skepticat.org
The night Scott Capurro died
I'm seeing a guy who is so black, he's purple. It's like fucking a mood ring. I can't wait until he dies so I can see what colour he turns. It was at this point in Scott Capurro's gig at the Hampstead Comedy Club last night that I decided to switch off, get out my ipod and play a game of poker. I'm not easily offended but I am easily bored and last night I was bored out of my skull watching Capurro tossing off. Seriously, he reminded me of a saddo in a dirty raincoat getting off on revealing his willy to an unsuspecting crowd, whose unappreciative reaction makes him want to jerk off even harder. In spite of the venue — a small upstairs room at the grotty Pembroke Castle pub in Chalk Farm — it had been a good evening until Capurro came on. The first act — Lloyd Langford, a charming if gawky young Welshman — had been engaging and funny in a gentle and meandering sort of way and, even though he didn't exactly kill us, he was well-received by the laid-back audience. Kerry Godliman came