Review: Michael Akadiri: No Scrubs

"I can still do CPR in a hoodie," Michael Akadiri points out, rounding upon those (possibly, all of us) who judge his character differently when he sports a tracksuit, as compared to a set of medical scrubs, which he wears for his day job as a junior doctor. Thematically and visually it's a strong reveal, and a pretty good pointer of where Akadiri, with all of his talent, sits in the comedy firmament.

We've seen a few medics doing comedy, providing a wry insight to the goings on of our beloved health service. But they aren't comics: Akadiri is. Though a "prophetess" told of his destiny in becoming a doctor, it's clear that the Londoner straddles both careers rather than dipping a toe in the water. Case in point: no medic would be able to drag this stiff, cold Monday night Edinburgh audience back from the brink as he does over the course of twenty minutes, no matter what they had in their box of pharmaceuticals. Though most comfortable recounting bleakly comic tales of the wards, what's unique about Akadiri is that he doesn't pretend that being a doctor gives him any elevated status. He's as flawed as the rest of us, and that's both comforting and challenging. How discomfiting it is that this particular doctor could kill at a club comedy night with material which NHS HR would have conniptions at.

In a lot of ways, Akadiri is still in his specialty training years as a comic. There's some clumsy linkages ("speaking of X") and his feel for structure remains a work in progress. Much of No Scrubs exists at a single tonal level, with the exeption of a finale which brings some much longed-for ebb and flow. But the prognosis is pretty good.