(Not the title of my latest breakup song, but a review of the most recent performance from the Oxford Revue: “It’s Not Me, It’s You”).
Comedy is a balancing act. Always has been. But fear not — this is not one of those situations! The Oxford Revue’s latest show was a welcome reminder that genuinely funny people still exist, brimming with enthusiasm even in this era of capitalistic burnout.
The troupe delivered rapid-fire sketches, bouncing effortlessly between absurd misunderstandings and biting political satire. One moment, a panicked caller rang a sex line instead of an ambulance (for the record, “rubbing someone vigorously” is not a medical term!) The next, we were treated to a ruthless take on what it means to be in political opposition. Take notes, Kemi Badenoch: you can waste taxpayers’ money on doomed policies all you like, but there’s a price to pay — just ask Keir Starmer, who’s currently finding out the hard way. The opposition’s “fuck-it bucket” of policies is overflowing, and East Anglia is in for a nasty surprise.
The sketches were fast, varied, and consistently entertaining, but one standout moment came courtesy of Adam, who managed to keep a straight face while lamenting his tragic medical condition: being too sexy. A burden, he assured us, that caused major issues like wearing shirts, owning cars, and visiting Milan and Tokyo. The only others who have suffered this affliction? The Fairbrass brothers. No one since. Not even me, dear reader.
Beyond the sketches, the musical elements were a welcome highlight. Losing Ben (the band, not a tragic personal anecdote — though Martha’s comedic shout-out made it sound like both) expertly punctuated the show with hilariously timed trombone noises: an instant classic.
Brilliant comedy moves effortlessly between topics, and the troupe members of the Oxford Revue proved their skill in doing just that. They flipped between exaggerated Cockney and French accents, weaving in just enough political and cultural references to remind us how absurd the world really is. One sketch saw a lawyer assure her client that the only thing he needed to get off his charges was a series of well-timed posing faces — a timely reminder that far too many of us are currently thirsting after Luigi Mangione. That’s not a self-confession; it’s just a universal truth. The same way that a man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife is.
And then there was the man who thought he was attending a sex party but had stumbled into a metal slurping party. Easy mistake to make. Understandably frustrated by his lack of sexual opportunities, he vented in a way that I, regrettably, have been advised not to do in public more than once. Double standards, I tell you. Sadly, the audience will never know if he ever got it on with the locksmith who arrived to unlock his door after the mislabelled swingers lost their keys. They seemed more committed to drinking their key-infused soup than to finding them. Honestly, they had more dedication than that boy in your Year 3 class who was tonguing that glue stick.
But the moment that truly stuck with me? The discussion of David —yes, that David— by Michelangelo, who seemed oddly unaware of some key requirements for his sculpture. David was supposed to be circumcised, as he was Jewish, but Michelangelo had, shall we say, overlooked that detail. No problem — after several rounds of er, vigorous sculpting, the issue was removed. Even the historically inaccurate, leather-jacket-wearing Pope turned up to inspect the damage. It wasn’t up to his standards. Then again, when you’ve been filled with the Holy Spirit, nothing ever is.
Ultimately, the show was a multimedia spectacle — lighting changes, jazzy music straight out of 1950s America, interactive whiteboards, booming speakers, and a wickedly talented cast. Despite the fifth-week blues, I found myself genuinely laughing, from belly laughs at Ice’s fabulous French accent to giggles at sketches about modern romance (speed dating, it turns out, is just about blinds these days — so much for seeing beyond looks).
This show isn’t just for comedy enthusiasts; it’s for everyone — from the happy-go-lucky student to the reluctant plus-one dragged by a friend. It doesn’t demand your attention like a teacher — it earns it. Watching “It’s Not Me, It’s Revue” feels like sipping a cup of chai: sweet in places, unexpectedly fiery in others, and always comforting. And best of all? Unlike everything else in Oxford, you won’t need to sell a kidney to afford it.