http://theweereview.com/review/richard-herring-oh-frig-im-50/
“Where is the virtue in fidelity,” ponders Richard Herring, “when there is no one trying to sleep with you?”
That seems like a cynical question to ask, rhetorical and witty as it
is, for a man who’s happily married with a toddler, and “a brand new
piece of sexcrement” on the way. Self-incriminating even. It soon
becomes apparent however, that these questions form a necessary
comparison between the Herring of today and that of ten years ago,
around which the show pivots.
Oh Frig, I’m 50! is the second decennial census of his life after 2007’s Oh F*ck, I’m 40! It
finds Herring as a more reflective and infinitely less hedonistic
version of his former self, although he speculates this may be as much
down to the inevitable degradation of his body and depletion in his
energy reservoir rather than the settling of his soul. He’s in jovial,
relaxed mood, completely in charge of his material. He seems as much
amused by the changes in his life and body as he is exasperated, and
there’s a constant conversation between his new incarnation and the man
child still clinging to his hell-raising days as he clattered into his
fifth decade. It’s a show both introspective and celebratory as this
new period coincides with the 30th anniversary of his first appearance
at the Fringe.
The material is all very much along the same themes of family and
ageing. It isn’t breaking new ground, but being in his company as he
conducts his existential archaeology is a rare treat. Like hardy
perennials such as Simon Munnery and long-time collaborator Stewart Lee,
the Fringe feels like his natural habitat and there’s a sense he can do
little wrong. He always stay on the right side of nostalgia; and you
can be sure there’s a certain glee he extracts from the panic he sews
among some young men in the room at his announcement that the force of a
man’s ejaculation diminishes as he ages.
He ties up his hour with an analogy involving a toy involving plastic penguins climbing up stairs and descending a chute.
That there is life in a nutshell. No more, no less and it’s his
realisation that there is no point grasping for a higher purpose that is
the well from which his burgeoning contentment springs. It’s rare to
see someone age gracefully and remain just as funny as he always has
been. One suspects Oh Wanksocks, I’m 90! will be a stonker.
