Skrimshanks

Midway through a lengthy forensic discussion of a Nutella stain on a man's shirt, I realise that this is it. This isn't the pre-show, it is the show. One where two white-faced bouffon clowns pick on each audience member in turn, blowing up the tiny details of their lives into a fairground mirror image of foolishness.

The stained-shirt guy has, it turns out, gained his chocoholic's-badge-of-shame after a messy encounter with a Nutella pancake – one which is analysed with all the blow-by-blow precision of two drunken football pundits. Another man is the subject of a long interrogation as to his status as Photoshop "influencer". And a woman with apparently shorter-than-average legs is told to balance on her friend's back, the length of their embarrassment measured out by a ticking egg-timer.

Skrimshanks have big bloated bellies, bandy legs and pointing toes, like a nightmarish Punch seen double through the bottom of a pint glass. It takes a lot of gumption to prance into a room, with nothing prepared but an 18th-century costume. But they feel desperate, as much as ballsy, like pub regulars in search for a crumb of conversation to hide the gnawing loneliness of another solo drinking session.

And as they prod their way through the comic equivalent of an awkward encounter at the drycleaners, it all feels more sordid than funny. There are some nervous giggles at other people's dirty laundry. But my main lasting feeling is an urge to escape and eat a Nutella pancake – without having to worry about the stain.