Seann Walsh’s latest report on his life, in a year which has seen him leave lie-ins and miles of washing up for a place with his girlfriend and the relative maturity that demands, zoned in on co-habitual familiarities.

Reeling off some of the confusions universal to 20-something bed-sharers, Walsh worries that his time playing FIFA is restricted, frets that recipes rather than fearsome drinking sessions tire him out, and suspects that the time-honoured trump card of simply not being bothered no longer counts as a valid excuse for dodging the tedium of domestic responsibilities.

There’s a certain satisfaction in observing Walsh’s ability to fill a major festival gig as easily as he has done Brighton’s smaller spaces during his rapid rise to panel show fame.

Fake footage of him playing to dozens rather than hundreds, played on a screen during an X Factor-style intro sequence with sorrowful music, allowed for some wittily farcical sob stories about the supposed travails of his early days.

His success is partly down to his capacity to rant bemusedly about everyday irritations, although it’s tempting to suspect that settling down might do less for his comedy than nights at the pub and days on the sofa.