Lots has changed in the world of Phil Wang since his last tour. He has mastered the art of growing a moustache, for one. He’s bought a house in a “cool” part of London, where he lives with his houseplants and, oh, the world has tipped considerably to the right.
So what does this mean for the ever-even-tempered comedian, now officially in the territory of an ageing millennial? Largely, more of the observational routines that have made his name. We get his classic riffs on what it means to be both British and Chinese, his thoughts on gentrification – you best believe he wants a Gail’s in Peckham – and his resentment at finding his views becoming progressively less progressive.
All of it is gently mocking: mainly of himself, but of others, too, to varying degrees of effect. A bit about cyclists, who are apparently asking for a death wish by venturing out on a 2D vehicle, feels more snarky than he may have intended. But his David Bowie impression could use a stage all of its own.
It might not push the boundaries. But, at his heights, Wang is a king of linguistics and loopholes. Why, he asks, is being described as a person of colour perfectly acceptable, but “coloured person” deeply offensive?
Of course he thinks about his girlfriend when he masturbates – it’s just that his mind wanders to whether she will walk in and catch him doing it. Revelling in life’s mundanity, he makes it bloom into material. It is a show strung together by the nagging feeling that things have got worse.
Long gone are the days of sweeping millennial myths, when we were told we could achieve one-eighth of an orgasm through a spidery hand gesture performed by our classmates. Now, he’s at the stage of mourning the loss of his once-slender neck. There’s something bleakly moving about Wang’s grownup outlook: the realisation that everything he thought those wild parties and long conversations with his parents were leading to was actually just the thing.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
