Even more creepily, Matthew Osborn’s nerdy bespectacled anorak sounds like David Jason but loves David Cameron, “a good bloke with nice hair” whom he has inundated with a hundred letters despatched from the shopping centre basement where he’s taping up a large cardboard box.
He’s also done damage to a security officer who groans half way through the monologue before going back to sleep. You can hardly blame him. There’s a riot upstairs in the mall. After half an hour of Osborn’s wittering you wish they’d all pile down here and sort him out.
Osborn’s is an all too familiar “pub landlord” shtick peddled for the delight of “Guardian-style liberals” whose “bullshit” he loathes. He’s going down the massacre missionary route of waging war on sexual degeneracy, loose morals and people who’ve spoilt his car.
He wants the place cleaned up so that we can reclaim the nation we love. And kill lots of other people. This kind of rant stops being funny after about two minutes, but at least Osborn delivers his own script with a comic fervour and technical precision that suggests he knows his way around a stage, if not a serious political argument.