Pat Cahill: D.O.T.T.

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“I guess I've got some explaining to do” notes Pat Cahill as he stands on the stage in a boiler suit with bells and ribbons attached, hat bedecked with gaudy orange flowers and a coat-hanger attached to his chest. Dropping the mic into the coat-hanger he notes, “at least that explains that one”.

He's here to share his heritage via 92 morris dancing tunes from the Norfolk Fens. But what's that? His iPod's packed up and there might have to be a bit of standup to fill in his time.

D.O.T.T. stands for deckchairs on the Titanic, the action of doing something utterly pointless in the face of a shit storm. But in the face of adversity, Cahill shifts a particularly fine stand up set instead. Though the air of the show is shambling—and so continually apologetic is Cahill you're a little uncertain at first whether his show really has derailed—of course, it turns out he has plenty of prepared material.

It's a delightfully slightly skewed set – there's a comedy gig/hospital analogy, a literally cheeky tale about the local paedo in his village as well as the simple delight of watching him wave hankies around to morris dancing music mixed with a drum and bass beat. Elsewhere there's a hint of more meaty, serious subject matter when he discusses his Dad, who uses a wheelchair since an accident that failed to change his objectionable personality. Overall an oddball gem.