Despite his long term relationship with Auckland’s Comedy Festival this is the first time I have had the privilege of the humour of Jimeoin, seemingly at once laid back and easygoing, and possibly dangerous given the baldness and the Irish accent. 

The first thing I notice is what a terrible shirt he’s wearing.  It is soon clear that’s exactly what he wants me to think when he goes on at length into the oddly riveting details about why he chose that shirt.  I think the claim that he’s going for the ‘not too sure look’ is sufficient but never mind, he’s got to rave on about something.  It doesn’t even occur to me until he mentions it that the title is misleading; there is no ice in the show… so why isn’t it called ‘Jimeoin, Neat’?

In his infectiously amusing manner, Jimeoin does that thing where you keep feeling like the show hasn’t really started yet, he’s just working up to getting around to it kind of thing.  If it’s an illusion that good comedy is effortless, Jimeoin must be going to create the biggest illusion of the absolute least effort possible, or less.   

At the very least he must be gunning for some kind of award for the most banal material record, with his extended impressions of the things that matter the least – rock and roll stereotypes, posing in public restroom mirrors, the Hokey Pokey [sic] (a handily irritating response to anyone who ever wonders aloud what it’s all about)… the pinnacle being a particularly earnest country and western ode to his kitchen drawers. 

So, either he is driven by some such twisted genius type ambition, or he’s just doing what it looks like he’s doing – having a quiet laugh with us and another one to himself.  He’s considerate enough to warn us well in advance that he will do an encore, so we don’t all fook off and miss it.  Top service from an irreverent wee Irishman with not’n better to do than talk some inane shite to an international crowd who are paying him for it. 

Good job anyway.

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