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Article by Steffan Hill taken from COMEDY. The cult of Eddie Izzard is near religious in it's fervour. He's still hardly been on the box, yet he sells out gigs in five minutes and is worshipped by a cross-generation audience who hang on his every genial word. More than 2,000 people are crammed in to worship, standing before the stage waiting patiently. As the curtain is pulled back, cameras flash backstage heralding the great one's entrance. He's on, and the crowd won't stop cheering. He's looking tired, not surprisingly. He's performing in the cryptogram, in London's West End, every other night of the week. Anyone who saw his shows earlier this year will be familiar with his current material, or 'Bollocks' (his words). You can hardly expect the bloke to perform it once, and curiously, the audience even shouts out requests for old gags. "No, no, no. Killed it", he says, laughing. He is rambling less than usual, and only hits the 'what the hell was I going to say next' wall twice. He's an observer, and he anthropomorphises anything and everything from laundry to chickens. Inhis eyes, the world becomes a playground, and we are innocents invited to join him for one special hour. Eddie Izzard is precious. Treasure him. The long and winding road is calling me home to the land of smog and filth. I've had enough fresh air to do me until Edinburgh and Reading. I can already smell the petrol fumes of home. |