Carey Marx is an unapologetic gagsmith. The jokes are short and sharp, often uncomfortably so, as any morality is sacrificed on the altar of quick laughs. And there’s no better way of guaranteeing a reaction than storming headlong into decidedly dodgy territory.

But while his often brutal set is not for the faint of heart, there’s plenty here for the connoisseur of comedy writing. The lines are efficient, original and potent – and rarely fail to blindside the audience.

And they come at a blistering rate, thanks to a hugely economical delivery. He doesn’t go out of he way to befriend an audience, yet there is a subtle charm and intelligence to him, even when the material is blatantly offensive. He sometimes takes a cuddly Teddy bear on stage to soften both his image and the tone of the comedy. But – wouldn’t you know it – it’s not long before poor Parsnip is on the receiving end of some unspeakable act.

This is indicative of the playfulness behind what can, superficially, seem like harsh jokes against midgets, albinos or women. Ultimately, there’s no real malice or nastiness in him, it’s just the childish naughtiness of saying the wrong thing.

Not that it’s all evil, mind. He can do surreal, whimsical observations about shower curtains or dancing cows if the you like that sort of thing, but it’s the stronger stuff that stays in the mind – and for good reason: it’s very, very funny.