Dreams and fantasies are an understated but ever-present feature of Eric Rushton’s stand-up, surreally-tinged wanderings of the mind, the depression-afflicted comic taking time out from sometimes grim reality.
A decade into performing, the sensitive Midlander more-or-less distils his current show down to two dreams. The first, utterly fantastical, has him imagining a romantic relationship with Margot Robbie. Originating in a bout of existential enquiry and slumbering lust, he envisions their unlikely dating. Mutual attraction is taken as a given. But the Australian actor’s sheer star power complicates the ritual, casting into question who’s dictating this dance of getting know each other, when old-fashioned notions of masculine and feminine roles can’t apply.
There’s immediate, surface-level humour in the incongruity of an international celebrity and millionaire slumming it with tracksuit-sporting Rushton in a chain pub, their encounter crystallising the status games he employs. Chiefly projecting a deadpan, couldn’t-give-a-fuck insouciance on stage, affecting to slam disruptive audience members, the veneer of swagger is nevertheless always tempered by his references to mental health struggles, undiagnosed neurodiversity and financial precariousness. Indeed, his bad boy posturing is arguably enhanced by the flimsiness of his pretence, the gall of him getting up on stage and faking it until he makes it.
His second dream, which he acknowledges that he’s living, is performing stand-up, being funny, which Rushton venerates as his “superpower”. And he shares his heroic origin story, the boy that begat the insecure 28-year-old desperately pursuing his vocation.
Once upon a time, he was a playground don, with a thriving illicit business selling sweets and snacks to other schoolchildren, affording him standing. But fast forward to early adulthood and he literally hasn’t gone anywhere, now a teaching assistant and substitute teacher in the same school. Self-respect wobbling, he pettily claws a portion back by sharing some harsh truths with the school bully, striking a blow for nerds like his younger self. Yet when his decaffeinated coffee is then pilfered from the staffroom, it’s his comic inclination and laughably overreaching non-conformist streak that land him in hot water.
Ultimately, things worked out for the best. As Rushton suggests, mental health issues might run like wildfire through comedians but he’s now in an environment where he can monetise his. There’s doomed nobility to the way he tries to stamp his authority on a gig, with shades of the bluffing-it substitute teacher still being pranked by his charges. Yet in reality, it’s all part of the act and he’s packed out a good-sized room on an early Saturday evening. His observations invariably tend to the imaginative, poetic at times but not flashily so, grounded in relatable experiences.
More narrative focused and with a clearer story arc than his other most recent shows, Real One would still benefit from a punchier account of the school tale, which unfolds a little gently as he segues between his schoolboy and teacher lives. Yet the two big strand approach, one invented, the other held up as formative, and lightly reflecting on each other, seems a solid basic framework for him to develop further as his comedy continues to evolve.
Tours until 23 February 2025 | Image: Contributed
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