Desperate to find safe passage through the apocalypse you attempt to appease the gods. A ritual maybe? A visit to The Temple of Mirth?
You enter a dark room. Smoke billows like incense. A singular microphone stands upon the stage – expectant and hopeful. The lights dim. Music roars. Oliver Coleman steps upon the stage. He whispers. He yells. He moves about like a dancer or a bird buffeted by a storm and for a moment seems to float. There is a warmth in your chest that soon pulses throughout all your body. You look around and people are glowing. You are glowing. Together you are golden.
Comedy is dead. Long live comedy. Roll around in the muck – elated and sublime.
“Comic genius catapults to the point of sheer chaos.” ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ The Advertiser
