Mark Watson finally finds out that Diss Exists

Over the years, I’ve seen Mark Watson several times (he’s practically a permanent fixture at Latitude) and he has never failed to mention Diss at some point in his act. It seemed to gain near mythical status for him, as the train to Norwich briefly and, in Watson’s view, pointlessly stopped off at Diss, where no one got on or off. It must have been a Damascene moment to finally perform at the Corn Hall, where a capacity audience warmly welcomed his unique brand of gentle, discursive humour.

Watson is surely the master of the art of seeming to make it up as he goes along, and perhaps much what he says is just that, but it’s a peculiarly British tradition woven into the fabric of stand up here (in sharp contrast to the character studies of the French or the wisecracking Americans) that for a couple of hours we willingly suspend disbelief, happy to share in the conceit that a performer is doing little more that chatting away, ruminating on life and making it up as he goes along. Make no mistake, he can do jokes, but for the most part he evokes empathy as much hilarity, and knowing smiles rather than belly laughs.

He is funny, but he’s also witty, and that’s a rarer thing. Even when offering up obviously prepared material, it feels like he is shaping it to fit the audience in front of him. Whether it’s his kids, his life in lockdown, or impeding death, he has the uncanny ability to not just be funny, but make his audience funny as well. Rather than coming across as a comic working the room, an evening with Watson is more like spending time down the pub with the funniest mate you’ve ever had the privilege of knowing.