There is something - in the best possible way - gloriously traditional about Michael McIntyre’s comedy.

Besuited and with fluffy hair that seems made to rub balloons on, he bounds around the stage like an over-excited puppy, shouting happily and very, very loudly into the mic and cleverly making work for him a demeanour that would probably be quite annoying at dinner parties. The result, it’s the first comedy show that can actually make an audience deaf.

His delivery is neither coarse nor does it rely on shock-value, political incorrectness. Instead, with frightening energy, he tells stories about being a posh boy trying to buy marijuana as an Edinburgh student, and of a Cabinet featuring David Blunkett, Gordon Brown and Tony Blair only having three good eyes in it.

His physical comedy and ability with impressions find him literally leaping from one train of thought to another. There is no let up. It is relentless.

But by far the most impressive aspect of McIntyre’s act is the wealth and depth of material. Unless he is exceedingly good at directing the audience, his banter with his crowd doesn’t just lead on to a good one-line here and there, but a whole routine.

A comment by someone on his attire, leads him into a routine about buying designer clothes, another remark about his hair brings out a routine featuring his barber. McIntyre could easily be a Saturday evening fixture on ITV1.