Frankie Howerd

Frankie Howerd treats a standup set like a chore. He shuffles out in a rather obvious toupée, looking like a man who was just insulted in the hallway. A typical routine rarely moves in a straight line. He loses his place, complains about the management, sighs heavily, and delivers a filthy double entendre. When the room laughs, he acts offended by their dirty minds. He throws a hand on his hip and scolds the crowd, using rebukes that function as catchphrases, like “titter ye not” or “please yourselves.”

He is a mid-century vaudevillian who survived long enough to become a blueprint for modern comedy. By the early 1960s, his style was considered finished. Then Peter Cook booked him at the Establishment Club in 1962, putting his stalling energy in front of a cynical Soho crowd. They realized he was playing a comedian actively annoyed by the necessity of doing an act. Younger audiences kept rediscovering him because his refusal to pretend he was having a good time never goes out of style.

The actual jokes in a Howerd set are strictly secondary.

He used top-tier writers, but the material serves mainly as a rigid structure for him to complain about. He uses his apparent stage fright to dictate the pace, turning a stammer and a wandering eye into tools to control the room. The further he drifts from the script, the better the set works. He plays a put-upon eccentric, leaning into a camp prudishness shaped in part by the necessity of staying closeted throughout his career. He is a comic desperate for an audience who acts like you are ruining his day by looking at him.