TO DESCRIBE Russell Kane as a ball of energy would be to underplay his all-action style of delivery, racing from side to side, crouching, kneeling and flinging himself to the stage at will.

It was no wonder that he split his trousers.

He’d also done his local area research, flinging Boscombe into the mix at the first available opportunity and denigrating Poole before he’d even got on stage.

Dressed in his uniform of oversized white tee-shirt, black strides and black shoes, the erstwhile Peter David Anthony Grineau bounded on to the stage and didn’t stop gambolling for 70-odd minutes.

He doesn’t really tell jokes, there are no one-liners and he doesn’t wholly rely on observational comedy; he just talks. And talks. And talks.

Kane, Enfield born and now living in the wilds of Cheshire, covers this, that and the other – no subjects are taboo (his last routine, for instance, is about an emaciated man on a plane dying from cancer).

He also effs and jeffs like a good ‘un but it seems to fit his machine gun style, and when he involves the audience, particularly the younger members, it’s all done with warmth and good feelings.

There’s one sheet of paper on stage, to which he refers occasionally and a single bottle of water from which he sips sparingly. Thus, while it intentionally feels unscripted and no two shows will ever be the same (which is the unique beauty of live performance) there is a loose structure to the show.

And you find yourself repeatedly laughing hysterically without remembering why afterwards.

Kane is on his well-named HyperActive tour – booking until December 2025 – and shows no sign of slowing down or reducing his physicality.

Included in the set were Kane’s love of Ibiza (he went three times this year at the age of 49), drinking pints of vodka, the sheer wokeness and ineffectuality of young people, slimming clubs, mushrooms, washing up, ADHD, Poole bridge, how comedy audiences are dying off, south coast pagan rituals, Tories, winter fuel allowance cuts, his second wife Lindsey, male feelings and John Bishop.

Being often mixed up with other comedic Russells (there aren’t many) provided a rich seam of material but, unfortunately, how he described Russell Howard, himself and Russell Brand can’t be published in a family newspaper.

There was also time for some homespun philosophy, with which there is really no counter-argument, ‘be happy with what you have’.

Brief, blink-and-you-miss-it support came from Malaysian/Irish comic Peter Rethinasamy, aka, ‘standuppete’ whose short set consisted mostly of tales from his Belfast upbringing.