Tim Minchin

I didn’t know that much about him before the show: Australian, excitable hair, Not Perfect (bittersweet, moving), Taboo (v. funny with a narrow little sharp edge), that Rory had been a fan for a year or two and had a brief email correspondence with him…

Waiting for Tim to come on, we had the chance to survey the stage, like a version of Kim’s Game: three bottles of water, one boot, grand piano, electric fan and glass of red wine. Who lives in a house like this?

More or less what I’d expected, I think, a latter-day Tom Lehrer with perfectly crafted dark, funny and iconoclastic songs (and one poem) about Christian fundamentalism, statistics (“This isn’t a song about love; it’s a song about maths”), New Age wooliness, prejudice and breasts. The peak moment was perhaps at the crescendo of Canvas Bags (“take your … to the supermarket”), sung as a stadium rock anthem with unbuttoned shirt and hair streaming back in the wind (Ah, that was what the fan was for.) He’s a Dawkinsite, as came across quite clearly, but nowt much wrong with that, especially when it’s leavened with a little self-deprecating humour. I don’t mind at all hearing Christians criticised; usually we deserve it and if ever we don’t then it’s a chance for a Blessed-are-you moment (though usually, if we think about it again, we do deserve it after all). In any case, I’d rather live in a world run by Richard Dawkins than by Sarah Palin.

Afterwards Tim emerged from the backstage depths (appropriately the vestry of this converted Presbyterian church) and was remarkably perky and patient with requests for autographs, hugs and photographs. I didn’t ask for any of them, but hovered about and took a picture of him with Rory while he (TM) laughed at R’s hair. “Ha! The baby’s ginger too.” I’ll see if I can get it off Rory’s phone and put it up here.

Here it is.