The sublime to the ridiculous is a cliché I’d prefer to avoid, but 24 hours at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival took me to such extremes.  I experienced the most perfect, poignant and beautiful and the most dull, ignorant and offensive.

There is nothing ostensibly remarkable about The Ballad of Roger and Grace. Two unassuming blokes sit on two chairs. One reads us a story and the other plays his guitar and sings us some songs. That is all and it is exquisite.

Tell me a story. Tell it simply. Tell it truthfully. Tell it with love. Tell it with care. Tell it with passion. Please make sure that your mastery of language and structure is on par with the likes of Wilde and Dickens and you have detailed map of the human psyche.

Daniel Kitson tells us a story - in fact the greatest love story ever told. Trying to describe the unique perfection of this story will only do it an injustice.  The journey is profound and epic, visiting unexpected places, emotions and dreams. I want to read Daniel Kitson. He is a damn fine stand up comedian and a mighty fine storyteller, but I also want to snuggle up at night with a tome of his words.

Gavin Osborn sits on the other chair and tells his story trough song. Original and archetypal images of young love fill our minds, as he gently finds the profound in the mundane and the heroic in the ordinary. The song cycle contrasts and supports Daniel’s prose and they come together to create moments of pure theatrical bliss.

Being part of the laughing festival, this is a funny show. The ballad produces the kind of laughter that warms your heart and awakens your soul, as it that lets you cry and makes you want to entwine fingers with someone you love.

Daniel Kitson and Gavin Osborn created The Ballad of Roger and Grace for an open-air dusk performance in London. Midnight performances followed at the Edinburgh Fringe and it has quietly accompanied Kitson’s Australian tour of The Impotent Fury of the Privileged.

I was lucky to catch the last Melbourne performance. Kitson said it might be last time they perform it. Please don’t be so. There are so many people out there who love theatre, who love music, who love stories or just plain love – they all deserve to experience something so wonderful.

The night before Roger and Grace restored my faith in theatre, love and stories, I saw Health Franklin’s Chopper in Make Deadshits History.

Chopper Reid himself isn’t keen on Franklin’s character. Never thought I’d be saying this – but I’m on Chopper’s side.

I’m going to give Franklin full benefit of the doubt here. I’m pretty sure he’s going for satire. I think he’s trying to point out that the likes of Mr Reid are not worthy role models and that violence, rapey rapey (his sweet words) and personal terror are not good. There is some very clever writing hidden among the fucking jokes. I think the concept of Making Deadshits History is very funny – but disappointed that he had to explain the joke in detail to the audience. I laughed at the Bindy Irwin doll that says, “I want a father figure”, but this material could be said by anyone. It wasn’t Chopper specific and this is a Chopper specific show.

I got the impression that Chopper’s audience are laughing with him – not at him. The satire isn’t working – the audience are laughing at the humour inherent in violence and abuse… (Perhaps I just don’t like the people who pay to see this character.)

Franklin’s Chopper is a naughty, chubby, cuddly teddy bear with a moustache and glasses. He isn’t dangerous or threatening and fails to represent anything near the level of violence and hatred that Mr Reid embodies. This Chopper seems like a nice bloke and I don’t understand why.  If he were called Barry the Bonza Bogan, the show would be the same. This Chopper is so coy he can’t even say cock.

I believe there is a clause in the Comedy Festival registration agreement that says you will use the word cunt at least once in your show. (Kitson does so in Fury, thus negating the need for it in Ballad.) There’s a disproportional amount of power in that short word. Women are slowly reclaiming that combination of letters, but the cunt issue is still there. Calling someone a cock can be friendly ribbing. It’s a bit naughty, but you can always tone it down to dick. Calling someone a cunt is still regularly viewed as the most disgusting, vile, horrendous, offensive thing you could name. I don’t think cunts are offensive (about half the people in the world have them). There are men and women in this festival who use cunt superbly in their shows. They understand that the word can be laced with irony (or power) and it’s clear that they do indeed admire, respect and love cunts. Chopper doesn’t. He calls his penis his doodle or “whistle whistle”, but he calls a man a fucking cunt if he spits in his beer and in the audience-participation part of the night, he tells a woman to “Say the C word”. He couldn’t even say, “Say cunt”.  Perhaps Franklin is trying to show that Chopper is a compulsive masturbator, has a small penis and never seen a vagina that isn’t on the internet or stapled. Unfortunately, the rest of the show doesn’t support this theory. Chopper makes a woman say cunt because it the naughtiest of all the naughty words and fuck just doesn’t cut it anymore.

This is the type of laughter that tears away at other people’s souls and makes your heart feel grey and slimy; as you avoid contact with the person you came with and hope they don’t try to hold your hand.

Both these shows were full of appreciative audiences -  which really is what it’s all about. It would be a boring world if we all liked the same things. Run to the ticket booth if The Ballad of Roger and Grace ever returns and remember you can still see the wonderful Daniel Kitson in The Impotent Fury of the Privileged. You can probably see Heath Franklin in the pub (unless the other Chopper gets to him first).