Within minutes of stepping off the bus into Kilkenny for this year’s Cat Laughs festival, Hot Press feels right at home. Leisurely strolling up one of the main thoroughfares in the Marble City, who should we happen upon only legendarily bellicose comedian, Dave McSavage (pictured), Predictably, the locals have assembled in the obligatory semi-circle (McSavage – both literally and figuratively – likes to perform with his back up against the wall, perhaps as a precautionary measure against the ever-present possibility of a knife being plunged into it), to witness the fearlessly confrontational antics of perhaps Ireland’s finest stand-up comic.

It’s quite a sight, watching McSavage do his demented-ringmaster schtick away from his natural habitat (the wilds of Temple Bar), but like a true comic-chameleon, he adapts effortlessly to the provincial environs. Taking his life into his own hands, a man casually walks by, a bulging duffle-bag slung over one shoulder. “That gentleman is carrying the dismembered remains of his ex-wife,” McSavage suggests. And on he goes, a rampaging id, like a stand-up version of Brad Pitt’s character from Fight Club.

Having borne witness to genius within minutes of arrival, Hot Press surmises that the experience can only go downhill from here. Remarkably, it doesn’t. Next on the itinerary is (whisper it, he loathes the description), Phoenix Nights star, Daniel Kitson, fresh from a hat-trick in the Ireland v. Rest Of World 11 footie game earlier that day.

In front of a rapt crowd, Kitson delivers the usual stunning mix of profanity (during one particularly extreme flight of fancy, he pictures himself sodomising Irish comic, David O’Doherty), and self-lacerating wit (“I don’t usually fare well in social situations,” he observes, “although people usually counter with, ‘Yeah, but you get up on stage, don’t you?’ I do, but that’s not the sort of thing people generally appreciate at a party – ‘Drinks and conversation shall commence in a little while, but first Daniel’s going to discuss to minutiae of his life for two hours.’”)

From there, it’s down to Langton’s Hotel, where Deep South jailbird Otis Lee Crenshaw is holding forth. Merrily leading the crowd through the hugely popular musical number, ‘Let’s Kill George Bush’, extemporising tunes based on discourse with sundry members of the audience, Crenshaw is in top form. At one point, he enquires as to the origins of a particular gentleman in the front row. “I’m from Cork,” the man replies. “Up Tipp!” interjects another member of the crowd. “Go on the banner!” shouts yet another. “The riot doesn’t start ‘til later,” advises Crenshaw, instantly regaining control of proceedings.

After enjoying the delightful comedy stylings of the aforementioned David O’Doherty (genius moment: a piss-take on the Frank McCourt school of melodramatic memoir, located in ’80s suburban Ireland, and titled, The Day Father Came Home With The Sodastream), and the Dublin Comedy Improv team (genius moment: when one member improvises a tune called ‘My Hamster Expired’ in Duran Duran-inspired, New Romantic style), we catch up with Mr. Crenshaw again the next day, only this time in the somewhat more urbane guise of Rich Hall.

Interviewed by Pauline McLynn as part of the Book Soup series, Hall divulged any number of juicy details about his early days on the comedy circuit in America, including the fascinating tidbit that he once played support to Talking Heads, and the even more startling revelation that he once participated in a sport called donkey basketball (same as regular hoop-shooting, except the players were trundled around the court by the beasts in question).
A comforting thought, then, for those anxiously awaiting their Leaving Cert results – they truly don’t teach this shit in school.