Chilled and unhurried, Torrens builds a casual rapport with the audience simply with his inherent air of unassuming, unflustered confidence.

But while the insouciant attitude is a winning one, he’s less well-served by his material, which is a fairly undemanding meander through his couch potato life.

The image he’s keen to project is of a lazy metropolitan loafer, gently dismissing all forms of self-improvement or other petty diversions as too much like hard work. But sometimes you wonder if that attitude pervades his writing, too.

His pet subject is martial arts, and time and again returns to some weak wordplay to make the most mundane activity sound like an Oriental technique.

There are some nice ideas in all this – his reasoning for why the French never invented Spider-Man being a particular highlight – but overall it seems too lightweight, with wry smiles where there needs to be hearty laughs. Not unenjoyable, but not especially noteworthy, either.

To use an analogy he’d be comfortable with, his act is like  gentle tai chi, when it should be kick-arse kung-fu.