Dubliner Jason Byrne is a right little cult - by word of mouth he manages to sell out the cavernous Laughter Lounge each and every month in an extraordinarily effervescent show that is more like a demented cabaret revue than straight stand-up.

Coming in at just under two and half hours in duration, this is a bit of marathon but Byrne's turbo-charged energy levels and gleeful antics keep everything on an even keel.

Using the audience as a sounding board for a string of ad-libbed material, Byrne manages to connect with people in a very direct and immediate sense - unlike most comics who content themselves with asking what someone's name is or what their occupation is. Having established a level of trust and cohesion, he then proceeds to reveal a series of bizarre monologues, all delivered with childlike enthusiasm. Such is the individuality of the act that it is difficult to describe any particular routine in detail, but he combines a series of reminiscences with the odd flight of fancy to conjure up a type of imagery that is seemingly out of step with what all of his contemporaries are doing. The second half of the show sees Byrne joined on stage by comedians John Henderson and P.J. (he of no surname) and the three proceed to enact sketches that make Monty Python look like Bernard Manning.

It really does help to be tuned into Jason Byrne's frequency to get the most out of this show, but he does help with his constant cajoling. Part Victorian era showman and part post-alternative eccentric, this is all very fresh and very vivid.