Listening to the audience chat around me before the Vogue’s house lights go down, I get the distinct feeling I am at some kind of British cultural event. My fellow limeys, Brit comedy enthusiasts, and I have all turned out to see Suzy Eddie Izzard: a 35-year veteran of meandering surrealism, and one of our home nation’s most beloved comedians—even if she has the slightly cringe propensity to keep running in elections.

Izzard doesn’t bring up that she’s officially changed her name and pronouns since she was last on a Vancouver stage. She simply notes she’s trans, and that she came out around 38 years ago; it’s not like this should come as a surprise, considering she’s been telling her most famous jokes in dresses and heels for decades. 

That’s not to say it’s been easy. As a child, she wanted to go into the special forces; being trans is the solo division, she quips. There’s definitely some pain there. The UK’s frothing right-wing tabloids have made Izzard a frequent punching bag over the past year, due to the heinous crimes of being a high-profile trans person, an avowed member of the Labour party, and a woman over the age of 40. 

But, for the most part, this isn’t a show about Izzard. 

It’s a show about the weird world she lives in. 

Through the course of her stand-up, Izzard wends her way through a variety of imaginary dialogues. Much of the comedy is mined from swapping between different personas—God, animals, tourists, shop owners—pitting wide-eyed earnestness with wry cynicism.

Her grasp of everything from Biblical references to Greek battle formations to geological evidence for mass extinctions lends her a warm sense of authority, blurring the lines of seriousness and silliness. It can be hard to know exactly when she starts exaggerating: she nudges you along a little at a time, inviting you to join her as she traipses down the garden path of absurdity.

As a show billed The Remix, there are of course references to some of Izzard’s most famous bits.

There’s “cake or death”—the sketch that introduced me to Izzard back as a teen—repackaged into an examination on the cozy traditions of Anglican schools. 

There’s her extended foreign language jokes, which mock language education for teaching children how to say “the monkey is on the branch.” This, too, is a joke with personal resonance: I remember it from seeing her around a decade ago, when she inexplicably headlined a comedy show held in the park behind my grandparents’ house. It also shows off one of her most impressive skills: the ability to be funny in French and German, translated to an Anglophone audience.

And then there’s the encore: an entire extended spiel about Darth Vader that has only one way it can end—with the implausible punchline of “you need a tray”—that, regardless, takes loops and side-tracks and tangents to reach, the audience whooping with anticipation for the inevitable, long-winded pay-off. 

At one point, Izzard says she’s just playing—a permanent five-year-old with a toy box, making up stories with her figurines. It matches the cozy, nostalgic vibe of the evening. Sure, she’s a trans woman taking occasional swipes at the existence of God and the fecklessness of right-wing politicians. But her material isn’t really about that. Rather, she’s invited us into her dollhouse. The joy and whimsy is the point: you don’t need teeth to enjoy cake.