And yet offence is as much an art as puns and observation. Because near-the-knuckle material carries the whole routine it suffers when it can’t be consistent. It peaks at traditionally formatted jokes (I’d repeat some here, but…) and drops when he is reduced to screaming “X person is a c—“. His repertoire of magic tricks get a small look-in to break up the pace. A few work correctly, but he deliberately uses the misfires as proof he cannot entertain us.

Indeed, his greatest contempt is reserved for himself; simultaneously aware that he ruined his own career but laying the blame on TV executives and critics who “didn’t get the joke”. Offence is his albatross; the making and breaking of his reputation. Perhaps years from now a studious academic will study his work and explain the man we barely understood. Until then Sadowitz will wander the circuit, unleashing his work on we who love it or were talked into seeing it, then leave with the words “I’m bored. Goodnight.”, denying he was ever here.

In his hands offence becomes an hour-and-a-half long hurricane; the comedy equivalent of a thrash metal moshpit. You’d think a vocation spanning twenty-five years would give an audience enough to research his act and come in prepared. Nope. A few got up and left, unprepared for his sweeping torrent of abuse. Sadowitz’s ability to offend has sunk his career more often than raising it, so for that reason there is little to experience first. Only the testimony of hardcore fans that thrive on offence and the hushed whispers of other comedians who have seen him fall from grace so many times before.

I first saw him in 2008 and loved every minute. This time the joke had worn a little thin in places, but had lost none of its intensity. “Nothing makes this more rewarding than the laughter of strangers”, he declared. So I’ll gladly be there next time, cheering on comedy’s vulgar Ancient Mariner.

WORDS BY OLIVER FORD
Corn Exchange
17/10/2010