Jeff Green's world is a place where men still know nothing about cooking and hygiene.

They are equally clueless about looking after kids and showing a girl a good time.

In fact, Jeff's world is not a million miles from the uninspiring universe Jimmy Tarbuck left behind when full-time pro-celebrity golf beckoned.

A little harsh, perhaps. But only a little.

I did try to raise a laugh at the gags about playing the recorder (it sounds shrill), wearing wetsuits (they're tight) and visiting your mum (she'll keep offering you food). But I didn't manage one.

Tarby might have had more luck, come to think of it.

Green's humour took absolutely no risks. He stuck to old-fashioned stereotypes about women and old people and never anything new or surprising.

He also made full use of bodily functions, which was all well and good except I had heard it all before.

There was another problem - he was so obviously reliant on a tried-and-tested routine.

When he did go off script, he immediately ran aground, losing his audience - which he was forced to acknowledge before returning to one of his hackneyed themes.

Review by Andy Fisher, features@theargus.co.uk