Marcus Brigstocke: Je m'accuse - I am Marcus

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In a departure from his usual political diatribes, Marcus Brigstocke has taken to first-person, confessional comedy like Bambi on ice. Earlier this month, he tore his Achilles tendon in the finale of his show, ensuring he is having to complete the rest of his run on crutches.

A former goth who once tipped the scales at 24 stone, he never sought to talk about his overeating disorder – but Richard Madeley, bless him, took the decision out of his hands. Brigstocke's food addiction and spell in rehab became integral in shaping his personality, but they form only a brief section in a show that crams plenty in.

Born into privilege, with a knowing awareness of the sense of entitlement and confidence that brings, Brigstocke isn't especially concerned with correcting the terrible opinion held of him by Radio 4-denigrating right-wingers. To wit, he isn't afraid of putting himself up for ridicule, demonstrating the various borderline racist accents he puts on while performing chores around the house.

There is no sermonising, no grand revelation or messages to be drawn from the material, beyond that shedding the weight gave him the confidence to dance in clubs and on an oil rig amongst manlier, working-class men. He seems to revel in the lack of obligation to be satirical, with material about farting on a safari sitting easily alongside the wry anecdote of his getting checked out for testicular pain. As such, it's all a bit much of a muchness, like a few things he just wanted to get off his chest. But it's a diverting enough hour with a defiant, applaudable ending.