GUY WILLIAMS - RICH PEOPLE ARE STEALING FROM YOU AND BLAMING BROWN PEOPLE AND TRANS PEOPLE AND SOME PEOPLE BELIEVE THEM AAAHHHHHH! [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Probably shouldn’t have given it all away in the title. Like most people I’ve been trying to figure out how the worst dickheads have taken over everything with their insane bullshit. So I’ve read three books (mostly) (one was a graphic novel) and listened to five audio books (AT NORMAL SPEED) to try and figure out WHAT THE F**K IS GOING ON?

Guy Williams has always walked a strange tightrope in New Zealand comedy. On one side, he is one of the country’s most recognisable political comics, someone who studied political science and built a career on satirical commentary. On the other side, he is a self‑described brash idiot who thrives on chaos, provocation, and the kind of loud, unfiltered energy that feels like it should not work but somehow does. His new show, with a title that is practically a thesis in itself, leans fully into that contradiction. It is messy, furious, juvenile, thoughtful, and completely unhinged. It is also, somehow, one of his most coherent pieces of social commentary.

The show opens with Guy already at a sprint. There is no gentle warm‑up, no easing the audience into the tone. He launches straight into a rant about the state of the world, the rise of right‑wing rhetoric, and the way wealthy people manipulate public anger by redirecting it toward marginalised groups. It is loud, abrasive, and delivered with the kind of conviction that makes the audience sit up immediately. Guy’s political anger is not subtle. It is a full‑body experience.

But what makes the show interesting is the way he pairs that political fury with his trademark idiocy. He will yell “we love our trans brothers and sisters” with genuine passion, then immediately pivot into a long, chaotic argument about why he wants to bring back the word “retard” because, in his view, the decline in its usage correlates with the rise of right‑wing idiots. It is deliberately provocative, deliberately uncomfortable, and deliberately framed as satire. Guy is not trying to be polite. He is trying to make a point by being the loudest, most chaotic version of himself. It's the only way to win in a world where politicians get voted in by blaming everyone else.

Throughout the show, he skewers politicians, billionaires, organised religion, and anyone else he sees as contributing to the current social and economic mess, calling Christopher Luxon a “human buttplug of a man”. He rants about Trump, Elon Musk, supermarket duopolies, and the general entitlement of people who believe they deserve everything at the expense of everyone else. It is a hate letter disguised as a comedy show, and the audience is more than happy to go along for the ride.

What makes the show work is that Guy is fully aware of how ridiculous he is. He knows he is a tall, loud, white man yelling about injustice while also spending a significant portion of the show talking about his collection of rugby and football boots. He knows that his persona is inherently contradictory. And he leans into that contradiction with gusto. He spends almost as much time discussing the devaluation of his beloved Predator boots due to Trump and the Epstein files as he does discussing political corruption. The joke is not just the content. The joke is that he cannot help himself.

Guy’s stage presence is confident and chaotic in equal measure. He is comfortable with crowd work, improvisation, and the unpredictable energy of a live audience. He knows how to push a moment, how to escalate a bit, and how to ride the wave of laughter even when the material is teetering on the edge of too much. There are moments where he simply yells into the void instead of delivering a punchline, and while that would sink another comedian, it somehow fits perfectly within the world of this show. The chaos is part of the appeal.

The political commentary is sharp, even when wrapped in juvenile humour. Guy argues that the left needs more “f*ked cnts,” meaning people who are willing to be loud, unapologetic, and unafraid to push back against the right’s dominance of public discourse. He frames his own loudness as a kind of counter‑weapon, a way of showing that caring about people does not mean being quiet or polite. It is an interesting angle, and one that resonates with the audience, many of whom seem to be laughing as much out of catharsis as humour.

But the show is not all politics. Guy’s comedic instincts pull him constantly toward the silly, the low‑brow, and the downright stupid. He spends a surprising amount of time talking about rugby boots, Adidas Predators, and the tragedy of a once‑cool word losing its meaning. He dives into paedophile jokes with a level of commitment that would make most comedians nervous. He rants about Ed Sheeran. He rants about religion. He rants about anything that crosses his mind. The show is wild and unfocused, but that is also what makes it feel so authentically Guy Williams.

The audience reaction is intense. There are people in hysterics for long stretches of the show, and at times I genuinely wondered how some of them were managing to breathe. Guy’s ability to push a joke past the point of comfort and into the realm of uncontrollable laughter is one of his greatest strengths. He knows how to build tension, how to escalate, and how to weaponise his own ridiculousness.

The show ends with a moment that perfectly encapsulates the Guy Williams experience. He challenges an audience member to a one‑on‑one basketball game on stage and absolutely dominates them. It is silly, unnecessary, and completely on brand. It is also a reminder that Guy is not trying to be a polished political commentator. He is trying to be Guy Williams, and that is more than enough.

What makes this show stand out is the way it blends political fury with comedic stupidity. Guy is angry, but he is also self-aware. He is loud, but he is also thoughtful. He is juvenile, but he is also making a point. The contradictions are the point. The chaos is the point. The show is a reflection of a world that feels increasingly unhinged, and Guy meets that world with equal unhinged energy.

Rich people are stealing from you and blaming brown people and trans people and some people believe them aaahhhhhh! is not a tidy show. It is not a balanced show. It is not a show that will appeal to everyone. But it is a show that captures the current political climate with a level of honesty, frustration, and comedic force that few comedians in New Zealand are willing to attempt.

It is loud. It is abrasive. It is cathartic. And it might be Guy Williams at his most Guy Williams.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton

ASIAN COMEDY TAKEOVER [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

The Asian Comedy Takeover is back for one night only! Featuring new, emerging and pro-diverse voices from the Pan-Asian diaspora in New Zealand, these comics are here to take centre stage and thrive.

Asian Comedy Takeover is exactly the kind of late‑festival variety show that reminds you why these lineups matter. Not because they are perfect, not because every set hits the same way, but because they offer a rare chance to see a wide spectrum of Asian comedians in one place, each bringing their own rhythm, cultural lens, and comedic instincts to the stage. It is messy in the best way, energetic, unpredictable, and full of personality. With twelve performers rotating through short sets, the night becomes a snapshot of contemporary Asian comedy in Aotearoa, complete with the themes you would expect and a few surprises you would not.

The show is anchored by Jess Karamjeet, who takes on the dual role of MC and final act. As a host, she keeps the energy buoyant and the transitions smooth, guiding the audience through the rapid shifts in tone that come with a lineup this large. As a performer, she closes the night with a musical piece about unfortunate romantic epiphanies around the universal plague of f**k boys. The forced singalong is chaotic, cheeky, and exactly the kind of finale that suits a variety show. Jess has a natural command of the room, and her ability to switch between playful banter and structured performance gives the night a sense of cohesion.

Jess Karamjeet

The show opens with Takhou Law, who wastes no time firing off a barrage of one-liners. His style is fast, punchy, and unapologetically hit or miss. When a joke lands, it lands hard. When it does not, he is the first to laugh at himself, which only makes the audience warm to him more. There is no overarching narrative in his set, no thematic throughline, just a rapid stream of ideas delivered with confidence. It is a bold way to start the night, and it sets a lively pace.

Next up is Joanne Zhang, who begins with a quieter, more restrained presence. She has the strongest accent of the group, and while her delivery starts slow, she gains momentum as the laughs build. Once she finds her rhythm, she picks up speed, sometimes too quickly for the audience to catch every word, but the charm of her delivery carries her through. Her jokes about people misunderstanding her name, being proud of her roots, and her life as a professional drug dealer (at a hospital) are highlights. Joanne’s set feels personal and grounded, and the audience responds warmly to her sincerity.

Lujane Shabbir brings one of the more abstract sets of the night. She is quieter than many of the other performers, but her material is clever and refreshingly different. Instead of the usual complaints about Auckland traffic, she reframes the experience through the lens of losing her sense of time entirely if she dares to trust Auckland Transport’s timetables. Her physicality is subtle but effective, and her ability to twist familiar frustrations into something new gives her set a distinct flavour.

Summer Xia

The energy shifts again with Abhay Chokshi, who arrives with a bright smile and a youthful exuberance that instantly lifts the room. His material focuses on the quirks of living in New Zealand, especially Auckland, and the comparisons between life here and life in India. Traffic, food, cultural expectations, and the small oddities of Kiwi life all become fodder for his jokes. Abhay’s charm is his greatest asset. He is warm, approachable, and clearly delighted to be onstage, which makes the audience delighted to watch him.

Hiren Khatri follows with a set that leans heavily into relationship humour. Married life, stereotypes, and the differences in how he is treated depending on whether he is wearing his glasses all become recurring threads. He also returns several times to a bit about mature dirty talk, which gets laughs early on but loses steam by the end. Even so, Hiren’s delivery is confident, and his ability to poke fun at himself and his domestic life gives the audience plenty to enjoy.

One of the strongest sets of the night comes from Summer Xia, who taps into the very recent announcement of the New Zealand Citizenship Exam. Her material is sharp, topical, and delivered with a confidence that suggests she knows exactly how good the jokes are. She riffs on the difference between togs and undies, the subtle art of yeah nah versus nah yeah, and the cultural knowledge required to truly understand New Zealand. Summer has clearly earned her place in the comedy scene, and her understanding of Kiwi culture shines through every punchline.

Henry Yan

The crowd erupts when NZICF 2026 Billy T nominee, Henry Yan, takes the stage. He receives the loudest applause of the night, and he rides that wave with ease. Having reviewed his solo show previously, I knew what to expect, and he delivers exactly what the audience wants: horses. So many horses. He pulls out all his favourite horse jokes and manages to fill most of his time slot with them, exploring everything from how Uber would work to how you can park a horse to prevent theft. His playful curiosity and his habit of laughing at his own jokes give the audience permission to laugh freely along with him. It is silly, joyful, and exactly what the room needs at this point in the night.

Anjula Prakash arrives with confidence and a strong opening. She talks about Fijian Indian mums and their emotionally aloof but brutally honest approach to parenting. She then launches into a long bit about why she would or would not survive working in the mining sector. She commits fully to the premise, and while the results are mixed, her boldness is admirable. Anjula’s stage presence is strong, and even when a joke does not land perfectly, she keeps the audience with her.

The second Henry of the night, Henry Cheung, brings a more relaxed, almost blasé energy. He seems unsure of his set list and appears to be playing it by ear, which is a risky choice in a short slot. But given that the crowd is getting restless near the end of the show, the looseness works in his favour. He jokes about cultural perspectives, fatherhood, and modern Asian identity, weaving through topics with a casual charm that keeps the audience engaged.

Lily Catastrophe

Finally, Lily Catastrophe closes out the lineup before Jess returns for the finale. Lily talks about parents, being the golden child, and the weight of parental expectations. Her trans identity adds an extra layer to the humour, giving familiar themes a fresh angle. Her delivery is confident, and she brings a thoughtful, personal touch to the night’s final stretch.

What makes Asian Comedy Takeover work is the sheer variety of styles and voices. There is no single tone, no unified aesthetic, no attempt to make the performers fit into a single mould. Instead, the show celebrates the diversity within Asian comedy itself. Themes of citizenship, parents, marriage, cultural identity, and the immigrant experience appear throughout the night, but each comedian approaches them from a different angle.

The audience is equally diverse, and the performers clearly enjoy playing with that. Any joke that splits the room becomes an opportunity for more laughter, more connection, and more shared recognition.

Asian Comedy Takeover is not a perfect show, but it is a joyful one. It is a celebration of community, culture, and the many ways comedy can reflect the world we live in. It is lively, heartfelt, and full of personality, and it offers a glimpse into the future of Asian comedy in Aotearoa.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton

MELANIE BRACEWELL - DILLY DALLYING [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

I'll get around to writing a proper bio for this show later but I'm in the middle of a sudoku. Can you just put something like "Melanie Bracewell is back with a brand-new hour about returning to unfinished things later in life. With rave reviews and multiple awards under her belt you don't want to miss it."

Melanie Bracewell has a rare ability to take the everyday frustrations of adult life and turn them into something bright, sharp, and genuinely joyful. In Dilly Dallying, she leans fully into that strength, delivering a show that is tightly structured, full of energy, and packed with the kind of callbacks that remind you just how carefully crafted her comedy really is.

From the moment she steps onstage, Melanie radiates confidence. Not the loud, chest‑puffed‑out kind, but the kind that comes from someone who knows exactly how to control a room. She moves with purpose, gestures with precision, and keeps the audience buzzing with a level of physicality that elevates even the simplest joke. Her energy is infectious, and it sets the tone for an hour that feels both polished and delightfully loose.

One of the first things you notice is how well-structured the show is. Melanie does not rely on rambling anecdotes or loose improvisation. Every story has a purpose, every detail is planted for a reason, and every joke feels like it belongs to a larger design. The callbacks are constant and clever. Just when you think she has moved on to a completely unrelated topic, she finds a way to loop it back to something from earlier in the show. That moment of recognition hits the audience like a wave, and the laughter that follows is explosive. It is the kind of comedic craftsmanship that only comes from someone who has spent years honing their timing.

Her crowd work is minimal, but when she does engage, she does it with creativity. The air-dropping bit in particular is a standout. It is playful, unexpected, and perfectly suited to her style. She never relies on the audience to carry the show, but she knows how to use them to heighten a moment without losing control of the narrative.

What makes Dilly Dallying so relatable is the subject matter. Melanie does not try to reinvent the wheel. Instead, she digs into the small annoyances and quiet joys that make up adult life. Business class flights. Neighbourhood disputes over recycling bins. The perfect comeback that arrives hours too late to be useful. These are not groundbreaking topics, but Melanie’s delivery makes them feel fresh. She has a way of capturing the exact emotional truth of a situation, then twisting it just enough to make it hilarious.

There is also a refreshing lack of self-deprecation in her material. She does not tear herself down for laughs, nor does she lean into political commentary. Instead, she focuses on observational humour delivered with confidence and humility. She enjoys what she does, and that enjoyment radiates through the room. It is rare to see a comedian who can be this funny without resorting to cynicism or bitterness.

The overarching theme of the show is, unsurprisingly, dilly dallying. Melanie talks about being in her thirties and feeling the pressure from society to hurry up and tick off the milestones. Marriage. Children. Settling down. Doing the things. But instead of treating dilly dallying as a flaw, she reframes it as something that has shaped her life in positive ways. She talks about the joy of taking your time, the value of small detours, and the unexpected benefits of not rushing into things just because everyone else thinks you should.

This theme becomes especially poignant when she discusses love. Melanie reflects on how finding love too early can sometimes mean losing it before you are ready to hold onto it. She talks about timing, growth, and the strange way life unfolds when you give yourself permission to slow down. It is sweet without being saccharine, thoughtful without being heavy, and it ties the entire show together beautifully.

One of the most impressive things about Dilly Dallying is Melanie’s ability to keep a joke going long after you think it has reached its natural end. She jumps in unexpected directions, adds new layers, and finds fresh angles that keep the audience laughing even as they think they know where the punchline is heading. It is a testament to her skill as a writer and performer. She understands rhythm, she understands surprise, and she understands how to build a joke into something bigger than it first appears.

Her physicality is another highlight. Melanie gestures with purpose, using her whole body to sell a moment. Whether she is reenacting a petty argument with a neighbour or demonstrating the ridiculousness of a flight upgrade, her movements amplify the humour. It is expressive in a way that makes the jokes land harder without ever feeling over the top.

There is also a sense of humility that runs through the show. Melanie never positions herself as the hero or the victim of her stories. She is simply a person navigating the strange, often inconvenient world of adulthood. That relatability is what makes the show feel so grounded. She is not trying to impress the audience. She is trying to connect with them.

The pacing is tight, the transitions are smooth, and the overall structure is one of the strongest elements of the show. You can feel the planning behind it, but it never feels rigid. It feels like a comedian at the top of her game, confident enough to trust her material and skilled enough to execute it flawlessly.

By the end of the hour, Dilly Dallying feels like a celebration of taking your time. It is a reminder that life does not need to be rushed, that joy can be found in the small inconveniences and unexpected detours, and that sometimes the best things happen when you let yourself wander a little.

It is cute. It is clever. It is incredibly solid work from a comedian who knows exactly how to craft a show that feels both effortless and meticulously designed.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton

LILY CATASTROPHE - LITTLE SISTER [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Lily Catastrophe is scared she might be kind of basic. Trans comedian Lily Catastrophe brings her signature puckish energy and high femme aesthetic to her anxieties from growing up queer to life in her 30s. Lily tackles the questions that have plagued her surprisingly long existence: how do baseball innings work, what even is a Cool Girl, and can she ever step out of the role of the perennial Little Sister?

By the time I reached Basement Theatre for Lily Catastrophe’s Little Sister, my brain felt like it had been through a spin cycle. After weeks of festival shows and too many late nights, a 9.30pm slot suddenly felt like a personal attack. I must be getting old. But even in my slightly fried state, it was clear that a lot of the audience was buzzing for this one. And to be fair, this is a show that speaks directly to a particular crowd. If you are trans femme, queer, or have ever tried to navigate the world while figuring out your own identity, Lily’s work hits with a level of relatability that is hard to ignore.

Little Sister marks Lily Catastrophe’s return to the Comedy Festival after the success of her debut, Bottom Surgery, and she arrives with the same high femme aesthetic and puckish energy that made her stand out in the first place. This new show digs into her anxieties, her frustrations, and the strange mix of joy and chaos that comes with growing up queer and reaching your thirties with more questions than answers.

The opening of the show is one of its strongest moments. Lily taps into the current emotional climate for trans people with a sharpness that feels both cathartic and necessary. There is a collective exhale in the room as she names feelings many have been carrying quietly. It is not heavy, but it is honest, and that honesty becomes the backbone of the entire hour.

From there, Lily guides the audience through a series of transitions. Not just gender transitions, but the transitions that shape a life. High school to adulthood. Son to daughter. Social expectations to self acceptance. And, of course, the side quests that come with all of that. She has a knack for layering punchlines so that they land differently depending on where you sit in your own journey. Some jokes hit with recognition, others with surprise, and some with the kind of delayed resonance that makes you laugh and then think.

Her reflections on sexuality are delivered with nuance and a refreshing lack of pretence. Lily is not trying to present herself as a polished authority on queer identity. Instead, she speaks from the messy middle, where labels shift, desires evolve, and self-understanding is a moving target. She talks about relationships with a mix of vulnerability and sharp observation, capturing the awkwardness, the confusion, and the joy of figuring out who you are attracted to and why.

One of the funniest parts of the show is her commentary on body image, particularly her reflections on boob sizes. Even as someone who is not trans femme, I found myself nodding along. Double D really is too much boob and too much flesh. Lily’s ability to make these moments accessible without diluting their specificity is one of her strengths. She knows how to bring the room in without flattening her own experience.

The show’s title, Little Sister, becomes a recurring theme. Lily explores what it means to be seen as the perpetual younger sibling, the one who is always catching up, always trying to prove something, always trying to be taken seriously. She ties this into her broader anxieties about adulthood, queerness, and the pressure to present as a Cool Girl when she is not entirely sure what that even means. The result is a narrative that feels both personal and widely relatable.

Lily’s stage presence is confident but never overbearing. She has a conversational rhythm that makes the audience feel like they are being let in on something private. Her vulnerability is not performative. It is simply part of how she communicates. She is candid about her fears, her frustrations, and her insecurities, but she never lets the show sink into self-pity. Instead, she uses humour as a way to navigate those feelings, inviting the audience to laugh with her rather than at her.

Her comedic timing is sharp, and she knows how to build tension before releasing it with a perfectly placed punchline. There are moments where she leans into absurdity, moments where she leans into sincerity, and moments where she blends the two so seamlessly that the audience is laughing before they realise the emotional weight behind the joke.

The show is not without its imperfections. There are sections where the pacing dips slightly, particularly when Lily dives into longer stories that take a while to reach their comedic payoff. But even in those slower moments, her charm carries the room. She has a natural ability to keep people engaged, even when the narrative meanders.

What stands out most about Little Sister is the connection Lily builds with her audience. She speaks to a community that often feels unseen or misunderstood, and she does it with warmth, humour, and a refreshing lack of pretence. For trans femme audience members, the show feels like a mirror. For everyone else, it offers insight into experiences that are rarely explored with this level of nuance on a comedy stage.

The promoter’s description frames Lily as someone who is scared she might be kind of basic, and she plays with that idea throughout the show. She pokes fun at her own anxieties, her own contradictions, and her own attempts to fit into roles she never asked for. It is self-aware without being self-indulgent.

By the end of the hour, Little Sister feels like a thoughtful, funny, and emotionally grounded exploration of identity. It is not the kind of comedy that relies on big physical gags or rapid-fire punchlines. It is comedy built from introspection, from lived experience, and from the strange, often hilarious process of becoming yourself.

For me, it was not the most personally resonant show of the festival. But the audience around me loved it, and it is easy to see why. Lily Catastrophe has crafted a work that speaks directly to the people who need it most, and she does it with intelligence, vulnerability, and a wicked sense of humour.

Little Sister earns a solid four out of five. It is heartfelt, insightful, and delivered with a voice that feels both distinct and necessary.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Josh McNally

Edited by Alex Moulton

OPETI VAKA - I LOVE MY MUM [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Mums are the most under-valued people in our society. They do everything!! cook, clean, hold the family together, raise the kids, work jobs, run errands and they still don’t get the praise they deserve. The truth is, without mums none of us would even be here… literally.

Opeti Vaka steps onto the stage with the kind of presence that feels instantly familiar to a Kiwi audience. There is no theatrical buildup, no dramatic entrance, and no attempt to inflate himself into something larger than life. Instead, he arrives with a grounded, easy confidence that signals exactly what the next hour will be. I Love My Mum is not a show built on gimmicks. It is built on lived experience, cultural truth, and the kind of humour that only comes from surviving chaos with people you love.

The title might suggest something sentimental, but the show quickly reveals a sharper edge. Vaka’s material is deeply personal, shaped by his upbringing in a mixed Māori, Irish, and Tongan household where money was tight, discipline was unpredictable, and affection was expressed through sacrifice rather than soft words. He talks about growing up in a single-income home, watching his mum stretch every dollar, and only realising as an adult how much she carried on her shoulders. The comedy lands because it is rooted in truth, and the sincerity behind it gives the show its emotional weight.

Vaka is not a punchline machine. He is a storyteller. His style feels like listening to an uncle at a family barbecue who starts with one simple memory and somehow ends up weaving a story that gets funnier the longer it goes on. He paints vivid scenes of childhood: hand-me-down clothes, crowded living rooms, chaotic family gatherings, and the kind of discipline that could be triggered by something your sibling definitely did but you somehow got blamed for. The audience laughs because they recognise the patterns, even if their own families looked different.

His Tongan heritage becomes a major source of comedy, but never in a way that feels cheap or stereotypical. The jokes come from observation, affection, and lived experience. He talks about the intensity of Tongan mums, the expectations placed on boys, the cultural contradictions, and the way love is expressed through food, sacrifice, and the occasional terrifying glare. He balances this with reflections on Māori and Irish influences in his upbringing, comparing temperaments, parenting styles, and the different flavours of chaos each culture brought into his home.

One of the strongest recurring themes is the contradiction between strict parenting and unconditional love. Vaka captures the fear many Polynesian kids know well, where a single look from your mother could ruin your entire day. But he also highlights the sacrifices behind that sternness. The long hours. The quiet resilience. The way parents shield their children from the worst of life while carrying the weight themselves. The show never becomes heavy, but the emotional truth sits just beneath the surface.

The official festival description calls the show bold, self-aware, and packed with big laughs, centred around the idea that no matter how far you stray or how much you stuff up, there is no love quite like your mum’s. That description is accurate. The show is funny, but it is also a tribute to the people who hold families together through sheer force of will.

What makes Vaka’s approach so effective is that he never stops the show for a dramatic monologue. The heartfelt moments arrive naturally, tucked between jokes. One minute, the audience is laughing about cheap dinners or chaotic family discipline, and the next, there is a quiet shift where everyone recognises the reality behind the humour. He trusts the audience to understand the emotional layers without needing to spell them out.

His crowd work is another highlight. Vaka interacts with the audience in a way that feels relaxed and conversational rather than disruptive. He asks questions, reacts to responses, and folds people into the show without losing momentum. There is a looseness to his performance style that suits the material perfectly. Even when a story is clearly rehearsed, he delivers it with the rhythm of someone reliving the memory in real time.

The pacing occasionally wanders, especially during longer stories that could be tightened for sharper comedic impact. Some punchlines arrive a little later than they need to, and there are moments where the audience is unsure whether a story is building toward a joke or a reflection. But even these slower sections contribute to the show’s charm. They reinforce the feeling that Vaka is not performing for the audience. He is talking with them.

What sets Vaka apart from many comedians covering similar territory is his lack of cynicism. Modern stand-up often leans into bitterness or irony, but I Love My Mum is warm without being soft. Vaka clearly loves the people he talks about, even when describing dysfunction or hardship. That warmth gives the audience permission to laugh at difficult experiences without feeling cruel.

The show also reflects something important about contemporary New Zealand comedy. Some of the strongest voices emerging right now come from multicultural backgrounds, telling stories that reflect modern Aotearoa more honestly than traditional mainstream comedy ever did. Vaka’s material feels distinctly Kiwi and distinctly Polynesian at the same time, blending both identities naturally rather than treating them as separate worlds.

There is also something refreshing about how unpolished parts of the performance remain. Bigger comedians sometimes lose the rawness that made them compelling, but Vaka still performs with the hunger and honesty of someone who genuinely wants the audience to understand where he came from. The laughs feel earned because the stories feel lived in.

By the end of the show, the title I Love My Mum no longer feels simple. It becomes the perfect summary for a performance that is ultimately about gratitude. Gratitude for struggle, for culture, for family, and for the people who quietly carry others through life without recognition. Vaka honours his upbringing without romanticising poverty or hardship, which is a difficult balance to strike.

For those who grew up in large Polynesian or mixed culture households, the show will feel deeply familiar. For everyone else, it offers a funny and heartfelt glimpse into a world shaped by resilience, humour, and strong family bonds. Either way, the result is the same: consistent laughs, genuine emotion, and a comedian who feels like he is only just beginning to hit his stride.

I Love My Mum is more than a comedy show about childhood memories. It is a celebration of the women who hold families together, wrapped inside sharp storytelling and unmistakably Kiwi humour.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Jack Kemp

Edited by Alex Moulton

LASER KIWI - EVERYBODY KNOWS [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Buckle up for a wild ride in this visual, audial and conceptual extravaganza. Armed with world-class circus skills and their signature brand of surreal sketch comedy, they'll attempt the impossible: articulating that thing we're all thinking. Laser Kiwi will make you laugh, gasp and maybe even agree on something for once.

Everybody Knows hits the stage like a controlled explosion, and Laser Kiwi wastes no time proving they are here to break your brain in the best possible way. ACC would have kittens if they knew how many people walk out of this show thinking they could give it a go. I left buzzing, inspired, and absolutely certain that if I attempted even one of their stunts, I would be in traction by morning.

Laser Kiwi has always been known for their blend of circus and comedy, but Everybody Knows feels like the most polished, most chaotic, and most joyfully unhinged version of their work yet. It is a show that hits you at full speed from the moment the lights come up. Drum and bass thunders through the room, the lighting pulses like a nightclub possessed, and the trio launches into a sequence of physical feats that make you wonder if gravity is just a suggestion.

The first thing that strikes you is the sheer energy. This is not a slow build. This is a rocket launch. The pacing is relentless in the best possible way, especially for anyone with ADHD who thrives on rapid shifts, visual stimulation, and constant novelty. There is always something happening. A juggling sequence. A lighting gag. A physical stunt. A moment of absurd comedy that comes out of nowhere. It is a sensory feast, but crafted with intention rather than chaos for chaos’s sake.

The trio behind Laser Kiwi are masters of their craft. Zane, Degge, and Imogen have a chemistry that feels effortless, the kind that only comes from years of working together and pushing each other to new creative extremes. Their credentials speak for themselves. Winners of the Overall Circus Award at FringeWorld 2023. Best Circus and Physical Theatre at Adelaide Fringe 2019. Foolers of Penn and Teller in 2025. These are not hobbyists. These are world class performers who know exactly how to build a show that feels both ridiculous and technically astonishing.

Imogen’s aerial work is a standout. She moves with a kind of controlled wildness, as if she is both defying gravity and negotiating with it. There are moments where the entire audience holds its breath, watching her twist and drop and climb with a confidence that borders on supernatural. Her sequences are woven into the show with precision, supported by lighting that turns each moment into a visual spectacle.

Zane and Degge bring a different kind of magic. Their juggling is crisp, inventive, and often used as a setup for comedic misdirection. They play with rhythm, timing, and audience expectation in ways that feel fresh even for people who have seen a lot of circus. They also lean into physical comedy with a level of commitment that makes even the simplest gag land hard. Their timing is impeccable, and their willingness to look ridiculous is one of the show’s greatest strengths.

One of the most impressive elements of Everybody Knows is the integration of audiovisual storytelling. The tech team deserves as much praise as the performers. The lighting is not just decorative. It is narrative. It shapes the mood, punctuates jokes, and elevates the physical sequences into something almost cinematic. The sound design is equally sharp, shifting from pounding drum and bass to atmospheric soundscapes that guide the emotional beats of the show.

The audience is not just watching. They are part of the experience. Laser Kiwi has always excelled at audience involvement, but this show takes it to another level. People are pulled into the narrative in ways that feel playful rather than intimidating. The performers know exactly how to read the room, choosing participants who will enhance the moment rather than derail it. The result is a sense of collective joy, a feeling that the entire room is in on the joke.

What sets Everybody Knows apart from other circus comedy shows is the underlying story. It is subtle, woven through the spectacle rather than spelled out, but it gives the show emotional weight. There is a deeper message tucked inside the chaos, something about connection, creativity, and the strange beauty of trying things that might fail. It is not heavy handed. It is simply present, like a quiet heartbeat beneath the noise.

The comedic tone is sharp and playful. Laser Kiwi leans into absurdity without ever losing control. They know exactly when to push a gag, when to pull back, and when to let the audience sit in the ridiculousness of a moment. Their humour is physical, visual, and often delightfully stupid in the smartest possible way. It is the kind of comedy that feels universal, accessible to anyone regardless of background or language.

The show is also incredibly tight. Every transition is smooth. Every beat is intentional. The pacing never drags, and even the quieter moments feel purposeful. It is clear that an enormous amount of thought has gone into crafting a show that feels spontaneous while actually being meticulously choreographed.

If there is one downside, it is that the show feels too short. Not because it lacks content, but because the energy is so infectious that you want more. When the final bow comes, the audience is buzzing, cheering, and wishing the trio would launch into one more sequence. It is rare to leave a show feeling both fully satisfied and hungry for more, but Laser Kiwi manages it.

Everybody Knows is a triumph. It is bold, inventive, hilarious, and visually stunning. It breaks the mold of what a comedy festival show can be, blending circus artistry with comedic storytelling in a way that feels fresh and exhilarating. It is a five-star experience from a team that continues to push the boundaries of their craft.

If you want a night that will leave you laughing, gasping, and maybe planning a very ill advised attempt at juggling in your backyard, this is the show to see.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Josh McNally

Edited by Alex Moulton

SASHI PERERA - PEAR TREE [2026 NZ INTL COMEDY FEST]

Sashi's family name - Perera - means pear tree in Portuguese. It's a common name in Sri Lanka where Sashi was born but never lived. Till a series of pear-shaped events saw her move back to where it all began with her white Australian husband in tow. Pear Tree is a stand-up comedy show about that. It traverses family, love, legacies, homes, knives, race, cats and kids - spliced with a little geopolitics and singing. 

Every now and then, a comedy show arrives that feels different from everything else you have seen. Not louder, not wilder, not more chaotic, but sharper. More deliberate. More thoughtful. Sashi Perera’s Pear Tree is that kind of show. After weeks of festival chaos, late night crowds, and a parade of performers leaning into absurdity, slapstick, or pure silliness, walking into Sashi’s show felt like stepping into a completely different space. The audience itself signalled that shift. For the first time this festival, there was a clear demographic leaning. The room was filled with women and a strong presence of Asian audience members. It felt intentional, not because the show excludes anyone, but because Sashi speaks directly to experiences that resonate deeply with people who rarely see themselves centred in comedy.

From the moment she begins, it is clear that Pear Tree is not built on shock value or physical antics. Sashi brings a calm, grounded presence to the stage. She is warm, articulate, and incredibly precise with her words. Her comedy is not about the biggest laugh. It is about the truest one. She delivers humour with honesty, vulnerability, and a clarity of thought that makes the entire room lean in. It feels less like watching a comedian perform and more like listening to someone articulate the things you have been thinking but never quite found the words for.

The show tackles heavy themes. Racism, colonialism, power imbalances, marriage, parental expectations, fertility, and the complicated relationships between generations. These are not easy topics, and in the hands of a less skilled performer, they could feel heavy or didactic. But Sashi approaches them with humility and a gentle confidence. She does not lecture. She invites. She opens the door to her experiences and lets the audience walk through at their own pace.

Her delivery is conversational, but never casual. She knows exactly what she is doing. Every pause, every shift in tone, every moment of eye contact is intentional. She has a way of making the room feel safe enough to laugh at things that are not traditionally funny. Not because the topics are trivial, but because she frames them with such clarity that the humour becomes a release valve. A way to breathe through the discomfort.

There are cultural references woven throughout the show, particularly around Sri Lankan identity and diaspora (ethnicities being geographically scattered) experiences. Some of these may fly over the heads of audience members unfamiliar with the culture, but the emotional truth behind them is universal. The specifics may be Sri Lankan, but the themes are global. The pressure to marry. The expectation to have children. The unspoken rules of family dynamics. The quiet ache of not fitting into the mould society hands you. These are experiences that resonate far beyond any single cultural group.

What makes Pear Tree so compelling is the way Sashi balances intellect with relatability. This is easily the most highbrow show I have seen this festival, but it never feels inaccessible. She talks about systemic issues with the same ease that she talks about awkward family conversations. She moves from macro to micro without losing the thread. The result is a show that feels both deeply personal and quietly political.

One of the strongest elements of the show is the way Sashi handles tension. She builds it slowly, layering stories and observations until the room is holding its breath. Then she releases it with a perfectly timed joke, and the laughter that follows is not just amusement. It is relief. Recognition. Catharsis. This is not comedy that distracts you from your problems. This is comedy that helps you look at them from a new angle.

Her reflections on societal expectations hit particularly hard. The idea of the perfect life plan. The house. The partner. The children. The timeline that everyone is supposed to follow. Sashi dismantles these expectations with a mix of humour and honesty that feels both comforting and confronting. She speaks to the quiet grief of not meeting those milestones, the frustration of being judged for it, and the strange freedom that comes from letting go of the script entirely.

There is also a softness to the way she talks about family. She acknowledges the love, the pressure, the misunderstandings, and the cultural weight that sits between generations. She does not villainise anyone. Instead, she shows how complicated love can be when filtered through tradition, migration, and shifting identities. It is tender, thoughtful, and beautifully delivered.

Sashi’s stage presence is magnetic. She holds the room with ease, not through volume or theatrics, but through authenticity. She is a strong storyteller, a sharp thinker, and a performer who understands the power of silence as much as the power of a punchline. She sings at one point, and the room lights up. She makes eye contact with audience members in a way that feels personal rather than performative. She creates connection without forcing it.

Pear Tree is not a show built on big, explosive moments. It is a show built on accumulation. Layer by layer, story by story, idea by idea, Sashi constructs something that feels meaningful. By the end, you realise you have not just laughed. You have listened. You have reflected. You have felt something shift.

It is no surprise that she sold out her original run. This is the kind of comedy that stays with you. It lingers. It makes you think on the walk home. It makes you want to talk about it with someone. It makes you want to see what she does next.

Pear Tree is thoughtful, intelligent, and quietly powerful. It is a show that trusts the audience to keep up, to engage, and to feel. Sashi Perera has crafted something rare: comedy that is genuinely meaningful without sacrificing humour. It is a standout of the festival, and one I am grateful to have experienced.

The show is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. Find tickets to a show near you here

Review written by Alex Moulton