John Tothill / Sarah Roberts / Sean McLoughlin - Bobby Carroll's Live Comedy Diary

Written by: Bobby Carroll
Published: Wednesday 23rd April 2025

"I'm Bart Simpson. Who the hell are you?" - Popular pre-meme comedy icon circa 1990

Back in the day, years ago... fuck it, I wanna say 2010... ish, there was an in-vogue theory knocking around amongst the hustling comedians that if you could simplify your look down to a basic 2D line drawing of yourself you could become a massive name. Think Colonel Sanders. Or Captain Birdseye. Alan Carr's specs. Or poncey, dandy human bodification of a strutting venereal disease, Russell Brand. If your look could be reduced down to a line drawing that everyone the world over might recognise as you, and you only, then fame was yours. Both Brennan Reece and Daniel Sloss used to market themselves with a self-styled logo / caricature during their first couple of Fringes towards stardom. Don't see those once ubiquitous cartoons on their advertising anymore though, do you?

We have moved on. Thankfully, these days authenticity trumps slick promotion. Now acts bare their flawed souls on podcasts, their jagged diagnoses on stage and their unfiltered holiday snaps in a monthly dump. Be real, be reeling. If you are presenting mess then you are selling the chaos of reality. The unruly self. Here's to the comedians who are what they are. Unashamedly letting you match their freak. With any slice of their loaf that fits into your lunchbox. Looks and day jobs and ponderings direct to camera as they walk the dog. Love them for them.

First off the bat this month, right at home in this wave of authentic clutter, is John Tothill. He has the look of a young Kenneth Branagh swirled around with an any age Macaulay Culkin. The voice of a Richard Curtis screenplay that has grown toes and fingers, lips and tongue. Started walking and talking. But silky. And haphazard. A constant state of excited distraction.

Crowd work, scene setting, asides... all crammed into a minute. Every minute. For over an hour. And only space for one palpable joke. Tothill moves betwixt modes at a breakneck acceleration. I'm pretty sure I saw Tom Cruise clinging to the side of him at one point. Tothill rockets. With no safety harness and only the giddy heights of comedy nirvana between him and oblivion. It is a high wire act performed like a flamenco baile.

Tothill burrows us right into his squalor. At times he refers to himself as the rat, also the pig king. And the flat share pharaoh. His resting place, his bedroom surrounded by his meagre belongings. Every last one of them. Thank God This Lasts Forever is a riotous romp through familiar neuroses, weekday bender confessions and show off Wikipedia regurgitation. A clever boy, a well-read boy, a former teacher. He educates us on mice heartbeats and malaria trials. Gets philosophical on mortality. The casual use of the word 'genus' comes to him ever so naturally and that probably is still a rarity in your standard club set. Delicious.

What's all this now... That Bobby Carroll... Champion of the working class turn... Scourge of any form of privilege... Celebrating a plummy voiced posho?! Well, burn my Only Fools And Horses box set and take my overdue copy of The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists back to the library. John Tothill is the real deal. He's got sophistication. He's got ravishments. He is formally daring. Yet his ambition doesn't hang heavy over our good time. Like a perfect primary school teacher, he knows our wet little minds are expanded by his intelligent nurturing. He aims high above the room's shared knowledge. I have nothing but time for any act who actively avoids the norm and never reaffirms values. With his cut glass clip and mischievous dominance, John Tothill will be a household name soon enough. His take on people who describe themselves as Marmite personalities rips and roars with smarts and.... well... authenticity.

Pressure is off. Sarah Roberts declares right out of the gate that her joyously misfit hour Silkworm has no deeper intent to it than giving us a chance to see how talented she is. And how hot she is. Phew! There is nothing more relaxing than realising I can power off my critical brain and enjoy the comedy. All I need to do as after care is to type up "Sarah Roberts is both hot and talented" and then close down my notes app...

Of course, it ain't truly that vacuous. If there was a deeper meaning to Silkworm, it might be about how self-perception and the perception of others causes harm, trauma and challenging transformations. Even from audience members. Even from comedy reviewers.

To make this point, a point she actively denies exists, Roberts regales us with true tales of anxiety, body horror and cringe. A teenage fingering that turns into a fishy whodunnit for all the family. A runaway date that ends in shit covered feet. Childhood bullying, passive aggressive friendships, cosmetic surgery, Sims incest. All unfurled in a blinding pure white Juicy Couture tracksuit and face accentuated with immaculate make-up. Her content shares much of the DNA of flighty disaster artist Harriet Kemsley. Her delivery is slower, centred, almost hypnotic. ASMR confessional lacerations. Beguiling mess.

Soft on punches, this is inarguably a comedy style that needs the audience to come to it. Personality driven but the personality is like quicksand. Roberts has been mistaken for a character act before and there certainly is something heightened about her shifting attitude on stage. Sentences switch between self-aggrandising bravado to poor me victimhood to chiding authority without a full stop. I was seduced and fascinated by her ungraspable, unpredictable stage presence. To fill an hour she employs everything from a withering pinched face glare to sloppy PowerPoint. Sometimes you wish she didn't leave us all quite so breathless with the churn of ideas. Her strongest moments are when she times out of biographical schadenfreude and teases the front row with tricksy upper hand banter.

If you want a reality check then Sean McLoughlin's White Elephant screams legitimacy. The closest the man and boy stand-up comes to an affectation is his now omnipresent black baggy suit. Is this still the same funereal two piece he has been wearing all these years? Nearly two decades in, I'd love to be his local dry cleaner... money in the bank. The suit harks back to the Jongleurs / Comedy Store heydays when a stand-up cut through the noise by looking the part. Even in his late 30s McLoughlin's deceptively artful physicality and tall frame give the impression of an eager beaver at a difficult job interview. Out of his depth, trying to impress us, an interview panel of punters. It is a deceptive camouflage. I have yet to see the audience his uncommon craft cannot win around.

If White Elephant has an overriding bailiwick, it is McLoughlin the underachiever measuring himself against the world. And by, "the world", I mean the entire geopolitical sun spinning third rock. Trying to stream free yoga broadcasts from palatial American luxury homes that bring sharp contrast to his tiny London hovel. See also his out of character dalliance watching porn made guerrilla style in Airbnb mansions. His immigrant accountant has strived and struggled to achieve an enviable life in the UK only to be employed processing McLoughlin's frivolous attempts to deduct unlikely purchases from his tax bill. Would Putin get turned away from an All Bar One? Does a recent change in national citizenry uncover difficult truths about older family members and namesakes?

As McLoughlin compares his existence to others' global journeys, he maintains his world-weary swagger and self-punishing point of view. The jester as loser, the financial disaster zone doing what he loves and living out his childhood dream. The flavour is tangy sweet n sour, yet McLoughlin has the sea legs and strong core to bully even tepid audiences into aligning themselves with his seemingly floundering, always punching up perspective. It is an hour of strongly written banger after banger. He clearly loves his centre piece long-form bit about parrots being able to talk. I walked away with his evocative assassination of him and his partner slow dancing at a wedding. There is bound to be one set piece or rug pull that will make you crush hard on him too. McLoughlin's long recognised genius within the art is indisputable and yet White Elephant is a growth, a success and a marvel. Accept no substitutes.

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