"Henry Ginsberg sidles onstage, toys with the mike, and tells us how stoopid he looks.
"It could be a nifty opening - check criminally-underrated Jeremy Hortz - but in Henry's hands it's merely uneasy. Is it a pre-emptive attack? A sneaky double-bluff? A confident slab of self-irony?
"No one's sure. Which is dodgy, especially when it's (a) your initial, win-us-over gambit and (b) your own ego on the line.
"Still, self-effacement can garner great gags, and there are plenty here - but maybe too many for comfort. So it's a relief when he opens up to:
"Pornography. But there's a fine line between the wry irony of vintage Bob Monkhouse ("I saw a porno movie that really raised my eyebrows - that's old age for you") and the dank desperation of latter-day Ben Elton (which I won't quote - not 'cause it's rude, just 'cause it ain't amusing)... Then alcohol. Fair game, but it's been done to death since Aristophanes, and Henry needs more distinctive treatment to hit those comedy pulses... Finally religion. Equally potential-fuelled, but when it's Jesus sniping at Joseph - "You're not my real dad" - all I feel is a vague nostalgia for Eddie Izzard. Or Dave Allen. Or even Lennie Bruce.
"Fortunately he also lays into his junior-school maths teacher. And we identify with his petty, impotent rage; follow the ever-increasing bile; and - at last - laugh ourselves stoopid...
"There's much to admire here in Henry's set. But precious little to love."
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