Glenn Wool

The endearing and essential Wool takes another strike at the prudish

Review by Dave Kerr | 10 Aug 2007

"I've been sucked off in a park in Denmark, and until I can celebrate that with at least a small picnic, St Paddy's Day can fuck off," Glenn Wool smirks under his well groomed moustache. "Are there any Irish people here?” His eyes dart around the venue, deceiving the audience with a flustered look. “You've been needing to hear that for a long time." Nice recovery.

Eyebrow raised, Wool realises that his unsavoury gambit has just managed to pull his show back from the brink after an earlier outbreak of stag party flatulence threatened to stunt its momentum. Nevertheless, it’s a turnaround even he marvels at. While gripping his mane for the hundredth time tonight to ponder the as yet unconfirmed order of his own show, the wry Canadian thinks aloud: “Maybe I should’ve told you that before now?"

Promises, Promises is only an excuse; Wool loosely talks about how the fate of his marriage recently hinged on his sobriety, but this moves subtly into tales from the delirious psyche of “Drunk Glenn – a great man.” The ensuing stories are real and surreal in equal measure, from the telling of how a childhood encounter with seagull shit ruined the rest of his life to the gross out fable of how he got his penis. Once again, Wool marks himself out as an endearing and essential Fringe character. Even if his vivid imagination might prove too much for the prudish, it’s their loss.