THE mouth-watering prospect of Shappi Khorsandi and Jon Richardson as a double bill had abundant energy and boisterous belly-laughs, but what it needed was more structure.

Shappi’s vivacious approach was certainly evident, literally skipping on stage in a summery dress, but the Anglo-Iranian’s acerbic, prurient wit was not. Toning down her usually sharp and scurrilous routine, Shappi’s scatty style kept people laughing but seemed glib, incidental and directionless.

She stretched herself too thin: is she an activist? Bitter divorcee? Single mother? Thirty-something looking for love?

Political commentator? Iranian living in Britain? Or a Briton with Iranian heritage?

Darting between them saw strong material (deliberating the meaning of “mixed-race”) swiftly cast aside.

Disappointingly lacklustre, the biggest laugh came from an audience member’s contribution.

Misanthrope Jon Richardson exhibited similar aimlessness but also his unflappable professionalism, never talking-down to his audience. An angst-ridden, depressive nebbish with a squeaky voice and impish giggle, Richardson was hilariously witty and sympathetic.

From discussing his problems with AV to why people have babies to his grandmother’s macabre death wishes, anecdotes were delivered with a solidity only an OCD-suffering perfectionist can achieve.

Simultaneously, his concern about his imminent ‘breakdown’ gave the set a volatile energy, while his splenetic venting gloriously captured his worries about the minutia.

Like two children opening presents – Shappi tearing wildly at wrapping-paper, not appreciating the contents, while Jon meticulously peels off the tape and cherishing each gift – the evening was entertaining and engaging, but chaotic.