My Name is Hannibal: The Hannibal Montanabal Experience

If there’s a lesson to be learned from Buress’ Fringe debut it’s that sticking it to the Man needn’t be taxing. Door staff, police and even former presidents – none of them can touch him so long as he’s armed with his trademark sleepy irreverence and penchant for petty acts of rebellion.

Having just woken up before sauntering onstage at 9.45pm, the 28-year-old Chicagoan announces early on: “The one theme is that I’ll be saying all the shit that you’re hearing.”

And from there on in his set does indeed feel cobbled together. But that’s the beauty of it, the looseness of form complementing a plodding, conversational style which often sees his routines wind down to just a croak and a shrug. Next to Buress, everyone else tries too hard. His is a winning formula for observational material, relying on the vantage point of the unflappable slacker to deflate self-importance, undermine authority and defuse tension.

He’s most at home with subjects of little importance, and so even when discussing the stigma of being a black man dating a white woman, he does so as a footnote to a bit on his love of apple juice. With his sly grin, proud immaturity and easy charisma, it’s impossible not to share in the pleasure he derives from calmly antagonising those who bring him down.

He says he’s “kind of a medium deal” back in the USA, and this remarkably natural performance suggests he’s got what it takes to become a bigger deal at the Fringe.