Pete Gold has some material about the Home Counties suburb where he lives, passing comment on how it’s a genteel Fifties timewarp, where nothing much happens. He could be talking about his own act.

This twee musical comedian is like an act from another era, when a jaunty drawing-room sing-song of slightly cheeky songs was the height of entertainment.

He is undoubtedly good at what he does, but what he does just feels so incredibly dated, more like something from the Light Service than the modern circuit.

There’s a certain naïve charm to it, mind. Even when he employs that tired old device of making it seem like the last word in a rhyming couplet is going to be rude, only to pull away with a non-rhyme instead, the word he can’t bring himself to sing is ‘vagina’.

And when he performs a song which he tries to cram with swear words – the best part of his act by a country mile – it’s still sweet, rather than offensive.

It’s like Richard Stilgoe never went away…