Glorious vitriol and fiery indignation fuel this boisterous "whimsy bus", with Michael Legge in the metaphorical driver's seat. He's clambering into the audience, but we're already all on board. He's telling gluten it can do one – with the righteous petulance of child telling a parent that they too have a bedtime. No one is telling Legge how to live. Least of all gluten.
Many things niggle and irritate Legge, much to the amusement of all – providing a rich seam he's known to mine, that never appears to run dry. Topics range from his own body as a "real" 48-year-old man, to the friends who delight in baiting his frequent outrage, barraging him with links to stories and videos to trigger him. It's his impassioned responses to the minutiae that really serve up the comedy gold: he blows up large on now Ed Shheran has seeped into his life (despite any appreciation on Legge's part), then leads into a rather delightful and surreal tangent on the origins of Sheeran.
A sense of cowed wonder at making a new friend develops into a joyful tirade of quotes from said pal, getting all the more ridiculous as they escalate in their outlandish conspiracy theories. We live in politically divided times, and by finding glee in one so polar opposite – offering up not nuances of difference to argue, but wide chasms to gape at – Legge subversively demystifies and disarms the "other side". It's deftly handled, whilst never departing from the loud shouty barrage of the "whimsy bus".
Legge's observations land squarely; his detours into Innocent Smoothies and the like are both personal and universal enough to recognise, while pop and political references unselfconsciously share both his knowledge and his ignorance. The room was with him from the off, and the delight in that from both audience and performer was pure fun that only magnified as the hour progressed.
He changes key with an anecdote referring to his older-self's sex life, tackling the subject with subdued coyness that feels gentle in conjunction with his earlier sweary diatribes. And the switch in tone nicely anticipates the tenderness of the finale. Legge's followers on social media or podcasts will know that Jerk is the name of his dear canine friend, who sadly passed away last year. I won't spoil it; suffice to say it leaves you with a warm heart, and a curiosity to research more Bowie references.
Jerk is an hour of righteous fun, with no filler. And it has a sense of its own amusement – much like its namesake, we can presume.