Rhys Nicholson's nightmare is to end up as a teacher, he says, boring everyone with stories of how he used to be a comedian. That's pretty revealing – or would be, if we hadn't guessed already that this young Aussie is in comedy not because he's got something to say, but because it's who he wants to be. This hour-long set is as much projection of vivacious personality as comedy show. Its routines, about llamas, Christianity v homosexuality and put-upon supply teachers, are more or less generic, but the man delivering them – bottle-red hair and dickie bow; catty asides and camp flourishes – belongs on the stage and isn't afraid to show it.
The llama riff supplies the show's theme: Nicholson thinks we all subdivide into "guard llamas" (protectors) and sheep (the protected). That's convincing neither as a theory nor as a backbone for his set – although it does justify a winning finale as Nicholson, inflatable livestock in his arms, lip-synchs a famous showtune. Between setup and denouement, the show meanders around this 24-year-old's life. We hear about his therapy, his struggles as a fledgling comic, the death of his sausage dog. There's a tart gag mocking self-important artists and a predictable one about his racist gran.
The latter quip isn't alone in feeling off-the-shelf: witness his carp about corporate platitudes such as "there's no 'i' in team". Elsewhere, some of Nicholson's material strains a little too loudly for outrageous effect, like when he compares the sensation of Christian faith to swallowing his boyfriend's cum. But the gross-out stuff occasionally soars to unexpected heights: an ejaculating/vomiting analogy, replete with desperate mime, is undeniably striking. When Nicholson's as cruel about himself as he is caustic about others, the show comes to life. More of this, and that teaching job – dread fate! – can probably be avoided.
• Until 7 September. Box office: 020-7478 0100. Venue: Soho theatre, London.
