Glastonbury Festival - Boothby Graffoe and Nina Conti review

Boothby Graffoe and Nina Conti review

27 Jun 2003

She’s Tom Conti’s daughter y’know. Yeah, that Tom Conti, the one your mum used to fancy (Emily’s dad from Friends, ok, youngsters?), and it begs the question of whether he approves of what she does, because discussing the more, er, sensitive aspects of general smut is sometimes a little difficult to be open about with parents. I hope he does approve, because his lil’ girl is doing something very bloody funny and saving it from becoming buried in hypocritical snobbery.

Ventriloquism is generally considered a bit ‘variety hall’ rather than belonging truly on the trendier aspects of the comedy scene. Nina Conti turns this image on its head and laughs as its genitals are exposed. Y’see, she has the remarkably astute ability to be herself when she performs, rather than being part of the usual double act. As such she takes a back seat, acting embarrassed and coy when her puppet partner, the foul-mouthed monkey, flicks yet another ‘bitch’ comment in her direction.

Unlike Johnny Vegas’s monkey, this one’s capable of tickling funny bones. You find yourself warming to the little fella, and wishing Nina wasn’t there to interrupt, which I suppose is what the intention is. It’s the monkey’s show and his assistant knows her place and is thankful (bitch!).

She deserves all the acclaim she’s going to get, this young lady, particularly as you’ll probably never see her on TV. Except, perhaps, the news.

Boothby Graffoe, on the other hand, takes us back into surreal silliness comfortably enough. Coming on guitar in hand, he rambles in a attractively twee world of his own. Bungee Girl is as tongue in cheek as it sounds, taking the piss out of itself and letting Graffoe just go off on a variety of tangents. He likes to remind us that he’s a Dad and us parents know how he feels as we recognize the grit-your-teeth moments of which we have too many to list.

Rather geared to a laboured anti-war/USA/whatever direction for a while, he lapses into a vague rant about the Scots and a multi-armed boy, talking to his hand like a good little f**ked up Sarf Landon geezer. As you do, I suppose.

An oblique but not obtuse comedian/musician, his quick-witted ad-libs are both sparkling and inventive. Poor Umbrella Head Boy, his musical homage to, well, a boy who had an umbrella for a head (what else?), is just skirting around the accessible side of bizarre. On The Planet Dog takes it a stage further and for a while it seems as if the idea of dogs running the planet not only seems like a good idea but the only truly sensible solution. Only Glastonbury could be responsible for such shameless thoughts and Boothby Graffoe will encourage that stupid side of yourself to come to the fore and just enjoy it.

Paul Mills

Boothby Graffoe and Nina Conti review

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