Daniel Kitson loves fireworks. I mean, he really loves them, and he tells us as much, several times, during this stage show. He loves fireworks, and paddling, and stars, and his parents, and those little acts of heroism that ordinary people do, every single day. He has no time for people who dismiss the wonder of everyday things, and he really doesn’t like bad parents, or people who aren’t considerate to other people. Over the course of his new show, he talks about all those things, and more. He draws the audience in and paints pictures with his words (which he loves: on one occasion he veers off on a tangent on the joys of the word “tabbard”) and invites us to see the stars and fireworks with him.
The philosophy espoused in his show is perhaps best encapsulated by his description of the two ways of entering the sea when you know it’s going to be really, really cold: the first is to walk in, inch by inch, slowly acclimatising as you go, until you’re used to the cold; the second is to psyche yourself up, take a deep breath and a big run-up and launch yourself bodily into the water. Kitson, obviously, chooses the latter, and knows that, secretly, we would all really do the same. In a world where cynicism and sarcasm are easy currency and where we’re constantly told that the key to happiness is to consume more and more and more, Kitson is taking a step back and defiantly saying: “Hey, you know what? Fireworks and stars and snow and paddling in the sea are fucking great“. And we all need a bit of that.
You know, I’d swear the sun is shining a little brighter this morning.