Carl Donnelly 3: Carl Donnelier!

“Welcome to the show with the worst title at the Fringe!” announces a cheerful Carl Donnelly, possibly not inaccurately. “It’s a kind of riff on the Die Hard/Die Harder films… it’s rubbish, I know.”

It’s not the only time Donnelly—resembling, in his own words, “a young Rolf Harris”—apologises during this breezy, mate-in-the-pub hour of chit-chatty standup. But somehow, despite the back-tracking, the meandering and material that most comics would struggle to ignite (“we’re not ready for Twitter – it’s just full of people talking shit!”), the sunny side up south Londoner gets the room onside early, and delivers an amiable set of harmlessly pleasant anecdotes.

Donnelly proves a thoroughly welcome antidote to the comedians’ directive stating standups should come fully chipped with some kind of narcissistic/sociopathic/personality disorder and though nothing’s belt-breakingly hilarious, there are plenty of wholehearted chuckles. His audience preamble (“Is that a suit you’re wearing? Blimey mate, I’m not the fucking opera”) and a closing gag about “novelty dancing” that sees him and two friends recreate Subway’s sandwich production line on the dancefloor deserve particular mention.

That an accidental burp gets the biggest laugh of the night is perhaps an indicator of the general standard, though Donnelly quickly acknowledges the fact, embraces it, laughs at himself and happily gets on with his next story. In fact, you sense the man spends a lot of his time laughing his way through life. Tonight, for an hour, we mostly did the same.