Ken Dodd: farewell to the tattifilarious marathon man of comedy

Dodd, who has died aged 90, was a force of nature – a cheeky master of the one-liner who spread happiness in shows that lasted until the small hours

Ken Dodd, who has died aged 90, was quite simply a master at making people happy. His shtick – childlike, cheeky, saucy; anarchic and egalitarian – was machine-tooled to disarm our cynicism, and Dodd was relentless in its application. A titter forever playing on his lips, he’d defy you to keep a straight face, to resist the silliness. Each daft joke (“My sister, she was engaged to an Eskimo. She broke it off”) was another rabbit punch to the funny bone. You’d drop your guard eventually, and he’d get you in the end with a one-liner or a flight of nutty fancy: “What a beautiful day for wearing a kilt and standing upside down in the middle of the road saying, ‘How’s that for a lampshade?’”

Related: Comedy review: Ken Dodd / Philharmonic Hall, Liverpool

Related: Ken Dodd on why Shakespeare was a stand-up at heart

Dodd’s comedy didn’t play by the rules we follow today – it was a mask. ‘I am my own double act,’ he once said

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‘Let’s have fun’: the life of Sir Ken Dodd – in pictures

One of the most popular comedians of his time, Sir Ken Dodd has died aged 90. His career spanned seven decades and was most famous for his long stand-up shows, along with his Diddy Men and the tickling stick. Continue reading…

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Iain Stirling: ‘I still haven’t forgiven David Beckham for my curtains’

The standup, writer and television presenter on the things that make him laugh the most

Patton Oswalt’s latest Netflix show is as good as standup gets. He talks about losing his wife and the challenge of telling his daughter her mum had passed. It’s beautifully dealt with and so funny.

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Iain Stirling: ‘I still haven’t forgiven David Beckham for my curtains’

The standup, writer and television presenter on the things that make him laugh the most

Patton Oswalt’s latest Netflix show is as good as standup gets. He talks about losing his wife and the challenge of telling his daughter her mum had passed. It’s beautifully dealt with and so funny.

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Is Facebook killing online comedy?

Job cuts at Funny or Die suggest making money from comedy videos is harder than ever – and some blame the social-media titan. But a new wave of creators are finding ways to thrive

Earlier this year, Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg announced major changes to the social network’s algorithm. “You’ll see less public content like posts from businesses, brands and media,” he wrote in, predictably, a Facebook status. “The public content you see … should encourage meaningful interactions between people.”

Less than two weeks later, longstanding comedy video website Funny or Die made another round of redundancies, after laying off roughly 30% of its staff in 2016. The website’s CEO, Mike Farah, vented his frustration, tweeting: “There is simply no money in making comedy online any more. Facebook has completely destroyed independent digital comedy.”

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Kings of loser comedy: how Flight of the Conchords took off

New Zealand’s ‘fourth most popular folk-parody act’ are on a sold-out arena tour. Is there a shrewdness behind the duo’s laidback shtick?

Few comedians ever play London’s O2 Arena and fewer still manage three nights in a row. Those who do tend to have some things in common: a relatable observational style, limited creative ambition and ruthless commercial savvy. None of which applies to Flight of the Conchords, perhaps the unlikeliest act ever to reach those airless heights of the comic stratosphere.

I saw Flight of the Conchords last week, warming up for their forthcoming arena tour with a run at the 140-seat Soho theatre. Watching their suite of kooky songs about medieval romance, piano-playing seagulls and spoon thieves, laughing at their low-key chat and minutely detailed interplay, the thought of their imminent transfer to arena stages was supremely incongruous. Not least to the Conchords themselves. “We’ll keep that in for the O2,” they’d remark, after this or that improvised quip or ramshackle moment of fun.

They’re so dry and so Kiwi. We’re at the bottom of the world, so constant self-deprecation is common in New Zealand

No matter how laid​​back they are, they always believed they’re good enough. They had their sights set on something big

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Kings of loser comedy: how Flight of the Conchords took off

New Zealand’s ‘fourth most popular folk-parody act’ are on a sold-out arena tour. Is there a shrewdness behind the duo’s laidback shtick?

Few comedians ever play London’s O2 Arena and fewer still manage three nights in a row. Those who do tend to have some things in common: a relatable observational style, limited creative ambition and ruthless commercial savvy. None of which applies to Flight of the Conchords, perhaps the unlikeliest act ever to reach those airless heights of the comic stratosphere.

I saw Flight of the Conchords last week, warming up for their forthcoming arena tour with a run at the 140-seat Soho theatre. Watching their suite of kooky songs about medieval romance, piano-playing seagulls and spoon thieves, laughing at their low-key chat and minutely detailed interplay, the thought of their imminent transfer to arena stages was supremely incongruous. Not least to the Conchords themselves. “We’ll keep that in for the O2,” they’d remark, after this or that improvised quip or ramshackle moment of fun.

They’re so dry and so Kiwi. We’re at the bottom of the world, so constant self-deprecation is common in New Zealand

No matter how laid​​back they are, they always believed they’re good enough. They had their sights set on something big

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No joke: comedians should not be silenced

Comic Louise Reay is being sued by her estranged husband for revealing details of their marital breakdown on stage. Kathy Griffin went into hiding after her Trump joke. But without artistic freedom, we’d all be poorer

My lover has left me” I announced to the 300-strong audience. “I know I made my mark on him though, because the last night I was in his sheets, I had a really heavy flow.” It was the only period joke I’d ever make in the only standup set I’ve done. I was a student and had spent the Christmas holidays soothing a heartbreak by crafting painfully intimate jokes. I had waited, terrified, in the wings, for a group of boys to finish their sketch on Samuel Pepys and then blasted out in a minidress to the sexually explicit lyrics of a song by Peaches.

Later, at the bar, I was congratulated by everyone, including my ex, who had been sitting in the audience with his new girlfriend. He smiled at me in that very attractive way of a man who knows a woman has made a “fair point” at his expense. Part flattered muse, part noble sportsman, he took it so well, it made getting over him all the more difficult. It had been a damn good gig. And I hated every minute of it.

With­out these freedoms we wouldn’t have Tracey Emin’s art, Amy Winehouse’s music, Simone de Beauvoir’s writing

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Barry Crimmins: the standup comic who stood up for those who couldn’t

The late satirical comic was an early name in an underpopulated subgenre and spent his life campaigning to protect children from sexual abuse

Since the birth of alternative comedy, many standups have challenged authority, defended free speech and called for political change. But there have been few who fought as hard as Barry Crimmins.

On Thursday, Crimmins’s wife, Helen, announced that the 64-year-old comic had died of cancer. “He would want everyone to know that he cared deeply about mankind and wants you to carry on the good fight,” she wrote via her late husband’s Twitter account. And it’s true: Crimmins devoted much of his time and 40-year career to helping others and fighting injustices, both on and off stage. He showed integrity and compassion in all aspects of his life and work.

Related: Comedian Barry Crimmins: ‘You can’t hate anybody until you hate yourself’

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Flight of the Conchords review – an intense hit of comic bliss

Soho theatre, London
Bret McKenzie and Jemaine Clement return with hilarious dialogue and new songs that easily scale the dizzy heights of their best work

We knew months ago that Flight of the Conchords were to tour UK arenas. We didn’t know until it was upon us that they’d start with a week’s run at London’s bijou Soho theatre. The run sold out without a shred of publicity, and the show – 90 minutes of blissfully funny musical comedy – reminded us why. They’re a little greyer, a little less deadpan, and with more starry CVs than when they last visited the UK eight years ago: Bret McKenzie won the 2012 songwriting Oscar and Jemaine Clement featured in Moana and The BFG. But tonight, the pair prove with plenty to spare that when it comes to silly and sophisticated comic songwriting, there’s still no one to touch them.

For long-term fans of the erstwhile “fourth most popular folk parody duo in New Zealand”, the evening supplies an intense hit of pleasure. And not just nostalgic pleasure: most of the songs are new, and easily scale the dizzy heights of their best work. Seagull – a hymn to freedom that comes complete with metatextual commentary – seems to be sending up “free as a bird” cliches, before a hilarious reversal. Piano ballad Father and Son finds dad and boy singing in counterpoint – and at crossed purposes – about a parental breakup. “You never know how love will end,” sings Jemaine’s sad dad, “Just don’t let her spend time with your handsomer friend.” Neat how that gauche coinage “handsomer” makes dad seem even more ridiculous. But the track is tender as well as daft, like their earlier Bus Driver’s Song, revived tonight. Or like the best work of Tim Minchin – their only rival as musical comic of the century so far – whose spirit is summoned when Bret takes to his piano.

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