BURNLEY needed to laugh after a fairly wretched 48 hours - and Dylan Moran was more likely to score than Paterson, Nugent and Eagles combined on that front.

And while the shambling Irish misanthrope shook off some ring-rust after a few months away from the spotlight, he had plenty to keep the crowd on his side until the final whistle.

Cue a few cheap swipes at the hated Blackburn, a couple of misadventures down St James Street and a healthy dose of free-jazzing drunkologues on belief, pleasure, sexual politics, fatherhood and monkeys.

Moran picked out the Mechanics to warm up for a prospective summer tour but it's always difficult to figure out where the kinks might lie in his seat-of-the-pants schtick.

For the uninitiated it's like watching a drunken base jumper. You never know how or where he might land next but the journey is always worth watching.

Never more satisfying than when he's riffing from the absurd to the ridiculous, there's already a couple of gems being worked up, from his take on 'crusted black metal' to a capsule review of Glasgow you won't find in any Rough Guide.

Quite how much of Moran's meanderings is carefully-prepared stagecraft and how much off-the-cuff musings will forever remain a trade secret.

Some old favourites are slipped in as he begins to hit his stride late on.

But the ride is never dull and as Moran's continues to tour his semi-philosophical rants, rather like a single malt, are becoming more refined.

Moran is the outrider for a summer of fun at the Burnley landmark and if the likes of Sean Lock, John Bishop and Ruby Wax can match this masterclass, it can only help to banish the (claret and) blues.

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