The liveliest moments in newcomer James Acaster's show are supplied by the audience. At the performance I see, he is accused by a woman in the third row of being stoned, and later has his claim to come from Kettering contradicted by a gent near the back (an acquaintance of Acaster's, it transpires, from the obscure village near Kettering where the comic actually grew up). So far, so animated: Acaster handles the unforeseen with humour and good grace. The problem is his material, which is relentlessly trivial, and his nonchalant delivery, which does nothing to inject the trivial with any urgency whatsoever.
He begins by telling us he's been at home all day watching West Wing DVDs, which might be part of the problem. These routines – about pretending a big onion ring is a doughnut; about losing control of the knife when slicing cheese – are those of a man who needs to get out more. The former section is padded out to include a demonstration of the (not very expressive) faces Acaster makes in response to different types of doughnut. We're also invited to look on as he introduces his teddy bear, puts a woolly jacket on it, and tells us it looks like a pimp.
Someone needs to give Acaster a shake, because he clearly has the ability to be a fine standup. There are some neat, if cutesy, apercus, such as his gag about the supermarket trolley £1 coin, or about hiding behind a door to surprise someone who then stubbornly refuses to show up. He can turn a phrase, too: he compares his tandem sky-diving partner to "a very disagreeable backpack". But for now – notwithstanding those unbidden contributions from the crowd – it's all a bit man-childish and underpowered.
