Comedy: You don't know me yet, but...

...you soon will. Nine fledgling stand-ups are the finalists in BBC Talent's first Comedy Awards. Matthew Sweet discovers why 10 minutes of whistling just isn't funny

Three o'clock on a Tuesday morning and I'm staring into the mini-bar in a chi-chi Edinburgh hotel room, wondering if, through that butterfly-and-Japanese-earthquake thing, drinking its contents would prevent Jim Davidson's contract being renewed. On the evidence of what I've seen in the preceding few hours, however, this would be a deed of misplaced heroism. I hope I've already met some of the people who are going to bump Jim into light entertainment oblivion.

They're the finalists of BBC Talent's New Comedy Awards – nine individuals selected, not as the advertising promos suggest, by Jamie Theakston whirlybirding around the UK armed with a Star Trek tricorder, but through a year of punishing regional heats.

Listing them all will necessitate the longest sentence in the history of these arts pages. So here goes: Michael Downey, an accountant turned van driver from Co Monaghan ("I get my good looks from my mother – I guess that explains the beard and tits"); Keith Carter, the final's only character comedian, whose alter ego is a shell-suited Liverpudlian pothead named Nige (catchphrase: "unemployed and love the Floyd"); Rob Deering, a London-based theatre director whose set is entirely built around the different ways he could have chosen to get up to the stage; Justin Moorhouse, who says that if he doesn't make it as a comedian, he'd like to play for Manchester United; Des Clarke, a Glaswegian student whose fairly ordinary material ("do you think ghosts stay up late at night and tell stories about people?") is transformed by an utterly bizarre speech impediment; Jarred Christmas, a New Zealand-born charity fundraiser, whose parents seem to have named him after a computer animation – according to a website devoted to such things, "Jarred's Christmas is a simple, happy-face animation bellowing a comedic rendition of 'Feliz Navidad' in English"; Alan Carr, a Weymouth boy with an immense gobful of teeth and a routine about his recruitment adviser ("She's got written on the front of her desk 'You don't have to be mad here, but it helps' – in her own shit"); Russell Howard, a sweet-looking, loud-shirted Bristolian, of whom one lubricious admirer enthused, "He could be the Jamie Oliver of comedy"; and Markus Birdman (sample joke: "Just got back from Norfolk – went there to fuck my cousin"), a former performance poet who professes that his creative technique is deceptively simple: "I write a load of stuff and cut out all the shit."

They're keen, these turns. When I visit the flat in which they're billeted, I find that most of them are out, having already secured themselves gigs all over town. Michael Downey and Keith Carter, however, are still around, surrounded by bowls of BBC crisps. Michael Downey expresses his gratitude to the corporation for allowing him to bring 18 supporters to the after-show party. Keith tells me he's been described as "Alan Bennett on acid", and I inform him that there's no way that Independent on Sunday readers will ever get to know this, as all such constructions are on the list of banned clichés. Also present is producer Sarah Fraser, now in her second year on the scheme. "It says a lot about people's interpretation of what's funny," she reflects. "We had a feller who just did 10 minutes of sound effects. Building a house from scratch. Taking shopping through the check-out, that sort of thing. Someone else sent in 10 minutes of whistling."

There is no whistling in the final, at which the judges – celebrated Goodie Graeme Garden, Royle Family member Ralf Little, Goodness Gracious Me alumna Nina Wadia, and stand-ups Helen Lederer and Sean Lock – sit in bum-hugging chairs, making notes. After several sweaty hours, during which time the audience are cruelly denied a toilet break, the panel announces its decision. Despite Des Clarke's insanely funny stutter, Jarred Christmas's engaging routine about a boot camp for sperm and Keith Carter's monologue about how glad he is that his sister had a baby at primary school, because it means she and her daughter can share clothes, the name in the envelope is – stop reading now if you don't want to know – Alan Carr. The prize? A thousand quid and a commission from BBC Choice.

At the party, a water-transfer of a happy-looking simian affords access to a sequestered VIP bar in which Trevor and Simon, Lily Savage's agent and the producer of Vicar of Dibley are anecdoting over warmish nachos. I've somehow managed to mislay my tattoo, so Graeme Garden kindly gives me his spare. Using a tissue dipped in Evian water, we smack our monkeys until we look like VIPs. Ralf Little, having impressed his upon that liminal area between the hip and the groin, is finding it difficult to carry two pints of lager and prove his status to the bouncer simultaneously.

Garden is describing the judging process – "calm and ordered," he says, unlike last year, when Sandi Toksvig stubbornly insisted that the award should go to the only female competitor – when Alan Carr rolls up in a state of advanced oopizootics. "I've just phoned my mum to tell her I've won. She told me to ring back tomorrow when I'm less excited." In his moment of triumph, he relates how he nearly gave up comedy for a career in computing. "I did this gig in Camden," he recalls, "where the guy on before came on dressed as Hitler and said he had Princess Diana's head in a bag. The audience was just booing at him and telling him to fuck off. Then I came on and they did the same to me. I just got my coat." A gypsy fortune teller, he claims, convinced him to stick with it.

Garden is examining the award, a shard of Perspex with an aluminium smile glued to the front, edges sharp enough to slit someone's throat. "It looks sort of medical," he rumbles. He ought to know. He first performed in Edinburgh while he was still training to be a doctor, and recalls the sensation created by a 1963 "happening" in which Carroll Baker – star of Baby Doll (1956) – whizzed about in the buff on a swing. "There was a lot of naughtiness around and nobody quite knew what to do with it." Alan, however, does know what to do with it, and, on the live video link between the main bar and the VIP suite, we watch him jigging about with the monkeyless masses. Even when he's dancing, he's funnier than Jim Davidson.

'The BBC New Comedy Awards Grand Final' is broadcast on BBC1 on Friday