Rambling, wine-soaked, poetically misanthropic
Dylan Moran is what happens when you give a poet a hangover and a grudge against modern life. He shuffles onto stage looking vaguely surprised to be there, clutching a glass of red wine like it's a life raft, and then proceeds to dismantle marriage, ageing, technology, and the human condition with sentences so beautifully constructed you almost forget how bleak they are.
What makes him brilliant isn't just the misanthropy — it's the music of it. He trails off, circles back, mutters an aside that lands harder than the joke he was building to. It feels less like a set and more like eavesdropping on a very funny, very tired philosopher having a meltdown in a pub.
If you've ever laughed at Black Books, you already know the voice — but on stage, unfiltered and half a bottle in, he's even better.