On a quiet Monday night in Moore Park, the Entertainment Quarter settles into an easy and unhurried rhythm. There is lots of parking and its only seven dollars at the gate. The short walk into The Comedy Store feels like slipping into a familiar local hangout. Inside, the room remains one of Sydney’s best places to sit with a drink from the bar and watch stand-up comedy the way it was intended.
When a notice went out for an intimate one-off appearance by Adam Hills on September 21, the response was immediate. Hills is long established on British television with "The Last Leg" and etched into Australian living rooms after years of "Spicks and Specks". He does not pop up in small clubs here that often anymore. The show promised a loose and personal evening, described with typical modesty as a potentially ramshackle show from a man increasingly saddled with the tag of comedy legend. More importantly, the night doubled as a fundraiser for the Australian Physical Disability Rugby League team as they prepare for the upcoming Rugby League World Cup.
If PDRL sounds unfamiliar, your not the only one. Born without a right foot, Hills has spent years playing competitive disability rugby league himself. Before he stepped out, the concept was just a concept to many in the room. By the time he finished, it felt relevant and important. Hills has a knack for delivering an sincere message about a cause without ever letting the room feel lectured. There was no need for partisan potshots or cheap political banter. Instead, he stuck close to the heart of the matter, leaving the crowd genuinely invested in the sport and keen to watch a match.
The show was split neatly into two halves. Opening proceedings was David Smieft, a university friend of Hills who took on the MC duties that set a comfortable baseline. The second support act, Nikki Britton a high-energy local comic, brought an edge of manic intensity that felt a bit sharp for an early weeknight crowd, though it hardly took away from the overall momentum. After a short fifteen-minute interval, the room was primed and hanging out for the main event.
When Hills took the stage, he carried the unmistakable presence of an everyday Australian bloke who happens to have brilliant instincts for pacing a room. Sharing the spotlight was his sign language interpreter, Marni Van-Vliet, who quickly evolved into sharing in the delivery of the comedy. Hills mapped out the peculiar rhythm of a signed comedy gig early on. He explained there is the first laugh when the punchline leaves the comic’s mouth, a second beat of laughter from the deaf patrons as the sign lands, and a third wave as the rest of the room clocks the visual comedy of the translation. The interplay between them ran through the set, transforming simple storytelling into a shared game.
Rather than running through highly polished routines, Hills let the room breathe. He leaned into favourite memories and reflections that felt warm and generous. The appeal is straightforward. He knows how to make an entire room feel fundamentally good about being there. For those signed up to the venue’s mailing list, catching an evening like this feels like finding money in an old pair of trowsers. The comedy was first-rate, and when Hills returns to a local stage, expect a long queue at the door.
