In fairness to Jason Manford, he told us it'd be trivial. The show is called First World Problems, after the popular Twitter hashtag for things that irk privileged people. This isn't a gig that puts the world to rights, or subverts the homely, rattle-no-cages shtick that has made Manford's name. But while you may wish in vain, as I do, for Manford to surprise us or widen his range, you can't gainsay his skill. On several occasions tonight, I found my frustration at another low-horizoned joke interrupted – contradicted? – by the sound of my laughter at the way Manford was telling it.
So if the subject matter – sneezes that sound like farts; annoying conversations with call-centres – is often stodgy, it's leavened by Manford's voice, and his dumb demeanour. He's man-of-the-people in excelsis, foregrounding his own tubbiness, laziness and lack of pretension. It's self-conscious, but it doesn't feel fake, and situates him as the shambling butt of many of his best jokes. Then there's his Mancunian accent and no-nonsense turn-of-phrase, which combine to undercut affectation wherever Manford spots it – in, for example, a prissy goalkeeper bawling out his hopeless defence ("These [gloves] were clean at three o'clock, you pair of bell-ends!").
The quality isn't always high: the first half is scrappy, and there's much generic mockery of local towns, as well as duff gags like the one about his brother's reaction to Manford's hypochondria. But at its best, this is expert observational comedy, ensuring that, if the heart sinks at another everyday situation that's been joked about a hundred times before, it'll soar soon at some bright new Manford-patented detail. And it's silly, too: "I didn't have enough dip for my chips, but if I opened a new dip, I wouldn't have enough chips for my dip." When trivia's that funny, the occasional wallow is quite forgivable.
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