Patti Harrison’s last London show, she tells us with concern, upset some audiences. So tonight she comes armed with a trigger warning. Cue a sequence cautioning us about the confronting topics Harrison is to address onstage, underscored by a series of inappropriate audio effects courtesy of our host’s sound-library sponsor. It’s a great big tease, of course, but – almost despite itself – works as a bona fide content warning, too, by exemplifying Harrison’s signature style (extreme earnestness as a prelude to something yelpingly silly) and previewing the brand of irreverence and provocation that characterises the hour to come.
The conceit, in a show that recycles some routines Harrison performed at this venue 15 months ago, is that our host is working out material on the hoof, as a byproduct of her current “therapy journey”. Most of the jokes are prefixed by faltering monologues about Harrison’s pursuit of self-realisation, played with a wickedly straight bat. In her disaffected valley-girl drawl, they test our patience to breaking point – but are always redeemed by whatever wildly unexpected punchline or set-piece the Ohio native has hidden around the next corner.
