Can you keep a secret? Good, because this story is really rather embarrassing. When I was seven, I learned a joke. I found it on an ice-lolly stick and immediately proceeded to pretend I had invented it myself and tell it to everyone I knew. It worked something like this: you say “knock, knock” and they, of course, are eager to know “who’s there”; so you say “banana” and they, on absolute tenterhooks, respond with “banana who?” But instead of landing your punchline, you subvert expectations and begin again with “knock, knock.” This continues for maybe two or three rounds until you finally say “orange” and they, delighted with the change in pattern, say “orange who?” Finally, you dazzle them with “orange you glad I didn’t say banana?” And the crowd goes WILD and declares you a comic genius.

Or at least it should. I wouldn’t know. Why? Because at seven, with the full swagger of someone who had personally invented the best gag of all time, I had one motto: if three is good, nineteen is better. So, when it came to the repetition of banana, I would continue the conceit to a point so far beyond the normal limits of comedy that only a quadratic equation could adequately describe it. To make matters worse, as a budding comic, I wasn’t great at reading the temperature of the room. There was no distinction in my head between groans of amusement and groans of agony. To me, watching someone become annoyed with the joke was hilarious. Never mind the experience on the other side.

It wasn’t until my godmother, Debbie, took me aside that I learned two things: firstly, I was best not laying claim to a joke that was older than Methuselah, and secondly, jokes are about timing. Say something three times and it’s funny. Say it a fourth time and the extension becomes the joke. Say it nineteen times and feel lucky no one wants to go to prison for murdering you. This advice, the heart of comedy, really, is some of the best wisdom anyone has ever passed down to me. And since that time, I have made it a bit of a personal study. When I watch comedy, I wait to see if they cut the joke just where I would have, or if that one extra time leaves me delighted or dismayed. So, when I went to see The 39 Steps at Hull Truck Theatre, I was thrilled to discover a company who knew precisely how far to push a joke before somebody considered calling the police.

I was excited to find that there is a rather lovely Yorkshire pedigree behind The 39 Steps. Originally devised by Simon Corble and Nobby Dimon in 1995, the four-actor comedy premiered at the Georgian Theatre Royal in Richmond, North Yorkshire, before touring village halls across the North. In 2005, Patrick Barlow reworked the adaptation, drawing on John Buchan’s 1915 novel and Alfred Hitchcock’s 1935 film, and the new version premiered at West Yorkshire Playhouse (now Leeds Playhouse) before going on to Olivier and Tony Award-winning success. Now, in a co-production between Derby Theatre and Hull Truck Theatre, acclaimed physical comedy director Cal McCrystal takes the reins. The story follows Richard Hannay, a debonair London gentleman (with an excellent moustache) who finds himself accused of murder after a mysterious woman is killed in his flat. With the police on his heels and a sinister spy ring closing in, Hannay flees to Scotland in a desperate attempt to clear his name and uncover the secret of the 39 Steps. Originally a thriller, The 39 Steps has been reimagined as a comedy send-up of everything we love about Hitchcock and film noir.

To see my full review, please visit Northern Arts Review

See you in the shadows my loves,

Sean x