Seann Walsh: Ying and Young

"Things are moving so quickly," says Seann Walsh hoarsely. With his new Fringe offering, the 25-year-old comic is on wistful form, playing the regular bloke bemused by the minutiae of modern life. He bounds around the stage with labrador cheer, affably helping latecomers to their seats and delivering five minutes from a supine position to illustrate a point. 

A boyish Brightonian who readily acknowledges that his shaggy blonde hair makes him look "a bit like Justin Lee Collins", Walsh delivers his everyman observational comedy in a rambling stream of consciousness packed with callbacks that are generally the only thread holding it all together. When he's on form, bringing the audience with him on his ambling journey through the world we live in, Walsh can be blisteringly funny, but he spends too much time on comedic clichés—Marks & Spencer and middle-class aspirations—and bland "I hate that, when..." gags. 

At times, Ying and Young can be a warmly funny reflection on mid-20s listlessness, but just when you think Walsh has committed to a theme, he drops another non sequitur and darts off-piste again. There's a charm to this lightly shambolic nature, but it's unquestionably Walsh's charm, not the show's. 

If he weren't so likeable, one suspects that his lack of direction would quickly become unbearable. An awkward conversation with an especially moronic heckler knocks him off-balance, but his bafflement is disarming. Wryly self-aware, he professes himself at peace with tepid reviews. 

"Three stars!" he says, with strange pride. And here, at least, pride is in order.