Frank Skinner: twilight of an insurgent comic

Watching Frank Skinner perform his latest one man show at the Gielgud Theatre reminded me of what it must have been like back in the dying days of variety. By the late 1970s and early 1980s cheeky jokesters and all-round entertainers such as Tarby, Brucie, Doddy and Manning were feeling the heat from a new breed of alternative comedian vehemently opposed to the old guard’s reliance on tedious stereotyping and shallow observation. Now in their mid-fifties (considered ancient back then) many took the hint, hung up their dickey-bows and retired to Bexhill; others struggled on in tatty end-of-the-pier shows in front of dwindling geriatric audiences. Mystifyingly, Sir Bruce Joseph Forsyth-Johnson CBE continued his wearisome nice-to-see-you shtick right up until his death in 2017 aged 89.    

While it’s reassuring to know that Skinner can still sell out a West End venue, much of his new act feels like an apology for his previous incarnation as Britain’s filthiest comic, once seen as a badge of honour.