Dylan Moran

Review: Dylan Moran is Bernard Black. Let's not beat around the bush: I know that actors are often confused with their most famous roles, but from the second the dishevelled Moran ambled on stage it was clear that the line between the man and his Black Books creation was indistinguishable – at least in terms of his on-stage persona. He might be incredibly charming and gentle in his private life, for all I know; but the irascible man at the microphone seemed seconds away from guzzling a bottle of red and demanding that everyone get out.

Fortunately he didn't – although he did ask that people neither applaud nor even laugh ("If you must show your approval, squeeze your knees together") – as he delivered what was not only the best Dylan Moran show I've ever seen, but one of the best stand-up routines imaginable. Without missing a beat he ceebrated appearing at the Opera House ("I've always wanted to appear here, in a child's collection of shells – they should finish building it any day now") and made some crowd-pleasing disses of other cities (including a sly "Melbourne, with their cafés, and real values") and then launched into the meat of the piece: that the pursuit of pleasure is the only truth worth holding onto. Lambasting the failures of religion, science, medicine, technology, family and politics he kept the audience in fits, cutting down overenthusiastic fans ("Thank you madam, but I prefer audience contributions to be in writing") and people trying to film the show ("Put that away or I will provide you with a completely unique Opera House experience by throwing this microphone at you") over almost two hours, with a well-placed interval in between. There wasn't a dull moment, but I'll be chuckling about his assessment of old age ("Gardening, gardening, gardening, death!") for weeks to come. Andrew P Street