Comedy news: BBC Radio 4's 28 acts in 28 minutes

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Are free live comedy recordings really worth the effort? Anna Winston ventures into the murky underworld of Radio 4 to find out

Can you really get something for nothing? The simple answer is no, or at least not in TV-land. Being in the audience for a live TV recording can be an excruciating experience. When aired the programme may fill a quick half hour, but filming it can take four long ones.

My last visit to the London Television Centre on the south bank was a dismal experience. I watched a bunch of 'funny' panellists fail miserably at improv for three and a half hours. The show was so bad it has never been aired.

So, it was with some trepidation that I went along to the live recording of Radio 4's 28 Acts in 28 Minutes at The Drill Hall, just off Tottenham Court Road. While the first series had been rather good, losing hours of your life to endless retakes of one minute routines, while trying to laugh as genuinely as you did the first time, is close to my idea of hell.

Milling around in the bar outside the auditorium, it was clear I wasn't the only veteran of the free recording circuit. The crowd ranged from young and trendy through to late middle-ages. But this lot looked a lot less nervous and lot more middle class than the motley queue outside Television Centre.

An Alcoholic's Sauna

One gentleman in a fetching olive jumper confessed he now finds the idea of paying to see anything painful. His handy hint was always go for radio: it takes less time and is "generally more fun". Plus the TV stations rarely provide access to a moderately priced bar, like the one we were leaning against. But it was rapidly becoming packed, hot and stuffy.

Part of the problem with not paying for tickets is you can't really complain when things don't run according to schedule. I was told to arrive early as the BBC routinely distribute more tickets than seats. If everyone turns up, it's first come first serve. I was waiting in the bar-cum-alcoholics' sauna for 45 minutes. To watch a show that was meant to take 28 minutes.

A few audience members were there to see their favourite comedians or friends. Others had been to recordings earlier in the series and had come back for more. There were a few BBC types floating round too. I was about to give up and head back out into the (comparatively) refreshing air of gridlocked central London when the auditorium doors were flung open. The entire bar stood up as one and surged towards the double doors. Suffice to say it was a bit of a crush.

But in the end everyone managed to get seats, and, unlike in your local cinema, all seemed game to sit next to people they didn't know. Perhaps the BBC just attracts punters with a bit of the old Blitz spirit.

Each Laugh Was A Blessed Relief

Two slightly frazzled-looking men emerged from behind a flimsy black curtain at the side of the stage. It turned out they were the producer and the guy who came up with the concept. Assuming the role of warm-up double act, they made us laugh over stupid jokes about the format, and belittled each others' roles. But their belief in the show shone through the banter and was easy warm to them.

Finally, the acts came out. Radio is nothing like TV. This really was 28 acts in 28 minutes; or at least as close to it as possible. As the show unfolded I saw comedians whose faces I vaguely recognised, some I knew well, like Phil Cornwell, and others I'd never heard. There was a healthy a mix of stand-ups, radio comedians, comedy troops and duos. Each laugh was like a blessed relief, eradicating the memories of TV recording misery.

A mysterious wooden egg-shaped object hovering at the front of the stage flashed a red light when each act's minute was almost up, and the performers dutifully ran on and off stage. Some looked like they wanted to hi-five each other but were too embarrassed to do so.

An eclectic bill of musicians featured in between comedians; everything from one man and his drum kit to a bewitching female singer with her acoustic guitar. The audience greeted every act with applause, admittedly more rapturous for the better known, but unfailingly enthusiastic throughout all 28 performances.

A Full Recommendation

It was a surprisingly enjoyable experience. At the end, the producers thanked the audience for laughing in all the right places and the crowd spilled back out into the bar. As people began to disperse into an unusually mild evening, the comedians milled around in the bar chatting to each other and me.

I felt embarrassingly star-struck in the presence of Geoffrey McGivern and Simon Jones, the original Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent from The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy; voices I grew up with.

It turns out Olive Jumper Man was right. Radio recordings are far more enjoyable than TV. I may never go back to the Television Centre, but I'd recommend The Drill Hall to anyone.