John Robins: Skinny Love

John Robins belongs to a comedy age in which it’s okay not to do drugs, and to profess not to be that great at sex. That is, he belongs to the post-rock-and-roll era where self-deprecation is everything, where men confess to having their hearts broken by women, and where it is fun to play with your two-year-old niece, “because at least she thinks you’re cool.”

And so do we, apparently. The audience loves John Robins: they applaud his dated use of the word “hooray”, and adore the fact that he can’t dance. They embrace him embracing the fact that he has had a “Sinead O’Connor phase”, and they fancy him when he talks about puking in his own tears on someone’s vagina post-coitus.

This is it: men can show their vulnerabilities at last, and still be sexy; they can hate the thought of pulling attractive women because they want something more meaningful; they can nearly be run over by a car “going at half a mile per hour” – and still rock a comedy gig. Of course, it might all be just an act. Robins might secretly think he is the best thing since sliced bread; his two-year-old niece might really bore him to tears; he might only pretend to have ever listened to Sinead O’Connor because he wants a “sympathy shag.”

Hard to tell, but he’d probably get it anyway. Who could resist?