This brash, mouthy South Londoner has the impenetrable stage presence of an ox. Nothing, you feel, will throw him nor distract him from the job in hand.

And that job, in the main, seems to be to rant. If Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse's ‘Oi Kylie, No’ Self-Righteous Brothers had a living embodiment, it would be him.

On  paper, some of the topics may lack inspiration - isn’t reality TV rubbish? What about those tramps, eh? – and the jokes he extracts from them are often no better. But where he excels is the sheer forceful passion of his simmering outbursts, seething and fuming at the irritations of life.

That’s not to say he doesn’t generate more than a few devastatingly cutting observations, but it’s the vein-throbbing anger, flitting from target to  ‘…and another thing’ target that you’ll remember.

Not yet firmly established on the comedy pecking order, Dynamite’s gigs currently tend to be small ones; though he certainly looks like he could handle himself in a rowdy room, which has to auger well.