With laddish exuberance and an everyman persona, Justin Moorhouse can charm any room. Which was lucky as the Grand Opera House was a largely empty room.

Immediately mentioning the elephant-in-the-room by likening the audience to the “tail-end of a game of ‘Guess Who’” he eased the tension effortlessly. His cheeky and self-deprecatory humour was accessible to the small but spirited crowd and punctuated by quick-witted banter.

Although excelling in his particular mould of “honest” observational comedy his material was just crushingly pedestrian. Routines on relationships (newsflash – men leave toilet seats up) and the idiosyncrasies of northerners, and their similarities to the French, were saved only by his amiability.

Maybe by raising the “Arab Spring” he was attempting something more substantial but it proved misjudged, ill-defined and ill-informed.

Exploring parenthood displayed his irreverent wit as he relentlessly mocked his children, including a fake one, but his encore then saw him U-turn into mawkish fatherly sentiment. It was sincere but somewhat anticlimactic. Danny McLoughlin had supported with a brazen, confident set.

He took risks, like simply reciting the “Um Bongo” jingle or mocking an audience member’s favourite dish to an unfilled theatre, and still achieved applause.

Discussing people’s names, recalling his “poshest ever heckle” and describing his local theme park as “poverty” themed added to a commendable performance.

Moorhouse, seemingly troubled by the empty seats, joked: “I’m giving up stand-up tomorrow”. He has an infectious bonhomie but to fill these rooms, he will need to work on the trite and asinine material.