the subject are refreshingly nuanced. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, I’m just saying it’s a change,” he tells us, avoiding the “old man yells at cloud” approach favoured by many of his comedy generation.
So no, Skinner isn’t doing anything massively new with 30 Years of Dirt – nor is he claiming to. He jokes about being a “once-great” comedian and laughs at the empty reserved seats at the front of no-shows: “I used to be f***ing massive.” The Lionesses might not get a mention, but there are similarities between Skinner and the England women’s squad. Both carry a huge amount of goodwill from the British people – even when what they achieve isn’t quite gold.
