Des Bishop: Desfunctional

It's useful being from two places at once. Des Bishop was born in America, so he gets away with being sentimental in a way other comics can't. And he's lived half his life in Ireland, meaning that he gets to make jokes about how emotionally stunted, homophobic and, yes, drunk the Irish are.

Boozy Irish cynicism provides the perfect foil for right-on American optimism. After an account of how Obama's inauguration speech made him cry, a story far too life-affirming for a British comic to approach, he hypothesises an Irish Obama - what would his slogan be? Not "Yes we can". Maybe, "I'd say so, yeah". Likewise, a story about a beautiful evening on Wicklow beach seems to be told almost impossibly straight. "Can he be serious?", we wonder as he delivers another absurdly ecstatic metaphor. And then he sends the whole thing up with a punchline about how, as an Irishman, he has too many hang-ups to enjoy unreservedly the beautiful moment he's described.

Bishop is no one-trick pony, covering subjects as varied as sex education and, well, sex. (He ponders why men are so afraid of their sphincters - it's not like there's a Gay Button up there.) He's supremely comfortable onstage, and his charm is so well-practised as to seem effortless. Perhaps it is, but his act depends on the happy coincidence of his background: mid-Atlantic, with perfect American teeth and a brogue he can turn on and off, he can make fun of his adopted homeland with a native's intimacy – without losing a foreigner's bewilderment.