The initial reaction to Lee Bannard is that he doesn’t belong on the stage; it’s as if a sullen, pallid youth has stumbled in a daze from the audience and found himself, by accident, in front of the microphone.

But it doesn’t take long after he opens his mouth to realise that on stage is exactly where he belongs, with a treasure trove of inventive, funny lines that suit his distinctive persona.

The closest reference point is probably Mackenzie Crook, with whom he shares a sickly character and morose attitude. It’s a persona he fully exploits for every ounce of comic potential, with a hefty array of sharp tales of childhood illness, neglect and loneliness.

It could so easily have been gratuitously ikky, going for shock laughs alone, or even willfully downbeat, daring the audience to wallow in his misery. And while there are elements of both these aspects, the majority of his material is remarkably complex and well-crafted for such a comparatively inexperienced act. He’s a master of misdirection, too – you won’t see many of his twisted lines coming.

And they arrive at quite a pace, too, thanks to a sleek, efficient delivery, with each quality joke stripped down to  its bare essentials for maximum effect. This is a lad who very clearly knows what he’s doing. Expect to see him go far.