Not what it says on the tin

Tonight I got a review ticket to see John Cooper Clarke - excitement! Sadly, this was my review:

Once, I was in the right place at the right time. Early in 1976 at an unsuspecting folk night in the dingy upstairs room of a South Manchester pub, in loped the lank, spiky form of someone I soon learnt was John Cooper Clarke. By the end of the evening his sharp, acerbic words had lacerated my idea of what ‘folk’ was. I was hooked.

Tonight was the wrong place at the wrong time. In loped the inestimable JCC, still lank, despite introducing ‘Get back on drugs, you fat fuck,’ with gags about his overweight but, laden with (very) old favourites, this felt like a nostalgia gig. His script showed, especially when he stumbled over familiar jokes, and his merch promotion teetered just the wrong side of irony. Perhaps his occasional quickfire wit could have saved us in a venue less cavernous than the New Theatre but, like the missed-chance warm-up talents of Luke Wright and Mike Garry, who seemed to be performing to just the front-rows-bit of the audience that would have fitted into that South Manchester pub, JCC’s intimate anarchy didn't reach the back of the stalls.

Fuck it. Go see him. He’s a legend. And judging by that cough, it might be your last chance.
(p17 here)