In a sweaty basement room in the heart of Edinburgh off the Royal Mile, a northern comedian called Chris McGlade, 54, is delivering one of the most enjoyable and life-affirming hours on the Fringe. What’s remarkable is that his upbeat show derives from the bleakest subject-matter: his father’s murder.
Looking – with his warm, charismatic smile – like a gaunt version of the actor James Nesbitt, McGlade, from Redcar, near Middlesbrough, isn’t seeking to make his name or his fortune. Instead, this regular face on the still-surviving working-men’s clubs in the North has something to get off his chest – a rather asthmatic chest at that; his folks smoked like chimneys when he was a kid.
“When we went...
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