Starting with a moshpit, ending with a moshpit and rocking a distinctive look best described as ‘Sports Neil Hannon’, Rob Copland has got himself the makings of a cult hit here with this high energy show. From the off, he’s pacing and lunging round the stage, low-fiving the front row and generally pumping us up with motivational chat in the manner of a hyperactive PE teacher, but no-one will be crying off this with a sick note.

What follows passes in a blur of speed-gnawing breadsticks, bucket-hatted face-pulling and general silliness, letting up only for Copland to muse if he should give it all up and go be a fisherman. You may not remember his lines but you’ll remember his vibe. He’s quite the presence. And he looks like he could keep this up for days.

He takes us to metal festivals and jazz festivals, toys with the facial hair, headwear and dance move requirements of each, then plonks a disoriented fisherman into the mix. You don’t need or want a through-line with something daft and experiential like this, but the vague fishing theme (the family business apparently) is a handy counterpoint to the general 118-man-lost-the-plot craziness of everything else.

A lot of acts who’d have done their debut hour in the Fringe’s Lost Years have had them wound up and ready to go. This feels like one of them and not just because it’s like two-years of pent-up boredom unleashed on stage at once. It’s polished, heaps of fun and re-introduces you to the glory of the Grandstand theme. No-one leaves un-pumped up.