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On The Road with Alex McNair 

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Balaclavas, Ballots & Belfast: A Pink-Masked Comedy Tour of Ireland

By Alex McNair

 

When you’re preparing for a comedy tour in Ireland, you expect Guinness, rain, and maybe a heckle about your accent. You don’t expect your wife to halt you at the front door and demand a wardrobe change to avoid political unrest.

 

But that’s exactly what happened to me in May 2023, when myself and Edinburgh-based comic Mark Hadden set off from Scotland for a quick tour of the Emerald Isle. First stop: The Pavilion Bar, Belfast. Monday night. Crowd unknown. Vibe… tense.

 

Now, I’m not exactly one for blending in. I perform stand-up sometimes as myself, and sometimes as The Flamboyant Gimp—a pink woollen gimp mask-wearing, sex-ed-preaching alter ego who enters stage left waving a giant sex toy named Eileen (yes, after the song). But even I hadn’t clocked the potential landmine strapped to my forearm.

 

There, proudly inked on my arm, is the red poppy logo of my favourite band, The Alarm. A tribute to music, teenage rebellion, and Welsh rock anthems. But also—my wife reminded me just as I was about to leave—it’s the symbol of British military remembrance. In Belfast. During an election week. With the words Marching On tattooed underneath.

 

Marching. In Belfast. I may as well have walked on stage humming the Sash.

 

So I changed my top, swapped the sleeveless look for something less “sectarian statement,” and off we went. The Pavilion is a cracking venue, full of locals, but the air that night had a whiff of low-level tension. Each comedian that went up tried to score points with topical jabs at the election—often clearly picking a side. You could see the laughter divide the room in real time. Like a live-action Twitter thread, except you couldn’t scroll past it.

 

And then there was the final act. Brave. Honest. Possibly doing performance art.

They walked on, looked around the room, and opened with:

“Sorry I’m late, I was out campaigning for Sinn Féin.”

You could feel the entire loyalist side of the room slide back into their pints.

Then: “I’m trans.”

Some of the remainder disappeared emotionally.

And finally: “And I’m vegan.”

Even the neutral table sighed.

 

It was like watching a parachute fail to open… and then catch fire.

 

Meanwhile, us two daft Scots had a surprisingly warm reception. Mark did his smart, observational stuff and charmed the room. And me? I came on dressed in a pink balaclava, wielding a giant rubber fanny named Eileen. I looked like a gay paramilitary tribute act for Pride Season.

 

But somehow, it worked. Maybe because I didn’t pick a side. Maybe because I looked like I’d been raised by the Pet Shop Boys and Sinn Féin’s marketing department. Maybe because laughter, at its best, is a neutral territory.

 

In the end, the night wasn’t about the poppy on my arm or the politics in the room. It was about two Scots, a good crowd, a pink wool mask, and the unifying power of a giant rubber fanny.

 

Sláinte, Belfast. Let’s do it again sometime.