Andrew Maxwell: Hubble Bubble

The very definition of a safe pair of hands, Andrew Maxwell, the bestubbled Irish enchanter, has somewhat implausibly chalked up two decades of performing at the Fringe. It is a remarkable achievement given that he still looks about 25, leaping onstage to the radioworn strains of U2, resplendent in boxfresh Nikes, floppy fringe and boyish white t-shirt.

The meat of Maxwell’s set—understandably perhaps for a Dubliner living in London and performing in Edinburgh—is national identity, and yes, not sure if you’ve clocked this one yet, but Scotland’s impending independence referendum.

Maxwell’s become “obsessed” by it all, he tells us, hoovering up the column inches and feasting on the internet forums. Know what’s peculiar about the voting habits of Dumfries and Galloway’s residents? Maxwell does. He’s even signed up for their online news bulletin.

It’s a surely a tempting subject to home in on and Maxwell duly wrings it dry, taking easy potshots at the sexual appeal of the Yes/No poster boys, slamming the campaign slogans and berating the “missing million” unstirred Scots-folk who haven’t even bothered to register to vote.

It’s a tad staid and Maxwell is far, far better when he allows himself to freewheel into the absurd – personifying Scotland as a happy homeowner poking a teacake around its belly, volunteering his own scale for measuring royalism and dispatching European history lessons (“we’re descendants of everyone’s unwanted rowdy messy fuckers, basically”).

It's a solid hour-plus and we forgive the odd trailing thought and telegraphed punchline as Maxwell is just so damn likeable, his appreciative sign-off smacking of a seasoned Fringe vet in his pomp.