Dylan Moran and a big greasy slice of never

I took my seat in Vicar Street for Dylan Moran’s show tonight in fairly pissed off form. Stood up for the fourth time on the bounce by one of the Xposé teletubbies - I can never remember their names - I was alone, balcony seat block F row A seat 12 thank you very much.

If modern life is rubbish, it’s best chronicled by Dylan Moran. Dressed impressively in clothes directly identical to my own, he came on to the theme tune from The Wire. Always a good start. He shushed the audience (“I don’t need the validation”) and launched into a paean to the less moneyed times where he and nine of his mates would sit huddled over a single pint, launching angry tirades at people called ‘cunts’ who had things called ‘jobs,’ taking no little joy in the fact that, well, we’re back there again.

Seeing as I’d brought ne’er a mobile phone or a notepad or one of those lighter pens I’ve heard of but never seen, I won’t get too forensic because I can’t.

It was everything I expected. Shoutier than usual but able to hit the off button in a manner unfathomable to Tommy Tiernan, Moran was an energetic mess of killer lines and a series of metaphors so off kilter they were like a Burger King in outer space wearing women’s leggings, a tiara and some chocolate.

It was that kind of night.

As a single person, I particularly liked “every man has to make a choice whether to be ‘sane’ or ‘not lonely,’” or how in a nightclub one would have to meet a woman before the clock struck twelve for fear of “ending up in the chipper van, eating a deliciously greasy deep fried slice of never.”

There was more, including several references to eating his own foot and refusing to take advice from 12-year-old medics, but I was distracted by the idiot couple beside me paying far too much attention to each other’s nostrils and the woman behind me whose foot came intimately to know my shoulder.

The DVD’s out on November 20th.