Pasty-faced Irishman Ed Byrne has been teetering on the big-time brink for longer than is decent.
In his current show he jokes that in 1999 he was invited to appear on US TV, but a kerfuffle over his visa application held him back.
Nowadays, he adds ruefully, he is presenting clip shows on British digital television. He certainly deserves better, even if he is not quite in the premier league.
It is easy to see why Americans go for Byrne. He steers clear of the Celtic surrealism of Tommy Tiernan and Dylan Moran and goes straight for the Vegas stand-up jugular with a veritable fusillade of slick, quickfire whinging.
Like a junior Jack Dee, he is outraged by everything from the Pope to internet travel companies via superfluous household instructions.
He is particularly good on smoking, bemoaning the current banning frenzy. For this skinny storyteller the only two places you should not smoke are in a dynamite factory and an oxygen tent.
He is equally tart on relationships, until too much arrogance creeps in as he takes both his current and past lovers to task for failing to meet his impeccable standards.
Somehow, though, Byrne never really ignites. He is rarely predictable, but neither does he feel special.
His set is peppered with critic-proof chuckles, yet it only truly excites when he does a nifty mime of the violent threats witnessed outside a Dublin takeaway. Full marks, however, for not mentioning Big Brother until the last minute.
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