A night with Colin Fry

I was forced to go and see this psychic/spiritualist fuckwit...for some reason, I had to rewrite the review.


One night with Fry
COLIN Fry has made a name for himself as the genuine article. The psychic spiritualist who can genuinely contact the spirit world, briefly reunite you with lost relatives and pass on messages from loved ones who have passed beyond the veil.
Yet just walking in to the auditorium is a shocking show of desperate and painfully hopeful people. A large screen at the back of the stage is showing headshots from Fry's previous shows, as people give their heart-rending joys and miseries for the delight of the people in this new audience. They all want to be picked, they all want Fry to choose them, but with an audience this size, that simply can't happen.
It's already vomit inducing and ultimately depressing. Everybody is waiting, waiting, waiting, for revelation, for direction, for the chance of being conned. It's a shame, this desperation, but the audience around me are not exactly inspiring. The sludge at the bottom of a cup of coffee.
What are they looking for? What do they hope to find here that they can't find in the real world? Why are they flocking to see this man who has built up an entire industry around himself? And flock they do. The hall fills with the hopeful and the hopeless.
So what do I expect?
A scam, a con job. Some fancy psychological wizardry that will no doubt induce tears, misery or if you're lucky, a little bit of joy.
Good luck, suckers. The con job started before you even sat in your seat. You're missing the plants that are seated around you, standing beside you. Waiting to be called on if Fry starts to get it all wrong.
The queue for the bar, where I inevitably head, is long and slow. The con continues, with a little stand on the way selling copies of Fry's new book. It's been published for only three days, so you can be one of the first (and only) people to own it. As an added incentive, Fry will later sign copies, and sometimes (the saleswoman whispers) you get a personal message as you meet the spiritualist. The believers whip their cash across the counter and the coffers of Fry jingle heavily with the raked in cash. Every little helps.
You hear the same thing in the queue as you're going to hear all night. “Do you believe?” Like it's a religious cult I'm signing up for here. Sorry dude, I only believe in Yoda and the Force.
The answers to “Do you believe” are only two. “Oh yes, I'm a believer,” or “Oh no, I'm a sceptic”. Everyone is chatting about previous encounters with Fry, or other scamsters.
Would a sceptic pay out money to come and see this fool? I didn't. I have a press pass.
So, convince me Fry. I'm really ready to be convinced. I'd love it. Which brings us to the statement that is the mystic's favourite. “If you don't believe, it wont happen.” Very convenient.
Judging by the queue at the bar, the general consensus seems to be get drunk and go along for the ride.
The show begins, and it startles me to find that Fry is actually a nice guy. The sort of man that grannies like. He's amusing to the point of being funny, a dry wit that covers the varied age groups of his audience. I even found myself doing as I was told and uncrossing my arms. Don't want to block out the negative energies.
So is he real?
No, he's not. It's a skill, what he does. He must do a lot of preparation, and write a lot of scenarios. But what he's actually doing is making a lot of generic statements so that as many people as possible feel as if it might be someone they know who is trying to communicate. He looks to the victim for the clues, talks about things that are vague enough to be anybody.
“Did they like chocolate?” Come on Fry.
How many people are there? 5 maybe 600, all of them dying to be picked, all of them mentally screaming Me, Me, Me. All of them hating the 'victim' that's the current focus of Fry's attention.
As the victims plod along, I remain unconvinced. He's a good entertainer, of that there is no doubt. He'd make an excellent stand-up comedian for old people to chortle at.
“It's you, it's you.” They all whisper to each other, “That's your nan.” No, it's not. It's a vague statement about a tough old lady that could be anybodies nan. When you start talking about grandparents, it is easy to be vague. How many grandchildren know the stories from their relatives past?
Not a lot. It's easy to imagine what old, dead people might have done when they were young, “Yes, that sounds like him, the old bugger.” They chuckle.
Fry is a good night out. He's funny and the audience are even funnier, especially the ones who wave their hands and Fry has to tell them he's looking for someone else.
When someone is picked, a few more generic statements clarify in their minds that it's them that the message is meant for. After a while, when Fry has wasted a lot of time on them, it's obvious that they're too embarrassed to say “No, it's not me after all.”
The problem is that it is so easy to be vague with an audience that size. Perhaps he would be more convincing in a smaller audience, but for me, this is just another example of people searching for answers. Perhaps Fry can provide those answers for some, but for the many, they wasted their cash.
I fucked off during the interval.