It is a curious spectacle. Lynch strums his way through one rancid and flat-footed number after another, and then strikes a smug “ooh-aren’t-I-naughty” pose as though he has mocked our most cherished taboos. But this is an audience for which taboos died out with Fanny Craddock. They love to hear him make fun of Anne Frank or the mentally handicapped or Christopher Reeve’s disability. Any mention of breasts, testicles and faeces — preferably in the same sentence — gets a terrific laugh, too. The cherubic Lynch duly delivers.
Unfortunately, the punch lines are all too predictable and — with the exception of the promising ditty about a neo-Nazi girlfriend — the wordplay is so leaden that it makes his rival, the Aussie troubadour Tim Minchin, look like a cross between Mozart and Tom Lehrer.
“I shouldn’t have f***ed that prostitute without a prophylactic,” Lynch croons on Waiting, his ballad about a man waiting for the results of an Aids test. Is he really as dumb as he seems, or is it all just a cynical, money-making act? I really wasn’t sure. And to be honest, I have no interest in the answer. Life is too short.
See the full article from “Times Online”
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