Rhys Mathewson, known for his competitive nature, takes on a daring new challenge in this show—performing a perfectly timed 55-minute stand-up set against a live countdown timer. Get ready for a thrilling and hilarious ride as Rhys pushes the limits of timing and comedy in this unique performance.
In the world of stand-up comedy, timing is everything. But what if the entire show is built on that one concept? In Time Trial, Rhys Mathewson pushes the notion of perfect comedic timing to its absolute limit. With a large, unmissable countdown clock glowing centre-stage, Mathewson boldly promises exactly 55 minutes of stand-up – not a second more, not a second less. The result is a show that is equal parts structured chaos, rapid-fire wit, and deeply personal storytelling, delivered with a warm charm that has become his signature style.
From the moment Mathewson bounds on stage, there is a palpable sense of urgency. The timer begins immediately, casting an unspoken pressure over the performance. But rather than buckle under the clock’s digital glare, Mathewson uses it to propel the show forward, his pace brisk but never rushed. It's a high-wire act, and he knows it. He's not merely performing a set – he’s racing it.
Known for his competitive nature – he is a three-time victory on Guy Montgomery’s Guy Mont-Spelling Bee – Mathewson channels that same energy into this one-man contest. The opponent? His own ability to stick to time. The premise is clever, even audacious, and it sets the tone for a show that delivers with confidence and cleverness.
At first glance, the structure appears simple: start the clock, tell jokes, finish on time. But Time Trial is layered, carefully calibrated to maximise laughs while building momentum. Mathewson starts by inviting the audience into his world with self-deprecating charm and a laugh that’s uniquely his own – one that punctuates his stories and quickly endears him to the crowd. This isn’t just a stand-up act; it’s an exercise in vulnerability, shaped through the lens of comedy.
One of the evening’s early themes is Mathewson’s battle with procrastination – a surprisingly relatable thread that runs through the show. He admits, quite frankly, that poor time management was the catalyst for the entire Time Trial concept. Rather than fight it, he’s turned it into art. From here, the show blossoms into a series of anecdotes and musings on distraction, routine, and the little oddities of everyday life.
The stories are personal, almost confessional. He shares tales from his private life, including the quirks of cohabitating with two chatty dogs and his strange, his teeth brushing habits, abruptly ended adult dreams – a moment played more for bewilderment than bawdiness. He recounts the existential dread of waiting in line at a petrol station night window, only to realise it’s become a regular part of his two-decade-long post-gig life. These moments are richly observed and peppered with character impressions, physical comedy, and Mathewson’s gift for making the mundane feel monumental.
Mathewson's storytelling style is a mix of narrative and improvisation. He has an extraordinary ability to leap from one idea to another while maintaining a sense of cohesion. Seemingly unrelated threads – from fascism in Aotearoa to the origins of croissants – are deftly woven together with a mixture of historical oddities and cheeky cultural commentary. His comparison of Napoleon’s stature to a unit of measurement, and the difficulty of pronouncing “croissant” without sounding like a wanker pretentious, are perfect examples of this ability to take niche observations and turn them into universal laughs.
The audience on this particular night was not without its challenges. A table of ten arrived late, leaving an awkward gap in the centre of the room and delaying the start by fifteen minutes. This could easily have derailed a lesser performer, particularly when working within a strict time limit. But Mathewson took the disruption in stride. He joked about it, repositioned the room’s energy, and used it as another opportunity to connect with the crowd – reminding us that live comedy is, after all, a shared experience.
Audience interaction plays a vital role in Time Trial. Mathewson navigates the give-and-take with grace, even when the crowd gets rowdy. While he thrives on engagement, it’s clear that repeated interruptions – including calls for him to remove his trousers – began to wear thin. Still, he handled it with the kind of tact that speaks to his years of experience. He’s not afraid to play along, but he’s always in control.
As the clock ticks down, the tension rises. The final five minutes are electric. You can sense Mathewson weighing each joke against the clock, deciding what can stay and what must be cut. At one point, he remembers a particularly good bit but doesn’t have time to explore it fully. The frustration is visible, but it’s also very funny. This is part of the genius of Time Trial: the format itself becomes a source of comedy.
The structure also provides moments of clever meta-humour. Throughout the performance, Mathewson checks in with the timer, reminding the audience – and himself – of the countdown. These moments build suspense while allowing him to poke fun at the very constraints he’s placed upon himself. The final stretch becomes a blur of punchlines, callbacks, and delightfully silly characters, including a memorable interpretation of Napoleon and a bizarrely intense dog with a far-right persona.
Visually, Mathewson has a disarming presence. With his curly hair and relaxed attire, he’s been compared to Peter Jackson, but we see a young Billy Connolly – a likeness that seems apt, not just in appearance but in his playful delivery and knack for turning oddities into gold. His physicality adds a further dimension to the comedy. Whether reenacting a claw-machine-style food grab through the night pay window or mimicking an overzealous customer, he commits fully, his body language as expressive as his words.
By the time the buzzer sounds, there’s a collective sense of satisfaction. Mathewson has delivered exactly what he promised: 55 tightly packed minutes of laughter, whimsy, and unexpected depth. The show’s premise could easily have come across as gimmicky, but in his hands, it becomes a platform for something much more. It’s a celebration of the imperfect, the impulsive, and the inherently human.
Time Trial proves that structure doesn’t limit creativity – it can, in fact, enhance it. Rhys Mathewson has crafted a show that is as disciplined as it is loose, as silly as it is thoughtful. By turning his own shortcomings into strengths and wrapping them in humour, he invites us to laugh not just at him, but with him – and, in some small way, at ourselves.
Time Trial ran from 20 May - 24 May 2025 at Auckland's The Classic.
Presented as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival with Best Foods Mayo, from 2 – 24 May 2025