Wil Hodgson is something of an acquired taste: young, overweight and sprouting a bright pink Mohawk with an overly tight fitting leopard print jacket, he walks onto the stage and complains about the rain and how it agitates him. It must have too, because Hodsgson then launches into his routine and without any regard to comic timing launches into his machine-gun monologues, never stopping for breath during the one hour show duration. Almost instantly you can see that the audience are divided into two camps, those who can’t get enough of him and those that can’t get away quick enough from his show.
It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what the problem is: his material is certainly unique, as he talks about being a working class Englishman who had (and still does) harbour complete adoration for my little pony, His love for curvy women, specifically his much coveted naked picture of Fern Cotton and his exploits of drinking alone which seems like an open invitation for every troubled person to come and sit with him. His stories while always entertaining trail off into rambling tales with mumbled punch-lines a little too frequently. He talks a little too quickly to fully grasp every gag and Hodgson’s bizarre choice of not pausing while the audience laughs makes for some incomprehensible jokes.
Judging by the huge round of applause he gets at the end of the show, Wil Hodgson has a large following. But nevertheless there will always be a part of the audience that never connect with his humour.