MILTON JONES IS OUT THERE
IT MUST be dreadful to have a mind like Milton Jones, where every incident, every one of his at least 12 grandfathers, every country, every phrase, every THING ever, has to be inverted, twisted, jumbled and then finely honed to a laser-sharp, diamond-cut one-liner.
Yes, he’s very much Out There, out there on the very edge of surrealism, of speed of thought, of originality, so much so that he feels compelled to pause, just to let us mere mortals catch up, and chuckle at the little gem he dropped some ten minutes previously.
In fact, it took until the interval for the people behind me to realise that the background music they shuffled and stumbled to their seats to some 30 minutes earlier (Aqua’s Dr Jones, Bananarama’s Nathan Jones, Counting Crows’ Mr Jones, Amy Winehouse’s Me and Mr Jones etc) had all been very poorly edited with someone shouting MILTON! at all the appropriate moments.
Emerging as a map of Great Britain and looking out of a hole somewhere in the region of Derbyshire (Yes, it’s the Peek District, madam. I think it’ll be a long night for you..), Milton, sporting a trademark loud shirt – mauve, pink and purple tonight, style watchers – and wild hair, takes us on a journey through Brexit and the possible break-up of the United Kingdom with such intelligence, such incisiveness, it’s no wonder the invitation came in from Panorama: “I’d go for Rama every time”, he quips… and waits.
He’s very much on top of current affairs, alerting us to the new terror organisation which combines the threat of obesity with Islamic extremism: Choc Isis.
Crossrail? Is that when a train dresses like a boat?
Frequently interrupted by phone calls from his gushing and enthusiastic new PR girl Becky with new ideas to elevate his profile and get him Out There, Milton’s hour-and-a-bit plus is a masterclass of pun-slinging word wizardry.
And it showed how far out there he really is when he invited the audience, still in recovering from an excessive rib-tickling, to shout out random words for him to improvise on instantly.
“Holidays?” “I’ve just been on a ballooning holiday: I put on four stone…”
Only the shout of ‘Pottery’ exposed the artist’s feet of clay, as he briefly harrumphed, paused and moved onto a more familiar subject: Grandfathers.
An evening spent in the company of a refreshingly original and lightning-quick mind, with not a single swear all night: What’s not to like?
NICK HORTON
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