A magnetic tape - Daniel Kitson's C-90

Despite all his trophies, I don't think Daniel Kitson is one of the country's top stand-up comedians. Don't get me wrong, I think he's easily one of the best and most interesting performers. I just don't think stand-up comedy is really what he does.

The image you'll usually conjure when imagining one of the country's top stand-up comedians is a dark and smoky room, a spotlight, and a lone performer facing off against a rowdy club. When I think of Daniel Kitson I have two enduring images, and neither of them involve smoky rooms, spotlights or brick walls. The first is of a slightly awkward but wonderfully charming geek, sat amongst a collection of lamps, reading me stories. The second image is one of Kitson stood alone, late on a Saturday night, looking out across the fights and drunks and the vomit, and he's looking right at me, and he's clutching a single red balloon in his right hand.

The first image comes from a show he did in 2005 entitled Stories for the Wobbly Hearted. Kitson sat centre stage in an armchair, surrounded by lamps reading cute, funny and poignant stories from his notebook, interspersed with video images and short clips he had made.

The second image is even more powerful because it isn't an image I've seen; it's simply an idea that was painted in my head when I was lucky enough to see one of his shows at the Stand here in Glasgow. This was a more traditional format, but it certainly wasn't a traditional show: at times it felt like he was simply lecturing us about life. Effortlessly charming and engaging, the show veered from the typical ranting stand-up - an unstoppable tirade against Nuts magazine and everything it stands for was particularly vitriolic - until within moments he was talking quite touchingly about how much he loves the World's Strongest Man (the TV show The World's Strongest Man, not literally his love for the strongest man in the world) and how much the show meant to him and his brothers. And then you love him all over again.

This contrast in his set, from the foul-mouthed gags to the touching tale, makes it difficult to pin Kitson down. He doesn't tell your typical comedy stories: these aren't shaggy dog tales about a guy down the pub with a three legged dog and 'oh this one time me and the wife'. No. This is Raymond Carver presented as stand-up; this is an indie comic book in human form. His observations on the minutiae of everyday life transcend stand up comedy, and the images and ideas he plants in your head will stick with you longer than any punchline. If you go to see him expecting a gag merchant you'll be disappointed: he's not consistently hilarious. But Kitson is always engaging, and easily one of the most original entertainers out there.

This clash of style has culminated in the inevitable, a new(ish) play called C-90, which plays at the Arches in Glasgow from the 23 to 28 January. The play, written by and starring Kitson himself, gives Kitson room to breathe. No longer shackled to comedic expectations, here he can elaborate on moments; he can weave his stories into a narrative; he can conjure vivid characters and create a lifetime of incidents and emotional connections. The hook he uses to tie this all together is the C-90 of the title, an almost obsolete brand of cassette tape. The narrative follows Kitson as Henry, on the last day of his job working at a repository for old and discarded compilation tapes. At first he is seemingly uninterested, but then he finds a tape addressed to himself. From there we begin an often funny, touching and intimate tumble through one man's memories, moments, and stories.

With C-90, Kitson has finally found the format that allows him to truly shine: a literary mixtape. Not one you simply stick in the machine and listen to, this is one covered in a biro scrawl of liner notes and jokes. It's an extremely personal gift, from him, to us, and one that we should cherish.