Rhys Mathewson’s 10th Rodeo is not just a comedy show — it’s a confession, a reckoning and a hug disguised as stand-up. It’s the kind of performance that leaves you laughing until your ribs ache, only to find a lump in your throat when the lights come up. Mathewson takes the stage with the confidence of a veteran and the vulnerability of a man who has seen both sides of himself — the triumphant and the broken — and invites us to sit with him in that space.

The premise is simple but searingly honest: after five years of sobriety, Rhys relapsed. And instead of hiding that fact, he decided to turn it into art. In front of a room full of strangers, he traces the slow slide, the moment of failure, and the long climb back toward self-forgiveness. But this isn’t a sombre therapy session; it’s stand-up comedy at its finest — sharp, self-aware and utterly human.

Mathewson’s genius lies in his ability to turn pain into laughter without diminishing its gravity. He doesn’t sugar-coat the shame, the embarrassment, or the crushing disappointment that followed his relapse. He just tells it straight — the messy truth — and somehow, we laugh. Maybe because we recognise something of ourselves in that mess. Maybe because, as Rhys gently reminds us, falling apart is part of being alive.

At one point in the show, a voice from the crowd calls out — a light-hearted interjection that isn’t quite a heckle, though Rhys pounces on it with impeccable comic timing. There is even one he allows the audience to use at some time in the performance. When it is used, Rhys, true to his word, acts upon it. The audience roars with laughter

That moment of miscommunication encapsulates what the 10th Rodeo is really about — not just sobriety, but the fragile dance of support that surrounds it. We all have friends, whānau and loved ones who have battled their demons, and we all wrestle with how best to help them. Rhys doesn’t offer easy answers, but he reminds us that showing up matters. That compassion matters. That sometimes we fail each other — and that’s okay, too.

As the show unfolds, the laughter takes on a kind of grace. Rhys talks about the weight he carries — that invisible backpack of regret we all sling over our shoulders from time to time. Some choices, he admits, leave marks that never quite fade. But he’s learning that it’s not about pretending the weight isn’t there; it’s about learning how to carry it. And that load, he insists, is lighter when shared.

What makes his 10th Rodeo extraordinary is how it refuses to separate humour from healing. Rhys never wallows, never lectures, never begs sympathy. Instead, he transforms his struggle into a shared experience, a kind of collective exhale. When he says that relapse isn’t the end — just another stumble on a long road — the room seems to nod in agreement. We’ve all stumbled. We’ve all had to get up again.

By the end, the applause feels different — not just appreciation for a great set, but gratitude for the honesty it took to tell it. Rhys Mathewson doesn’t just make you laugh; he makes you think about the people in your life who are trying their best to hold it together, and maybe about the times you needed someone to hold you, too.

Rhys Mathewson’s 10th Rodeo is a triumph of truth and timing: raw, hilarious, and profoundly moving. Mathewson proves that even when we fall, laughter can be the hand that helps us stand again.

Copyright © in the review belongs to the reviewer

The Reimagine Festival is well underway, and as part of the festival, I’ve been asked to do a review of Rhys Mathewson’s standup comedy show in the Theatre Royal.

At start time the audience is very sparse, but in typical Taranaki, and probably New Zealand fashion, the bulk of the audience drags themselves in a few minutes late. New Zealand needs to adopt the overseas model: the doors close at start time and if you’re not in, you wait till a suitable gap, or in some cases, until the interval. That wouldn’t have been much use here as there was no interval.

I had seen Rhys on other occasions at Comedy Clubs, but there it’s usually 20-30 minutes. This is an hour, but what an hour. The show is called Rhys Mathewson’s 10^th Rodeo’, but what the 10^th connection is, I’m not sure, as to the ‘Rodeo’, even he admits it has nothing to do with anything, he just likes the word.

Most stand-up routines don’t have a set, however, Rhys has an intricate set, by stand-up routine measures: a small table and a one and a half litre water bottle.

He opens by attempting to toss the bottle and land it on the table. It fails. “It can just stay there. Nothing will change.” That sums up the evening. Small things don’t matter, and correcting them won’t change the world.

Knowing that the subject matter for the hour is booze and drug addiction, suicide, (or sui-jacent, as he calls it), therapy, shame, compassion and the chaos of being a human, one could be forgiven for thinking the hour is going to be serious… Wrong! He is, first and foremost, a stand-up comedian, and he has the audience laughing from first minute to last.

He does say that if anyone thinks he is getting boring or morose, all they have to do is call out “RODEO” and he will ride the table like it is a mechanical bull. Less than a minute later, someone pipes up “RODEO’, so he sit astride the table and rides it. He then announces, “Okay, that was your one chance. You’re now stuck with me for the rest of the show.”

Whether the ‘woke’ like it or not, comedy is about finding the comedy in anything. If you can laugh at it, you can disarm it, and Rhys disarms a lot.

He speaks of the support of his wife, comedically mentions her size and age, but it is obvious, from his serious bits, that her continual love and care for him is important.

Therapy and the relapses are handled the same: 90% comedy, 10% serious. His relapse from being a vegetarian is more like 100% comedy. He had been asked to do an advert showing where McDonalds eggs came from. Seeing thousands of chickens crammed into one third of a large building sickened him… until he realised [spoiler averted].

Rhys’s piece about the Bunnings adverts is hilarious, as he reenacts an audition. His description of a boring world when sober, but also watching drunk people as a sober person, is hilarious – and also thought-provoking.

He closes the show by attempting to toss the bottle onto the table again… and misses. “See. Nothing’s changed.”

Copyright © in the review belongs to the reviewer