In his career-defining comedy role as Bernard in eccentric comedy Black Books, Dylan Moran portrays a drunken, jaded, rambling, yet eloquent, outsider. On the evidence of his latest stand-up tour Dr Cosmos, he was typecast – with the exception of the drinking... because he is now (gasp!) teetotal.

Moran is more than a comedian. He is a cult figure – albeit one for a cynical section of society whose members have inadvertently found themselves feeling at odds with the world; so most of us over the age of 30, then.

His set is wildly unfocussed, with him seemingly pulling ideas and targets for his frustration from the air, and is a mix of sociopathic and charming.

He commands a stage empty save for a small table on which is placed a teapot and cup – from which he pours undisclosed refreshment. Yet even in the cavernous expanse of the New Theatre this feels like an intimate setting – and we hang on every word.

His word play is beautiful. At one point he describes his wife’s breathing while asleep as akin to “two bees agreeing in the distance” in comparison to his own – “an angry man telling another angry man to attack a bag of ducks but his hammer is too small”.

It’s perfectly formed banter – the kind of chat you might expect in a fantasy pub bar between George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde and Stephen Fry.

There’s some stuff about cats, trendy restaurants with names like “Fork, Stab and Bleed”, a bit about Trump, some snortingly funny stuff about sex, observations on family, kids, relationships and dating – and lots about getting older. Moran, despite being only 46, rails against middle age. Heaven knows how this premature grumpy old man is going to react when the real frailties kick in.

But it’s all so brilliantly observed, so deliciously profane and uncomfortably easy to relate to. He warms to his tired rant like a disillusioned whiskey priest, and we lap up his scatalogical sermon... and don’t want it to end.