The most obvious conclusion to be drawn from David Hadingham's evil-edged set is that he's had just a few too many bad experiences with women.

How else to explain the satanic glee with which he allows his resigned, festering distain for the opposite sex erupt into bitter misogynistic putdowns, if not some delayed revenge over past wrongs?

But although he's one sick puppy, he delivers it with a blokish geniality that reassures us that it's all tongue-in-cheek. Probably.

The equation is simple: the more extreme he gets, the stronger the laughs, and he knows how to work that to his advantage, pushing the envelope an inch at a time until what starts as a rather lame knob gag advances into increasingly dark territory.

He's sometimes prone to the obvious and his frequent and rather predictable boasts about his gargantuan drug consumption seem a disingenuous, if effectively, way of pandering to a like-minded constituency.

Although Hadingham is something of a one-trick pony, he has more than enough in his favour to secure him a solid place on the Jongleurs-style club circuit. And performing to those often rowdy audiences has taught him a thing or two about taking control of a room.

It all makes him safe pair of hands, with the added bonus a handful of memorable gags to take home with you to appal your friends and family.