Jack Evans: Comedy Spotlight

Figurehead of the subversive comedy extravaganza that is Quippopotamus, Jack Evans meanders through a labyrinth of his own mind’s making, plucking out obscure historical references, zeitgeisty phenomena and Eastern European folk tales. He is a comic like no other operating out of the Northwest at the moment; a gangly, ginger Tony Law beckoning you to follow him down his dark path. You really should – you’ll like what you find.

First gig:

“The notoriously horrendous ‘King Gong’ at the Store, end of 2011. For the blissfully ignorant, gong shows are gigs where drunk, hostile audiences have the power to ‘gong’ you off stage if you fail to tell their favourite Sickipedia gags with sufficient arrogance. The crowd, coaxed in with drinks offers and a chance to recapture the fleeting sense of power they had in Year 9 when they farted in Geeky Darren’s mouth, then crown the most misogynist, most soothingly mediocre act the ‘best comedian.’ With foolhardy abandon, I tried to make these people laugh at the half-baked idea that underground Taliban fighters might just be misunderstood subterranean mole people. Awful. Much like a passenger plane piloted by a mole over New York, I crashed and burned.”

Best gig: 

"I love gigs that look to be awful but turn out awesome. My favourite was a ‘Christmas Hoe Down’ for a slimming club in Hull. Performing on the dancefloor in front of the best buffet I’ve ever seen, the running order had 15 minutes of festive music between each act. It was like Slade were the MC. A really bad MC who gets the audience to dance on stage and doesn’t even find out their jobs.

"The first section was an unmitigated disaster. The 12-year-old sound-tech-slash-DJ didn’t know how to turn the multicoloured, strobing disco lights off. In a moment of awkward silence, a man called Barry did a fart. It got a round of applause. My introduction to the ‘stage’ included a reminder that the gargantuan buffet would open after my set. Tension filled the air. I stood between the lions and their prey, feigned confidence upon my stupid face, gusset dripping with fear-sweat: how could I possibly compete with Barry’s sphincter? I did though lads. Ripped it. The gig, not Barry’s sphincter."

Favourite venue:

"The Stand in Glasgow is the best comedy club I’ve ever had the privilege of playing. But… erm… I heard somewhere that there’s this gig called…  ahem *wipes sweat off face with sleeve*… The Quippodrome… *pukes into shoe*… in Mono, Chorlton, that’s… *awkwardly puts shoe back on while maintaining eye contact*… meant to be really good. And it’s closer than Scotland so you should probably go."

Best heckle:

"Some deaf dude once passed me a note on stage that said ‘I’ve never heard comedy this bad.’ Not sure it works, but I like it. At one weekend club, as I did a banging routine about Stalin’s policy of dekulakization, a Scouse lady said ‘I don’t understand.’

"Not really into the gladiatorial, willy-wielding dominance contest that is putting down hecklers but I have put down a dog. He said some really mean stuff about my act. Same with Nanna."

If you were on death row, what would your last meal be? And why are you on death row? 

"My last meal would be crow, frog eyes and the tears of a virgin. I’d be on death row in Saudi Arabia for doing witchcraft. Not for long though, ‘cause that meal’s actually the ingredients for my escape spell! Whaaaaaat? See you later lads."

If you lived in medieval times what would you do for a living? 

"Leech collector. That was an actual job. Get naked, get in the river for a bit, go into town and sell your leeches. What a doss."

Question from past Spotlighter Jayne Edwards: Where do you get your material from? 

"The haberdashery, Jayne, you idiot."