This is look-at-me-mum petulance made art form. It's so good natured and exuberant that it would take an icy heart to resist its charms, but so quick to seize on a comic moment that it never feels like wading through lovingly crafted material. If there was any: Byrne's touch is so deft that it all seems improvised.
Whether it's the telling of his theory of Riverdance's true beginnings (there were some drunken Irish villagers whose fists were too big for their arms to move above their waists) or a barbed one-liner ("Where are you from?" "Edinburgh." "Lazy bastard."), there's no mistaking the mark of a court jester for the end of the millennium. And no-one can flirt with an audience using a latex hand on a stick quite like Jason Byrne can.
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