Nick Doody vs the Debonair Assassin

There's something anachronistic about seeing Nick Doody. It could be because, despite his obvious writing ability and credits (which include 8 Out of 10 Cats and FAQ U), he's not a household face himself. It could also be because his brand of sometime righteous indignation is now being owned by a younger generation – a generation who are maybe a bit more ironic with it but, well, give it large.

Whatever it is, it's perplexing. The undulating fortunes of this show inhabit the loose premise that he could never be the debonair alter ego he would like to be. Doody's examination of the image we have of ourselves versus the image others have of us starts with a yarn about buying a hammer. Carrying it on the journey home he becomes so self-conscious about it he starts to imagine enacting carnage with it.

Duality of thought and deed, reality and perception, do stay constant throughout Doody's routines, but with varied success in making that point. His imagineering of the Queen defecating takes us into a such a grotesque realm that it isolates itself from the theme.

Meanwhile, his debunking of cold remedies such as Berocca and Echinacea is designed to show the dislocation between helpful information and being a killljoy. But really it's an opportunity for Doody to rubbish bad medicine – bad in the sense that none of these remedies are cures. However, it left me feeling that even if people feel better for a moment, that's something. Much like the upshot of this hour.