Justin Moorhouse: Seven

Here’s something that can’t be denied: the British people like Justin Moorhouse. But then people also inexplicably like Gavin and Stacey, Carry On films and the BNP.

Although this year’s set employs a fairly innovative theme—the theory that there are only seven stories in the world—once Moorhouse gets started he doesn’t really establish any strong connection between said theory and his Northern comedy-by-numbers act. Rather, the show can be more accurately summarised as follows: Part 1 – Dwarves. They’re funny, aren’t they? Part 2 – Women are nags. Part 3 – Women are emotional. Emotional nags. Part 4 – Although women are nags, they provide a nice receptacle for my cock. Part 5 – I hate reviewers and don’t care what they say, I’ve got loads of sweet cash from being on t’ telly (Repeat parts 3 and 4 till end).

A rare highlight in the show is Moorhouse’s revelation that Harold Shipman was his school doctor and once cupped the comedian’s adolescent testes in his hand. It’s when you hear this nugget of information that you’ll start to wish the serial killer had pulped Moorhouse’s balls while he had the chance, thus siphoning off the testosterone that fuels the cuddly, institutionalised sexism that makes up so much of this act.

Of course, none of this matters too much anyway. The Phoenix Nights actor has the glossy sheen of telly stardom that, as a general Fringe rule, will keep the punters coming back no matter what.