Scottish comic Brian Higgins is a one of those long-time stalwarts of the circuit, who regularly play Jongleurs and other big clubs, yet never generate any wider excitement or interest.

It’s easy to see why, as he delivers precisely what you expect a comedian to deliver, no more, but no less either. So he’s likely to disappoint to all but the most casual fan of comedy, but provide a safe enough pair of hands for risk-averse bookers.

He doesn’t seem to have much insight to show for his 46 years on the planet. His material is about sex, about getting drunk and needing to pee, about men and women are different. They are told as personal anecdotes, but that doesn’t disguise the fact that the observations are universal. He seems to have a large bank of material to draw from, varying his set with some frequency, but there’s no depth to match the breadth.

The tales are engaging enough, but tend to lack the killer punchlines that would elevate them above an amiable chewing of the cud. That said, a few lines do stand out, especially in his selfishly dismissive attitude to his partner’s protracted time in labour – a rare expression of a personal reaction among the generic opinions that otherwise fill his set.

Laughs of recognition do come freely, but it’s hard to escape the feeling that simply mentioning things everyone has already noticed isn’t particularly creative.

This material is delivered with the quiet confidence all his experience instils. He looks like a bespectacled, out-of-shape middle manager, and exudes an equivalent air of professionalism, but little pizzazz. However he can turn on the ranty mock-rage when he needs to, exploiting some innate Celtic passion to make a trivial point seem important.

In short: competent but uninspiring.