There are two strands to Kevin Dewsbury’s entertaining set, one much more appealing than the other.

He starts off, rather disappointingly, as your common-or-garden comic, passing sarcastic, formulaic comment on such obvious everyday occurrences as train announcements ( which he of course takes far too literally) or contrasting the clientele at posh supermarkets with Lidl.

The gags are solid, the delivery by-the-book. His slightly mocking tone is quite engaging, and he doesn’t waste time on unnecessary detail, preferring to go for lean jokes, quickly told. But this is certainly comedy in a very familiar mould, employing such tried-and-tested techniques as the pull-back-and reveal, even if Dewsbury is an above-average exponent of it, employing plenty of sly asides to make the most of the spiel.

But there is another, more distinctive type of routine that sits cheek-by-jowl with this likeable Northerner’s rather obvious gags. They are the first-hand tales, told from his own point of view, and tend to involve such mischievous, seemingly innocent pranks as pretending to be Irish, giving false numbers when answering the phone or trying to humour a virgin in bed.

They all have the ring of truth – even if their veracity would hardly stand up in court. That whiff of authenticity makes them all the more appealing, even if they inevitably spiral away to fantasy for the sake of a punchline, and the tales are skilfully told.

In all, Dewsbury’s set smacks of a comic in transition – reluctant to leave the easy gags but starting to develop routines he can call his own. And that can only be the right way to go.