Ask Tom Johnson what Armageddon Out Of Here is about and he’ll give you two answers. The intellectual one: a look at how people behave when there’s no consequence left. The real one: an excuse for him and Rob Glenister to hit each other, swear, and put on silly accents for an hour. Both are apparently true at the same time.
He walked us through how the whole show came together mostly by accident, over pints, in a pub, six drinks deep into figuring out what would get a laugh. We also got into his firm belief that villains are more fun than heroes, why he once blew a financial windfall reviving a flop punk musical from the ’80s instead of doing literally anything sensible with it, and why he insists on getting hit with actual wood instead of cardboard, because apparently the blood matters.
Tell us about Armageddon Out Of Here — what’s the show about?
It’s centred around the apocalypse. It’s how people actually act when there’s no consequence for their actions. I’d put it as a celebration of the very worst humanity has to offer. That’s the very intellectual answer. Really, it’s just a poor excuse so that me and Rob Glenister can shout at each other and hit each other, put on silly accents, and swear. It’s a very daft, stupid, dark sketch show. It’s quite grotesque, and it’s fun. It’s almost like clowning — but a lot more violent.
Is the show about how people show who they really are when they’re near the end?
Yes, absolutely. I think the human race is actually more thick and perverted and horrible than we let on. As soon as we don’t have to be polite anymore, we can be a right bastard. It’s an hour of horrible people being horrible to themselves and each other. I find it funny — and Rob does too. I’d always say the plot isn’t that important.
How did you get into sketch comedy?
The sketch-comedy thing happened as an accident. I approached Chris Roberts asking if he could write me a full show, because he’d told me he was a writer. I’d just come back from the Edinburgh Fringe doing a show called Verbal Diary, which was very gentle and sweet, and I wanted something that could play to my strengths more. Chris and I would meet in a room, and he’d struggle. Then I realised his strengths lie elsewhere — in directing. And Chris was supposed to be in it, but he backed out. I got Rob on board, and he just came on and said, “Okay, let’s go muck about.” That’s one thing I’ve never actually done on a big scale — just completely be myself, and the same with Rob. We trusted our instincts to be very, very stupid and silly, and it’s paid off.
How do you and Rob write together?
Most of the time it’s been me and Rob going to a pub, getting a bit drunk, and seeing what we can say to each other to make each other laugh. Six pints deep going, “Okay, if I twist your bollocks here, that might get a laugh. If you crash my head through a wall, that might get a laugh. If we put a knob gag in there…” So that’s where it came from. Pure accident. But I’ve known Rob for years — we do improv together in Southend-on-Sea in Essex, just next to London. We never have to explain ourselves to each other, which is a lovely attribute.
Do you remember your first laugh on stage?
I’ve never been asked that. That’s a good question. I was playing Fagin in the musical Oliver as a teenager. It’s quite a moody, solemn role, but I was getting laughs quite a lot from it, and I thought, “Oh, I like this.” It’s a lovely thing to have a room full of people laughing. It’s like all the barriers have come down, and that’s the one big thing everyone has in common — laughing. It’s a wonderful atmosphere. It’s exciting.
Do you only do sketch comedy?
I’m primarily and foremost an actor. Comic stuff is something I always naturally gravitate towards, because it’s exciting. It has a brilliant live atmosphere. It holds my attention, and it’s different every time you do it. A lot of actors who don’t write their own stuff wait ages for the next opportunity — the next show, the next whatever. I’m terrible at waiting around. I am a bit of a lazy boy, but when I work hard, I work hard. I write my own opportunities. I write a show, then I put it on.
Is it easier for you to play multiple characters than to play yourself?
Oh, God, yeah. I’m of the firm belief that a lot of comedians — it’s a stage act, it’s a stage persona. Even though it’s a hyper-inflated version of themselves, it’s still an act. And I feel I could be the funniest version of myself when being a character. That’s my natural default. That’s where my training went.
Your previous show Verbal Diary was called “a comedic tour de force” by Comedy Shortlist. Tell us about that.
I’ll milk that till I die. I’ll have it on every poster. That was for Verbal Diary — a revival and adaptation of a very long-forgotten piece of Fringe history by John Otway and Paul Bradley. I came into some money, and I thought: should I put a deposit down on a house? Should I buy my girlfriend a car? Should I invest it wisely? No, Kishan — I spent it all reviving a punk musical from the early ’80s that didn’t even do well at the time. Because I’m a fucking idiot.
Who were your comedy inspirations growing up?
Our telly in the house always had slightly older things on — Vic and Bob, Monty Python, The Young Ones. W.C. Fields. Rowan Atkinson, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Norman Wisdom. Victoria Wood — lovely, northern and weird, very good musically as well. I like Jackass quite a lot too — a bunch of stuntmen just hurting each other for the sake of it. It’s a very good watch. Anything I’ve ever done is quite physical. I’m quite gangly and lanky, so that helps.
Do you like intellectual comedy?
I’ve got nothing against it. Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, fantastic example — two blisteringly intelligent men, astute and clever comedy writers. But I think the funniest thing they ever did was Derek and Clive. I always think stupidity is never the opposite of intelligence — because if you look at Derek and Clive, you’ll see it’s two very intelligent people playing two very stupid characters. I put it up there with Shakespeare.
Do you think physical comedy is dying? And is your show a revival of it?
Oh, yeah. I think slapstick is funny. If you’re creative with it, it can be the same, if not better, than a written joke or a verbal joke. It’s this lovely sort of contortionism you can do with your body — people doing strange, violent things with their bodies. It’s a very nice thing to look at. And it makes some people recoil — they go, “Ooh.” If you can get that reaction from a crowd, what a brilliant thing.
You want reactions beyond just laughter?
If they laugh their bollocks off, that’s amazing — good for you, good for the show. But to get them to wince — to say “ooh” — to be taken aback — that’s a genuine reaction, and it makes it all the more a theatrical spectacle.
If a whole room reacting as one sounds like the real prize here, it’s worth exploring Whisper Theatre, built entirely around that exact moment when an audience clicks into place together.
What about the fear of looking stupid?
I say this with almost a sort of pride — I don’t have to worry about practising looking stupid, because I know it will come naturally. In terms of looking funny, it’s just being in front of a mirror, seeing what faces you can pull, what you can do with your body to make yourself look like an idiot, a fool, look grotesque. You have to remove all ego and sexuality from a horrible character so they just look absolutely abhorrent. A lot of people are scared of looking stupid or foolish because they let their ego get in the way — and those people don’t interest me. I like people to look like the idiot.
Do you think there’s a lack of clowns on TV?
There’s a massive lack of clowns and idiots on mainstream television schedules. It’s all people looking very slick, kind of trying to emulate other people. Vic and Bob should be on the telly more together. Tastes change — well, it’s not even taste. It’s what programmers think will make them the most money. On British terrestrial TV, there’s so much just boring crap by comedians who are supposed to be the clown — but they’re not. But I love live shows. I try to recreate the excitement I get from watching certain comedians and musical artists, and share that with a room full of people. I absolutely love it. Then you go to the bar afterwards, and you get to talk to lots of very different but like-minded people who all came to one space to watch a weird little show.
You said you prefer playing villains?
The villains are always more fun. When they come on stage, you shout and cheer. They get to say all the funny lines, they get to hit people, they get to be very dangerous and out there and extravagant. Whereas the lead character is happy, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but there has to be an element of tragedy lurking underneath. The villains are always more fun. I like bad people doing things badly. I like it when they fuck up. I like it when they’re stupid. It just excites me in theatre.
How would you describe your journey from Verbal Diary to Armageddon Out Of Here?
It’s progressive. I enjoy it more. Verbal Diary was very gentle, very ambitious. The set was a 10-foot diary that opened up like a pop-up book. As you opened the pages, you’d walk through, and there was a door in the page. It looked so cool — a pain in the arse to get into venues, but so cool. The show itself was very twee, very gentle, very Marmite. It didn’t suit me, because I wanted to make it loud and stupid, but it wouldn’t have worked. With Armageddon Out Of Here, I can play to my strengths. I get to play more characters — and characters I enjoy playing, who are predominantly complete bastards and perverts and cowards. Because I like the villain.
Favourite part of the show?
There’s a song where the audience gets to shout back a very rude word to us. It’s really nice to see people walk out humming a song to themselves that has a very naughty word in it. Also, my pants explode — I quite like that. And also when we hit each other, because we do actually hit each other pretty badly. There’s a bit where Rob gets my head and smacks it into a thick bit of wood, and it actually breaks. He said, “Well, can’t we just get some cardboard?” I said, “No, no. Cardboard would look shit. It has to be actual wood. You have to see the blood.” I don’t know if it’s a sadist or masochist thing, but I quite look forward to getting hurt, because it looks dangerous and it looks cool.
A word for anyone coming to see you at Fringe?
Buy our merch. I don’t care if you like the show, just buy our merch. No, no — I just hope they enjoy it. It’s on at 12 noon from the 6th to the 17th of August, in the Saloon Bar at West Side Rodeo, which is part of Just The Tonic. It is Fringe. The show itself is Fringe. It’s very stupid, chaotic, loud, and unnecessarily theatrical. But we are actors, darling. I just hope people walk away feeling good, like they’ve had a good time. If you want a good time, come and see our show.
Tom Johnson built an entire show around the idea that people are worse than they let on, then proved it by choosing real wood over cardboard so the audience could see actual blood. That’s not a metaphor. That’s just how he wants to work.
Armageddon Out Of Here runs at the Saloon Bar at West Side Rodeo through the Fringe, and by his own description, it’s loud, stupid, and unnecessarily theatrical. Given everything else he told us, that might be the most honest pitch any comic has given us yet.
If Tom Johnson’s whole philosophy, remove the ego, let yourself look like the idiot, is the kind of comedy that appeals to you, you should also explore Stacy Price, who built a full act around exposing exactly that kind of pretension.