As I have suggested before Cambridge Footlights is one of those great British comedy institutions, and we owe them generous helpings of thanks for having produced such spectacular people as Douglas Adams, Alexander Armstrong, Ben Miller, Graham Chapman, John Cleese, Eric Idle, Peter Cook, Hugh Dennis, Stephen Fry, Hugh Laurie, Emma Thompson, David Mitchell, Robert Webb, John Oliver and Sandi Toksvig (and lots of other people). Well, ``produced'' might be the wrong word. Fostered? Driven to excellence?
At any rate, with such a splendid history and exalted associations comes expectations of truly extraordinary proportions. This makes it easier to stand out (not to mention sell out -- the tickets, I mean) at a place like the Edinburgh Fringe, but it also means that people like me will show up expecting to see the new David Mitchell, the new Emma Thompson or (heaven forbid) the new Stephen Fry. And that is all really quite an unreasonable way of treating
a bunch of (mainly) undergraduates. The finesse and perfect timing we (or I, at any rate) associate with the names listed above are probably due in large part to practice and experience and all those other dreary things that doth a professional make.
I meditated on this on my way back home after the show because, to tell the stark horrible truth, I was a little disappointed. And that isn't quite fair. I laughed quite a bit. They entertained me. They definitely
felt like Footlights (and that is odd considering I have ...
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