Hero Worship: Vladimir McTavish

Asking comics about their heroes is an incredibly loaded question; an ill-conceived answer can do great damage to one’s comedy kudos. Were I to confidently state Bill Hicks as my number one – that would be considered a fairly hack response and people might assume my comedy to be of a similar ilk. Billy Connolly would also be a bad choice as that implies that I’m not only grossly unimaginative but also sycophantically nationalistic. Were I to say Jim Davidson, I’d correctly be considered a complete cunt.

Despite the potential pitfalls of this most precarious and frequently asked of questions, my answer for some time now has not only been genuine but one which I am confident reflects well on me.

I first saw Vladimir McTavish perform when I was a very inexperienced open spot. I remember being introduced to this wee, humble, unassuming man and being told that he was the headliner. Up until that point I’d assumed he was just an overfriendly drunk. The thrill of seeing him for the first time remains a milestone in my comedy career. Here was comedy that was not only relevant, deliciously caustic and incredibly funny – it was undeniably Scottish too: acerbic one liners worthy of Frankie Boyle lead into small vignettes echoing the best of Chic Murray and Rikki Fulton, all delivered with a warm, whisky-sodden sentimentality profoundly his own. My one abiding memory of watching that gig was clearly thinking 'I want to be just like him.' 

Seven years on and I’m still aspiring to be like him. He continues be one of the most prolific and relevant Scottish comics of our time and despite the fact that I have seen him perform on literally hundreds of occasions in venues from Orkney to Dumfries he has never once slipped from the comedy pedestal I put him on.