Phil Kay: Laugh & Death

Phil Kay rocking a bus in a wind storm? Well-worth queuing for. Currently living in a caravan outside the family home in Sussex, having been exiled for undisclosed reasons, the eccentric Fifer is on excellent form on his return to Scotland, riffing animatedly inside the intimate confines of the top deck, his lithe expressiveness and bohemian bonhomie ensuring that he holds your attention rapt.

A more stable, reflective character than during his wilder days, he nevertheless remains delightfully, playfully subversive, an unrepentant rascal sticking it to the system by flouting Wimbledon's ticketing procedures, or sneaking, spy-like, into the latest James Bond film without paying. As with his tribute to the late Muhammad Ali, adopting his famous shuffle for all manner of everyday social encounters, it's his physical articulacy and the charismatic force of his storytelling that fully immerses you into the unlikely situations he describes. The Bond tale is even gripping, with Kay really playing up the jeopardy of eluding uninterested students on part-time jobs.

Most of the show though is given over to the death of his mother. Leaving you in no doubt as to his closeness to and love for the woman, he's nevertheless richly amusing on her faults and the genetic strains of unpredictability he's inherited from her. Rare indeed is the tale of taking crack on a Megabus that manages to be both tender, poignant and fitfully hilarious, but this is a fond farewell from a comic in touch with the deepest wellsprings of his humanity.