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American stand-up maestro Dom Irrera seemed to give up on this gig before it had even started.

Wondering aloud why anyone would want to see comedy on a midweek night, and chatting obliquely to his pals in the admittedly modest audience, he exuded a superior air that playing to 50 people in a dingy nightclub was way beneath him. Indeed, he even made mention of gigs he'd done to 12 times as many people.

Well, it might not have his biggest audience, but everyone there had chosen his show from the hundreds on offer at the fringe, and it would have been nice if he'd showed his punters a little more respect.

Instead, he sleepwalked through his set, seemingly distracted and never really attempting to generate any sort of empathy.

But it's a measure of the brilliance of his material that it survived such a detached delivery. The expertly parodied characters, the killer punchlines and the sneering dismissal of anything he finds ridiculous all proved that it's not for nothing that he has an enviable reputation among the comedy fraternity.

His is a wonderfully observed world of disturbed urban dimwits, all with unnervingly odd traits and unwittingly stupid catchphrases, making his set at times seem like a stand-up version of The Sopranos - and with equally fine writing.

But he never gained any momentum from this, and he didn't really seem to care. But on a good day, this stuff must blow you away.

If only he'd made the performance seem more like a pleasure, and less like a chore. And, as one of his characters might say, I don't mean that in a bad way.