Can you transfer stand-up comedy from a noisy club to the hallowed hush of a theatre? Not allowed to drink or smoke in the auditorium, most of the audience watched in envy as Ed Byrne slurped from a bottle of beer and puffed away, never missing the chance to remind us that it was allowed only on stage. OK, it's not essential to be drunk to enjoy a stand-up routine, but where's the clink of glasses, the background chatter, the hazy atmosphere, the heckler who won't shut up?
At times, Byrne had to work hard to rouse the audience. We were too comfortable in our seats, too safe with the carpet beneath our shoes. Any questions were generally met with an embarrassed looking-away. Wisely, Byrne saved most of his two-hour set for after the interval, during which everyone could loosen up with a drink. Lanky in a dark, unironed suit, and with the complexion of someone who sees more night than day, Byrne looked like a trainee undertaker, his stiff demeanour relieved only by his long hair and loopy grin. But it's a nervousness that he has successfully worked into his act (along with the heavy smoking).
Beginning with a 20-minute slot, Dublin-bred Byrne quipped through topical gags - the bad weather, the environment, the fuel crisis - before moving on to some sure-fire piss-takes: builders, taxi-drivers, dentists, the latter in a very funny skit.
But it didn't seem enough, at first, and Ben Norris's rough-and-ready patois livened things up in a half-hour support. Even though his material went for familiar targets - students, daytime television, air hostesses, porn - he played the line between funny and nasty, the late-30s lad who knows better but still enjoys being a bit wicked.
Byrne's second appearance, for 90 minutes, saw him get into his stride. Although it's his style to muddle, slur, and interrupt himself - and that's part of his charm - his timing was impeccable. There were hilarious stories of being dumped by his girlfriend, as well as a merciless and very funny trashing of boybands, girlbands, indeed any bands who aren't heavy metal (hence his long hair).
A shrewd look at homophobia received laughs of recognition, and Byrne mocked his own puniness to good effect in sending up martial arts, sex appeal (or lack of it), and his passionate aversion to scales: "I maybe Irish, but I'm not a jockey." Despite the lack of alcohol, the audience was soon won over by Byrne's big-laugh blend of Irish coyness and eye-bulging, honest-bloke wit. And it's more than fair play to him for that.
