Julian Clary

Julian Clary takes the stage in lamé and sequins, working behind a glittering microphone stand with a steady supply of double entendres. His delivery is conversational and deliberately slow. He will dab his forehead with a flannel, affecting the manners of a swooning aristocrat, right before dropping a deadpan pun about buggery. The tension in his rooms comes from the crowd work. He paces the aisles looking for straight men to interrogate, subjecting them to a mix of acute pity and light scorn before dragging a few onto the stage for innuendo-heavy roleplay.

He operates as a British institution who has never bothered to clean up his act. Even as he writes children’s books and headlines West End pantomimes, his solo tours remain completely filthy. He carries the authority of an elder statesman of camp, moving with the heavy-lidded patience of someone who has spent decades in showbiz and is utterly unfazed by his own material.

A typical show leans on atmosphere rather than tight joke construction. He weaves loose anecdotes about minor celebrities together with slightly tuneless musical numbers. The punchlines arrive slowly, telegraphed well in advance and built on simple, overt puns. He is sharpest when he drops the script to talk to the room. If a bit stalls or an audience volunteer misses a cue, Clary just sighs into the microphone, letting his visible boredom get a bigger laugh than the written joke.

He started in the 1980s alternative comedy scene, originally performing alongside a dog named Fanny. That early club energy still drives the glamorous stage persona.