James Goldsbury tries at least three different lines of approach in his scattergun stand-up; in what appears to be a valiant but desperate attempting to find at least one style the audience likes. But ultimately the effect is only to confuse, offering no clear persona to latch onto.

First, and most successfully, he offers himself as a purveyor of puns, delivering some contrived but enjoyable wordplay with a cheesy tongue-in-cheek chutzpah.

Second, and most blandly, he produces a lot of standard observational material that does little to separate him from the pack. There can, surely, be little left to analyse in arguments between boyfriend and girlfriend – and if there is, this animated Irishman can’t find it. It’s reliably written and executed, but with nothing of interest to really hold the attention.

Finally, and most bizarrely, he sees himself as some sort of impressionist. Bizarre, because he simply can’t do it. His David Attenborough is some sort of ‘top-hole’ retired English general, without the hushed tones normally associated with the wildlife commentator, and you wouldn’t know it was supposed to be Russell Crowe were it not for the fact he does the exact same Gladiator speech Jon Culshaw always parodies in Dead Ringers. Goldsbury can manage a passable Tommy Cooper – very cutting-edge – but then, who can’t?

Outside of the impersonations, which have shades of the office joker assuming he’s funny by copying something from the TV, Goldsbury’s performance is perfectly OK. But until this relative newcomer decides what he wants to say and just how he’s going to say it, you’d be hard-pressed to see much comic potential.