Before the death metal playing over the PA fades and Andrew O’Neill even opens his mouth, any preconceptions the audience may have that comedians are sharp suited men with an arsenal of quick-fire put downs and lots of sex jokes are quickly dispensed with.

With hair down to his waist, three-inch-high heels and nails freshly painted purple, O’Neill looks like no other comic. He’s also very publicly a transvestite, a devoted follower of heavy metal and even does Jack the Ripper walking tours in his spare time, giving him a comedic angle someway south of the Mighty Boosh for oddness.

For most, this would be a niche they could plunder for material for decades, but O’Neill can’t seem to decide what kind of set he wants to do. One minute he’s firing off Tim Key-esque puns and the next he’s doing his best Eddie Izzard impression — rambling. He clearly sees his duties to act as an educator, schooling the audience in the ways of the occult, grindcore metal and the work of Richard Dawkins. Even more confusingly, the performance is broken by strange interludes which occasionally bring forth the odd good one-liner, but bear no resemblance to the material preceding or following. Not quite random enough to be bizarrely funny, most of his material is, at best, hit and miss.

O’Neill also makes reference throughout the show to the fact that he’s been touring for a long time and he is, in his words “pretty f***ing bored with it.” With that in mind, its lack of coherence, sometimes disjointed and occasionally awkward flow and frequent lulls are baffling.

Some of O’Neill’s material is sharp and sporadically he’s very funny, but, from a man with such an interesting take on the world and a persona that sets him apart from everyone else, this show is surprisingly flat.