Henry Yan is an Auckland-born comedian, now based in Melbourne. His stage persona is “nerdy but cool”, with a quirky delivery style that emphasises social awkwardness. Whether ‘real’ or not isn’t relevant; in Mum Wants A Girlfriend (For Me)?, it becomes the engine of a superbly warm, funny, and unexpectedly affecting performance.

Yan riffs on dating apps, office life, Excel, engineering, weddings, Instagram algorithms, and, in one glorious detour, the case for replacing cars with horses. The topic jumps are more cleverly constructed than they appear; they all return to the central anxiety of being single, wanting connection, and not quite knowing how to ask for it.

What lifts the show is Yan’s control of discomfort. He tells us early that part of his comedy involves sitting in tension until it moves, and he keeps that promise. Pauses, soft “yeahs”, and sudden reversals become part of the rhythm. A punchline often arrives just after the moment when silence has become almost too exposed.

That leads to an authentic performance. The key theme underlying this show is to find the love in yourself before seeking it in others. Easy to say; hard to do.

Nonetheless, we can all relate. Not everyone enjoys being single. Yet Yan is not afraid to tackle this head-on. The angst around reciprocated affection, the judgement of a person only just met, and the social pressure to find a partner form a structural backbone supporting the underlying theme.

My personal surprise was Yan’s effectiveness at interacting with his audience. Audience members were gently drawn into the performance as it unfolded, with the exchanges creating a sense of shared vulnerability. That allowed the bigger laughs to land harder and the reflective moments to feel earned.

Authentic, quirky, skilfully uncomfortable, and utterly relatable, this was a genuinely impressive hour. Yan is already a very funny comedian. He has the craft and emotional intelligence to become a distinctive one.

Have you ever wondered what teachers talk about when nobody else is listening? I found out for myself at Australian teacher and comedian Ben Knight’s first-ever performance in New Zealand, as part of the NZ International Comedy Festival. In his show The Parent/Teacher Interview, the self-proclaimed bogan-hippie invites you for an evening filled with hilarious insights into the life of a teacher. These insights include, but are not limited to, the most outrageous kid names he encountered (my personal winner is Crystal-Beth) and the relatable fear of forgetting where the ‘h’ goes in yoghurt while spelling it out on the whiteboard.

Throughout the night, Knight interrupts his witty reflections on teachers, students, and parents with self-written rap songs about the difficulties of teaching the English alphabet, performed at an impressive speed. One of my favorite sketches of the night is his lesson on ‘teacher code’, in which he shows the audience how to interpret annual student evaluations. Who knew, for instance, that ‘Billy is a spirited child’ can be directly translated to ‘Billy needs to sit the f*** down’. This makes me look back and smile at some of my own report cards, wondering what my teachers might have actually thought about me.

What’s almost the most entertaining, however, is Knight’s warm engagement with the crowd. From bonding with the only other ginger in the room (Hey, James!) to teacher banter and even ordering a guest a gin, the way he includes the audience is outstandingly funny. His quick comebacks turn this ‘supportive classroom environment’ into a space that’s instantly welcoming and inclusive.

As Knight himself admits, he has the same sense of humor as his third-grade students, and I am not mad about it. He says out loud what teachers are not allowed to say, but, judging by the laughter in the crowd, most certainly think. The Parent/Teacher Interview is a hilariously entertaining show for anyone in education, or just simply anyone who has ever gone to school.

It’s a little difficult to know what to say about the sequel to a cult classic like The Devil Wears Prada. Set 20 years after where we left off, Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway) has become a successul investigative journalist, Emily (Emily Blunt) has become a fashion executive at Christian Dior, Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) is still the editor-in-chief of Runway magazine – though the magazine is struggling with the decline of print media, and she is no longer allowed to throw her coat at her interns due to HR complaints – and Nigel (Stanley Tucci) is still as loyal and charming as ever.

What ensues is a tide of glamour and high fashion (with a surprising number of sequins, dungarees, and culottes), endless references to the original lore to make the fans happy, and a movie that oscillates from so-bad-it’s-good to plain bad from start to finish.

But can we ask for much from a sequel? The script was sharp and full of the quotable one liners that made the first such a hit – especially from Miranda, Emily, and Nigel. The plot was modern, with talk of Ozempic, glow ups, and viral memes. Streep and Tucci give phenomenal performances. It was fun picking out the celebrities making brief cameos, from Lady Gaga to Donatella Versace. It was slightly amusing watching them poke fun at the rise of tech bro giants and the subsequent loss of artistry and humanity that comes with AI.

What really bothered me was Andy Sachs. Following an online faux pas from Runway she is called in to save the day. It’s hard to believe in her moral integrity as a do-good investigative journalist when it slips out the backdoor the second she enters the high-fashion building, is taken to the dressing room, and loaned a Gabriela Hearst maxi dress before heading off to the Hamptons. What’s more, and this is a personal preference, but watching The Devil Wears Prada 2 in today’s climate felt almost as tone deaf as when the makers of Sex and the City 2 thought offering up a glitzy sequel would provide an escape from the gloom of the financial crisis of 2010. But hey, it was fun. I laughed. I cringed. It’s a sequel to a classic. You might as well go check it out.

2026 Billy T Award nominee Samantha Hannah is back from maternity leave with a killer new show this NZ International Comedy Festival. Peekaboo! is about parenthood, pregnancy, and finding joy wherever you can. If that sounds heartwarming and life affirming to you, well, you’re nearly right. “I like to use the ring camera to watch my partner almost miss the bus”, Hannah says wistfully, as security footage of the father of her child plays on the projector screen behind her. The audience chuckles as he lollops up the driveway, half-breaking into a run. He’s late, and just as he rounds the corner, an impeccably timed bus sails past. Hannah looks back at us and grins. She’s practically glowing with joy.

Under the pretence of developing a ‘family-friendly show’, Hannah gives us storytime and sex jokes, toy boxes full of bubbleguns, body horror, a giant teddy bear that has to be seen to be believed, and a little bit of ‘screentime’ (as a treat), all the while revelling in the absurd specificities of how we communicate with adults and children. The game for the audience is in the gleeful sense of transgression that ensues when Hannah crosses those boundaries. “And how old are you?” she asks the man sitting next to me. “29?” she gasps encouragingly, “You’re a big boy!”

There were some technical hiccups on opening night, but Hannah is so enormously funny and quick-witted that I’m not convinced flawlessness would have improved the experience (watching her ‘gentle parent’ the stage technician through their botched cues almost killed me).

Hannah has total control of the room, never misses a beat, and by 10 minutes in, the audience was so completely on her side that she got away with eviscerating national treasure Lynley Dodd live on stage. An absolute icon.

Following the maximalist cabaret sprawl of Bottom Surgery, Lily Catastrophe’s Little Sister feels deliberately pared back. Performed in BATS’ beautiful Dome space, this is essentially a classic stand‑up set, lightly adorned with floral arrangements and a Chappell Roan album cover. The simplicity suits the material: rather than spectacle, this has the divinely cosy feeling of meeting up with a close friend you haven’t seen in a while, and getting an in-depth and hilarious update on their life.

Lily establishes a relaxed, conversational atmosphere, sharing anecdotes about family, friendships, and the persistent feeling of being slightly out of step. Much of the humour hinges on family dynamics, including an excellent run on the inconsistent poetry of naming within her family. One sister’s name translates to ‘sunlight through clouds’; another is simply called Judy.

Lily positions herself as the eternally younger sibling, the least edgy person in her social circle, worried that her friends and even her boyfriend are radically queerer than she is. These moments are warm rather than self‑lacerating, and they offer glimpses of genuinely wholesome relationships.

Structurally, the show is looser than her previous work. There are callbacks to earlier threads that don’t always snap home with full satisfaction, and the set occasionally feels like it’s wandering rather than building. That said, the meander is part of the charm. This is a comedian clearly comfortable enough on stage to follow her own curiosity, even if it leads away from a tidy arc.

What Little Sister ultimately offers is closeness rather than fireworks. Lily Catastrophe remains deeply funny, disarmingly candid, and acutely observant, even when she’s deliberately keeping things small. The show may not have the density or narrative drive of Bottom Surgery, but it replaces that ambition with ease, generosity, and the quiet confidence of a performer who knows she doesn’t have to prove anything for us all to have a good time.

Stephen K Amos is well known for interacting with his audience, and this performance was no exception. Now We’re Talking will be remembered fondly by 18-year-old Ethan, “short-arms guy”, the gentleman who briefly left the auditorium to go to the toilet, and even this reviewer and his wife (‘Olly and Gillian’).

Let it be known: if you’re in the front row, the second, the third, or perhaps even the balcony, you’re fair game. Amos is so quick-witted that even a quiet pat on your wife’s shoulder will attract his attention…

The running commentary on these audience members gave Amos counterpoints for the human, social, and cultural observations that underpinned the laughter. His comedy sits within the modern British ‘observational’ tradition: socially alert, conversational, nerdily curious, and quick enough to turn almost any audience interruption into material.

Amos confirms that when it comes to modern British comedy, it’s cool to be a nerd.

There were some wonderful highlights in this performance. Comedy gold was extracted from the Dunning Kruger effect, Venn diagrams, and an exposé on the science of laughter. Underlying the performance was the hypothesis that the modern world talks far more than it listens. Amos’ key reflections were on the noise of modern life: social media rage, the post-truth paradox, casual offence, and how people judge one another without context. This takes the show well beyond a simple sequence of observational routines.

Amos’ crowd work was not just a comic device; it became part of the argument. By drawing the room into conversation, he demonstrated the point he was making: laughter works best when people are conscious of each other and willing to listen. Even a simple audience exercise, asking members to tell each other it was great to be alive, became part of Amos’ wider argument about connection, context, and the casual cruelty of online life.

Amos made us laugh, reflect, consider, and think, leading the audience through variable emotions that allowed them to fully engage in the process. This was observational commentary, delivered in a manner that felt inclusive and conversational, rather than a lecture.

A must-see.

I don’t watch trailers. I’ll take a recommendation but refuse the synopsis. I made an exception for Tom Scott, who I last saw with Avantdale Bowling Club in 2018 and is now touring his first solo album ANITYA. I dived into his album and broke my rule. I watched the trailer.


As more high production comes to exist in our world of making, I was curious to see how Scott was going to translate the album for the stage. ANITYA is an expressive palette oscillating between hooky beats, real-life soundscapes, beds of taonga pūoro, and nylon string guitar. I’m reminded of Mk.gee’s 2024 album Two Star & The Dream Police and Anderson .Paak’s Malibu, but ANITYA is its own.



Warming us is Savagehine & Wear Pounamu with a dancer. Pounamu plays taonga pūoro over tunes with a youthful, honest reverence, with Savagehine rapping: a beautifully lit trio.


Scott’s band enters bang on 9pm, consisting of Guy Harrison on keys (also nailing a variety of guitar tones – but I was also hoping for a nylon string), bassist Cass Basil in the pocket with drummer Swap Gomez, an infectious Maxx Gunn on keys, and vocalists Vai’utukakau Mahina and Grace Ikenasio. I’d like to see less reading in today’s live contemporary scene, especially up front, as it can feel like a barrier.


Scott begins by insisting he’s “just an uncle from Avondale… and it’s not just about one dude tonight”, opening with gyal like you. The crowd, eager off the bat, really loosen throughout the night. I myself took three songs to land; that was when the sound mix found its equilibrium during i just came round to say goodbye again.


By the end, Scott has the crowd unified. Looking around I see half-hooded eyes and mouths uninhibited, making the space feel intimate because of the great delivery. A genuine encore is demanded, a split-second appearance by Louis Baker ending their set with high energy then leaving Scott, the last man standing, rapping a cappella to young men up front who rapped back with fervour, eyes locked. The sight is moving.


The rain didn’t dampen Friday’s attendance for Scott. The crowd was satisfied.

The audience is immediately involved in the core premise of this show, with names signed off on a class list by the supervising teacher as we enter the venue. We have been sent to school detention; my transgression was ‘creating an online dating profile for the teacher’s cat’.

Even before the show has begun, Aaron James Douglas and Keegan Thomas are energetically and loudly inhabiting their roles as attention-deprived naughty schoolboys. For this performance, the teacher was hilariously improvised by Megan Connolly (from comedic duo Ginge & Minge) whose attempt to improvise a lesson plan before storming out of the classroom helped to accentuate the chaos.

Douglas and Thomas trade on energy and pace to deliver their blend of gags, improvisation, and physical comedy. The year is 2010, evoking teenage nostalgia for internet messaging, social media, and school pranks.

Beneath the iPhone 4 jokes, Facebook memories, school musical angst, and devotion to the film Jumper, there is a more recognisable comic truth: high school makes tiny moments feel apocalyptic. A failed audition, unanswered crush, or embarrassing classroom moment can feel like the defining tragedy of a young life.

Douglas and Thomas lean into that melodrama. Their schoolboys are ridiculous, but not empty; they are over-stimulated, emotionally ill-equipped, and desperate to be noticed. That gives the show a stronger emotional thread than the chaos suggests, especially when the bravado slips to reveal the wounded theatre kid beneath the noise.

The energy doesn’t let up. However, energy is not created through simply being loud. The volume soon feels relentless, making it difficult to stay engaged, or even reflect on what was funny or why we were laughing. Greater contrast between high-volume chaos and quieter absurdity would likely create a better audience connection.

Whatever our age, we can still recognise the fragility of the teenage ego. The year might change, but the emotional overkill of high school remains a constant. If you’re willing to ride the volume, Hey, Miss! offers a frantic, funny, and nostalgic return to that world.

Split Enz, dressed in Noel Crombie-designed suits, walked onto the stage to instrumental The Choral Sea and the excitement amongst the 4000 capacity crowd was palpable. When they exploded into Shark Attack, with stunning graphics on the main backdrop screen, we knew we were in for something special. The side screens, showing close-ups of the musicians, flanked the main backdrop screen and fully engaged our senses and attention – an immersive experience.

Then there was the music: all the expected hits such as History Never Repeats, Poor Boy, Dirty Creature, Message to My Girl, and more, together with some surprises from their earliest albums. Before Time for a Change, Tim Finn mentioned an early tour with John Mayall which he called “an unlikely pairing”. It was on that tour, at Ziggy’s nightclub in Wellington, that Crombie first played the spoons.

Across the big screen, Eddie Rayner’s instrumental Double Happy featured a dazzling visual history of the band’s previous costumes. Although the core of this band have been together almost 50 years, with the current lineup featuring James Milne (bass) and Matt Eccles (drums) there was a vitality and freshness to their songs. Introducing Matinee Idyll (129) featuring Neil Finn on mandolin, Tim mentioned that “mandolin was a big part of our sound back in the day. We did a TV appearance on New Faces which was way before Idol, The X Factor, this that and the other”. 

By Six Months in a Leaky Boat, the crowd were dancing in their seats and spilling into the aisles and, with encouragement from Tim, sang the ending a cappella. I Got You followed, with the crowd singing at full volume. This was a party! A blistering I See Red finished the set, but there were encores to come – Spellbound followed by Tim singing the gorgeous I Hope I Never. Strait Old Line had Crombie starting on drums and ending up on spoons to end the concert on a high. This was entertainment and musicianship at its best.