Somewhat akin to a strung-out Lenny Bruce in a Los Angeles comedy dive in the Sixties, reading out court transcripts by way of entertainment and going through a slow, painful breakdown, Johnny Vegas came perilously close to the edge on Friday night with his own form of soulful introspection. In its weird way, it was compelling stuff, though hardly what the punters had bargained for.

This has been coming for a long time; indeed, in his usual show, Vegas complains bitterly about how he has been adopted by posh broadsheet society and how his beloved pottery has now lost its trainspotter image and become even slightly trendy - "what next, pro-celebrity ceramics", as he screamed during his set.

But Friday night was no usual show: the difficulty here is that Johnny's very persona is created on the basis of rejection and indifference. Over the last two years he has scaled the heights of comedy stardom and the cumulative pressures on him seemed to come to the fore during this show, when he stopped reading from the script and began ad-libbing about who and what he was in real life.

It was all very poignant stuff, but the audience was clearly not prepared for the intensity of the experience. Sensing the difficulty, Johnny apologised for not sticking to an orthodox routine and even went so far as to promise that, if everyone held on to their ticket stubs, he would return to Dublin within the next three months and put on a "proper" show.

There was some relief for the audience when, towards the end of the show, Johnny unveiled the potter's wheel and did his pottery party piece, but by this stage of the proceedings everyone was just a little disorientated by what had gone before.

One important point: this reviewer has seen hundreds of acts go through similar difficulties on stage, most of them far worse than that which seemed to afflict Johnny Vegas on Friday night. But please take my word for it: when Johnny's on form, there is no better entertainer.