Almost Henry Rollins-lite , Rob Delaney comes on like a frustrated rock star tonight, whipping his mic chord and rubbing his nipples and torso at times . His persona, part-macho, part metrosexual and a little bit camp, aims to disarm those who sought to confuse him with his goofball Catastrophe sit-com alter-ego. In this world of oversharing, he goes further than most, with a charm which mostly sustains him.
At his worst though, like the most lazy male stand-up comedians,the endless banging on about his children, and potted sexual history, gets tiresome quickly. The bellowing too doesn’t help.His folksy material is bloated, more Burger King than Lizard King.
Yet, there are many hidden gems here too. He excels at storytelling, and the pace eases into something less try-hard: becoming a voyeur to fat S/M party-goers, in which context is everything; his admiration for the way David Carradine died (through auto-asphyxiation),his ludicrous food binges, sex tips from his own wife and a mint-tea related injury are all amusing because of their unexpected detours.
But there’s also a little soul, in the form of a story his mother told him, and the clear adoration he has for women, not least his wife- even if he does make her the butt (and other anatomical areas) of so many jokes. The twinkle in his eyes suggest that underneath the porno gags, tirades and swagger, that he’s as confused, vulnerable and lumbering as the rest of us. And that’s good enough for now.
Part of Glasgow International Comedy Festival.