John Hastings

Hastings steps up to the microphone sounding like a man who just ran up three flights of stairs to warn you about a fire he started himself. His delivery is loud, fast, and intensely conversational, shifting from frantic panic to a conspiratorial whisper before barking back up to a yell. A bit rarely unfolds in a straight line; it spirals. He starts with an ordinary hassle, like an expiring visa or a strained reunion with old friends, and piles on bad decisions until the situation completely unravels. When an audience member speaks up, he does not look away. He leans over the monitor to interrogate them with wide-eyed disbelief until the whole room gets pulled into the chaos.

He is a festival road warrior, the comic built to command midnight showcases and rowdy basement clubs. Solo hours like Integrity show off his knack for long-form narrative arcs where every petty grudge and self-inflicted embarrassment pays off forty minutes down the line. He is sharpest when dissecting his own shortcomings, playing up how ineffective he is in a crisis. Occasionally the sheer decibel level outpaces the joke, using raw volume to push through a thinner beat, but the momentum rarely lets up.

Originally from Canada, Hastings spent years cutting his teeth in the UK, hosting late-night weekend rooms at the Edinburgh Fringe where drunks had to be managed on the fly. That crucible gave him an edge: he thrives in rooms where other comics get derailed.