IRISH grouch Dylan Moran let his audience off the hook. There was a brief cuss in the direction of a latecomer, not bothering to be on time, and a raised eyebrow and a wave for a couple of weak bladders who bound down the stairs for a “comfort break”.

How much better a show is for the lack of audience aggro from the performer, who should be the centre of attention and in this case preferred to let his golden thoughts flow unimpeded. Likewise, the scarcity of exits during Moran’s two sets suggested no-one wanted to miss any of his pearls of wisdom.

Moran, of Black Books and Calvary fame, played to a wide-ranging audience, from 20 upwards to the silver age, testament to the universality of his observational wit, which came with regular sweeps of his hair and sips of red wine and later with a dismissal of a gift of cake left on the stage apron that would have befitted Masterchef’s John and Greg, albeit delivered far more lyrically.

Moran soon cast his eye over the General Election, mocking Nigel Farage as a Seventies’ sitcom character and Nicola Sturgeon as a face from a horror movie that turns round half way through.

Beneath projections of Moran’s artwork from his slim volumes, he brought new insight to familiar subjects, from middle-aged spread to the purpose of pets being to teach children about grief; from Edwardian cricketer-bearded staff in coffee shops lecturing him about beans; to the contrasting roles of men and women in a marriage, his sole duty being to test new crisp flavours.

Life is always better for a night in the garrulous company of the third great Dylan in the world: American Bob, Welshman Thomas, and Irishman Moran.