Burt Williamson’s cantankerousness can’t be solely attributed to him hailing from Thornbury, a Gloucestershire market town dominated by the elderly. Nor can his offbeat thoughts and youthful acting up be laid at the door of autism, because with characteristic – if eminently self-aware – smug insistence, he’s got evidence to show otherwise. No, the anxiety-riddled Williamson’s dyspepsia emanates in large part from his chronic back pain, a serious enough condition that it’s led to some significant lifestyle changes and the possibility of crippling him later in life. So it’s fortunate that his peevishness suits the fault-finding scrutiny of his elegant writing, as with original observations and well-crafted anecdotes, he shows himself to be a comic of real promise.
From modest kernels of inspiration, such as a friend’s virtue signalling after acquiring a rescue dog or the Royal Family’s entitlement to the nation’s swans, Williamson builds really funny, intricate routines of ingenious contrariness and waspish social commentary. Allied to his large, compromised frame, Williamson’s seemingly brusque manner can be a little off-putting initially. Yet you gradually align to his way of seeing the world as he shares more and more of his vulnerabilities and insecurities.
Burt Williamson, 104kg of Pure Banter, PBH’s Free Fringe @ Voodoo Rooms, until 24 Aug, 3.05pm