So I’m guessing we could all do with a laugh around now? From Bowie to Brexit, to the complete and utter lunacy of the U.S. Election, 2016 has thrown little to chuckle about our way. You’ll have to excuse my lack of eloquent commentary or long term solutions for such matters, but what I can offer is a tonic – an hour of blissful ignorance and entertainment known as Randy Writes A Novel, playing at the Soho. In short it’s a stand-up set performed by a puppet, with two very likeable factors. One, the depth this show reaches is far greater than it has any right to be. Two, the puppeteering skill involved is some of the best you’re likely to see any time soon.

The premise for Randy Writes A Novel is simple, but this in no way demeans its effectiveness. Randy, a purple humanoid right out of Sesame Street has, shock horror, written a novel. He wants to read it to you, we want to hear it, but stage fright and a really extreme form of procrastination on our hero’s part isn’t helping. So, we may as well talk about something else. As far as stand-up comedy goes, Randy isn’t offering us anything new as far as content. We’ve got jokes on the environment, veganism, and a particularly entertaining anecdote about a man called Morgan and his bookcase. It’s crass from time to time, knowingly predictable at others, but always consistently funny. If you judge comedy on laughs per minute, then this is objectively a hilarious show. There are standout bits – Randy looking at the role of the author against their own life, which devolves into a very fast-paced and knowledgeable tirade on Ernest Hemingway. Yes it’s amusing, but it also questions the metaphorical nature of the show, talking through another medium, being judged on what you create as opposed to what you do. It’s surprisingly deft and really makes you think, which you can’t say of many puppet shows. Looking back the segues seem fairly tenuous, and though we’re let on that the finale of the performance is purposefully unsatisfying, it’s still unsatisfying at the end of the day.

Let’s draw attention to writer/puppeteer Heath McIvor, very much the piece’s MVP. Randy is 100% alive throughout his act, there is no question about it. To give so much personality to a character that can’t even move his face is truly a feat of craft. Alright, so McIvor has polished up, he can move Randy’s arms, body and mouth at once whilst doing the voice, he’s got a script to use, so what? BECAUSE HE ALSO IMPROVISES. It’s only sitting here typing this up that Randy’s ad-libbing struck a chord with me (yes we discussed Trump), because you genuinely forget he’s a puppet. I feel like an idiot because I’ve played directly into McIvor’s hands – I spent a whole hour listening to someone who wasn’t even sentient, and didn’t realise it. See what I mean about depth?

Randy Writes A Novel offers you escapism right when you need it most. The show is undoubtedly flawed – you do end up trading the metaphysical commentary for entertainment value at times, and the whole idea of writing a novel only exists as a symbolic idea, rather than an integral nature of the production. Whatever. It’s short, sharp, snappy, satirical stuff, that takes you out of this cold, cruel world we’ve found ourselves in, and gives you an hour just to listen, watch and enjoy. It’s exactly what you need right now.

Randy Writes a Novel is playing the Soho Theatre until November 19.