Adam Hess: Mustard

There should really be a T-minus countdown in the warm up to Adam Hess’s 40-minute rocket of a show. The man with one of the most darting, scurrying minds on the circuit produces another mesmerising display of autobiographical comedy that packs in about two hours’ worth of material. In this regard, it’s probably worth stockpiling a good night’s sleep before seeing him, as you may walk away drained.

It’s fitting that Hess’s style is so exhaustive as he really ignites his hole of a venue – and draws our attention away from the dire surroundings. Rattling through his inept preteen years (while many comics rely on this neuroticism as inspiration for their comedy careers, Hess seems to have been a genuinely weird child), he opens up to personal experiences of gender normativity and lumbering maturity.

He is as natural with the audience as he is with a microphone, effortlessly interlocking the responses of the crowd in his gig. There are no one-liners here, only elaborate, frantic addresses that reveal Hess to be a phenomenally talented writer. The impression that he is making it up as he goes along is a tough skill to perfect: so much so it almost looks too practised. That said, the jittery persona, at times comparable to Mark Watson, endears and enthrals, whipping up enough energy to electrify even the most sedate crowd. His headlong pace can be a marvel in itself: gloriously observed and exquisitely structured.