Pat Cahill: Panjandrum

"That's just farts, innit?" could well be the most self-effacing mid-show analysis a comedian willl provide of their own work this Fringe. In fairness to Pat Cahill, his assessment there did literally follow a segment in which he mimed along to pre-recorded flatulence. Fortunately, the rest of his act is predicated on less gasseous talents, as he dons wartime attire and rabbits his way through a routine comprised partly of wry cockney remarks, partly of jaunty second world war singalongs.

Having previously performed promising yet disjointed material in Fringes gone by, Cahill appears to have evolved into a more consistent comedian, boasting a triple-threat repertoire of skills (singing, dancing, complete mastery of the rhyming slang dictionary) and ditched his tendency to obscure punchlines with verbose build-up. The comedic throat-clearing has gone and in its place he's found a way to convert some of his wink-wink cheekiness into fairly accomplished standup material.

It's all anchored in a loose premise that his audience are grumbling village residents, beleaguered by the war and seeking respite in his music-hall brand of entertainment. That, he observes, sets an appealingly low bar for him to reach, and at times his lethargy does denote a comedian who's forgotten that his spectators have slightly higher expectations than the pretend ones for whom his persona is performing. For the most part though it's impish, playful fun, whether he's offering step-by-step guides of how to lure mice into your mouth with cunning whiffs of cheese, or buoyant jingles about where colours come from (spoiler alert: white is made from paper).