John Robins in Howl

The promise of a five-star hit at Edinburgh is no guarantee of a good night out - the unique bubble of the Fringe can distort and filter perception - but it is the catalyst for heightened expectation, and having effectively turned up by accident (explanation to follow) I was keen to see what a comic unknown to me had to offer. John Robins seemed a personable enough fellow at the start of his show, chatting amiably with audience members obviously up for a good time. At the outset, however, I was struggling to see how this was going to be as special, or indeed as different, as those stars suggested.

Norwich was the first night of the tour, and Robins was quick to point out this was the first outing for what was only a version of his Fringe show. With a running time of approaching two hours (his Fringe show was a punchy 55 minutes) I braced myself, dispirited, for an awful lot of filler. What followed was one of most extraordinary, and genuinely unique, stand up shows I can recall seeing. Despite overrunning by half an hour I got little sense of marking time or excess baggage. If I had a time machine, I'd be inclined to nip back to Edinburgh in August just to see what the festival folk missed out on. For the most part, it was their loss and Norwich's gain.

Robins seemed aware that it was his podcasting that had sold out the Playhouse, and unusually anxious to get across this wasn't that kind of show. Keen to ensure that the performance wouldn't be torpedoed by ill-advised heckles he opened up a forum so that wags in the audience could get quips out their system. This seemed to largely revolve around Ploughman's Lunch references that he acknowledged would bewilder many in the audience unfamiliar with his work. Perhaps now is the time to confess i was one of the bewildered, having booked the show under the mistaken impression I was seeing John Robinson of Dark Room fame. It's not often you find yourself out of sync with a room packed with folk chuckling at references that mean nothing to you - let's just say I was glad when we moved on to the comedy gold of straining peas.

Most of us can empathise with being faced with too much choice when making mundane purchases and, yes, I suppose sieves are quite hard to clean, but the slotted spoon routine sailed dangerously close to the wearisome observations so mercilessly lampooned in Stewart Lee's toaster monologue, after which I'm surprised any comedian dare go down that road. However, wily John Robins had something altogether more substantial up his sleeve, as what started as a whimsical anecdote morphed into something altogether darker. It turns out Robins really can't decide on spoons, or anything else for that matter, as the constant chitter-chatter in his head drives him to distraction. It's white noise he can only drown out with drink, and lots of it. In a startling hand break turn that had the whole audience slack jawed and silent, he declared himself a depressive alcoholic that wanted to kill himself, before sending us off in the interval, shell shocked, to the bar for the most ambivalent drink I've had in a long time.

Jokes were sparingly delivered upon our return - something he repeatedly apologised for - but he need not have concerned himself. The exposition that followed may not have produced too many belly laughs, but was absolutely compelling. Alcohol, he explained, was not the problem, but the solution to the problem. It's just not a very good one. He is the problem - more specifically his obsessive personality. Cue a series of monologues that covered rich men cage fighting, railway carriages, mortgages and loyalty cards. Well observed light relief after his big reveal, I'm guessing this was the bulk of the extra material his Edinburgh audiences missed out on. It's certainly where all the biggest laughs came from, and I surely can't have been the only person squirming uncomfortably in recognition at all too familiar shared frustrations. Nevertheless, I had been so engaged by his initial revelation, I did tire at yet one more anecdote illustrating his mental fragility, however artfully he acted out the conversation with his partner's mum. If you've ever seen or read a gripping thriller with an intrusive subplot, you'll appreciate my frustration that he didn't simply stick with it.

Thankfully, when he finally returned to the central issue, he executed it with a masterly illustration of just what is going on in his head, all the damn time, in a way that was disturbing and revelatory. Despite the advertised end time whizzing by unacknowledged, there was no sense Robins over stayed his welcome. On the contrary, such was the frank openness and insightful analysis with which he set out his stall, I reckon the audience would have happily sat and listened to him all night. I know I would have.