Sometimes it can be hard to find a point of difference between stand-up performers.  Until you get a feel for their material, they tend toward an inexpressive sameness in appearance – either slightly overweight guys in t-shirts and jeans, or men in suits.*

But Dai Henwood is quite… different looking, somehow – "like a big, hairy baby", as he puts it himself.  His unique, fervent energy radiates from his frame the second he enters the stage.

And what an entrance!  Bursting forth in tasselled cowboy chaps and a brightly-coloured lycra unitard, Dai launches into his opening routine in the guise of professional wrestler P-Funk Chainsaw.  P-Funk is a powerful opener, a pint-sized prize fighting pit-bull with the voice of Mike Tyson and the stare of Antonie Dixon, but dressed like Freddy Mercury, and somehow conjuring overtones of George W. Bush.  Proudly he declares his intention to open a can of whoop-ass on chicken kebabs, hippies who do capoiera on his back lawn and… anyone else who wants to come get some.

This tenacious oddball is onstage for only a short time, but hardly lets up for a second, closing with a god-awful rap that is not especially witty but impressively just keeps going… and going… and going…

And finally gone, to be replaced by Dai Henwood, the genuine article, the man himself, sans affectation and dressed more appropriately in… t-shirt and jeans.  As his introductory voice-over opines, he is a "recovering character comedian", reaching deep inside himself to find the confidence to simply be himself on stage.  Good for him, but I was sad to see P-Funk go.

Thankfully, Dai in jeans is still quite extraordinary.  The hairy baby image is hard to shake, and he is prone to peculiar bouts of ass-shaking and camp dance routines that give him a kind of horny satyr-like eroticism.  Especially when he drops lines like "hairy skin and hot metal DO NOT SLIDE" while discussing his childhood memories of wearing stubbies in the playground.

Most of Henwood’s material comes from reminiscence rather than griping which makes for an amiable and infectious humour.  He mines retro technologies and clothes and finds plenty of choice material there.  Drawing from personal experience seems to give him plenty to work with and it’s a full set, with clear through-lines and the occasional tangential riff.  He does some remarkably convincing impersonations of people on drugs, notably his roadworkers on pot and party-pill poppers visiting Cobb & Co.

His delivery is easy and robustly cheerful – when he gags about Manual Training and trackpants with stirrups it’s like being entertained by a naughty cousin at a family reunion.  His repartee with the crowd is sharp without being bullying, and he’s clearly enjoying himself as much as we are.  His set is full of appreciative praise for life in New Zealand and appeals to the radical, laid-back side of our national identity.

Finally, Dai performs his signature dance number to Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Time After Time’, because he "thinks we need it in our lives".  It’s a silly piece that feels a little tired and unnecessary – perhaps because he has been doing it for seven years! – but still ends the show on a high energy note.  And then he departs as cheerfully and boldly as he entered, exhorting us to "concentrate on looking for love and laughter!"  More like him, please.

*(Female performers are rarely noticed at all but tend toward a ‘stroppy’ or ‘flirty’ look, either a bright pink t-shirt or something to accentuate the bust.) 

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