With Alan Partridge-style flailing hands and a low, awkward voice, Graffoe emerged from behind the curtain, nervously manhandling his guitar and knocking back wine like a good 'un.

A couple of songs in (Baseball-Playing Spider has to be released) and, following a biographical account of the threat posed by a group of young, jazz-handed, West Side Story-esque thugs, half the crowd were suffering breathing difficulties while the other half looked on in bewilderment.

Luckily, after a little wine myself, I was riding high on Graffoe's wavelength.

But, with his oddball improv wit, mad mutterings and tongue-in-cheek guitar playing, even the comic's own backing musicians seemed torn between belly laughs and bemusement.

Sadly, with a style and shock factor so apart from today's commercial offerings, you'll never catch Graffoe on prime time TV.

However, in a month crammed with shows from high-calibre UK acts, Graffoe wiped the floor with anything else I'd caught on this year's Paramount Festival bill.