Capsule: Dylan Moran, Hammersmith Apollo
In the midst of a short, over-priced, phoned-in performance, there was a body in BB23 that was clammy, nervy, a body that was seizing up with pinpricks all over, beyond exhaustion, when one foot in front of the other involves engaging a brain that won't be engaged any more, dimmed by the dull ache and hysterical over-perception that a lack of sleep brings; too weary to support a head, all hypochondriac kinks ablaze, believing that the fatal bout of ME/MS/cancer will kick in, and yup, this is it, now, allied to the panic that you will never sleep again, and then equally as suddenly, the realisation that you have to get out of BB23 nownownow, to at least defeat the exhaustion by lying down in Queen Caroline Street outside and fuck the traffic-
And then, some of that is lifted by a startlingly poetic turn of phrase. In describing the sensation of listening to German, some sensations in BB23 were defrayed:
"like a typewriter eating tin foil while falling down some stairs"
Metallic beats metallic, to relieve confused skin.
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