Deadpan almost to the point of comatose, Trevor Crook provides his own ongoing review. ‘That was an amusing routine,’ he comments. ‘Not hilarious, but amusing…’ And that’s a fair assessment of a routine that’s so low energy it’s never going to really soar, even if dryly witty punchlines often erupt from the wallowing.

Crook’s persona is of a broken man beaten up by the relentless series of disappointments that pass for his dull middle-aged life. He’s been left such a weary husk that he almost hasn’t the energy to perform, but he musters just about enough to vocalise his many aggravations.

As an Australian, Britain as a whole is one of his irritations, complaining at great length about how it’s full of whingeing Poms without any apparent sense of irony at the fact that whingeing is his entire act.

He moans self-effacingly about his own inadequacies, particularly in the bedroom, although most scorn is reserved for his ex-wife, with material that can easily seem misogynistic, even though it’s only really her that he hates. But the bitterness is almost tangible.

This is the same shtick, and sometimes the same material, that he’s been performing for years now, and the monotone delivery can become wearying. But there are some gems if you stick with it.