Rob Copland rockets into the room, pure energy. We’re clapping, he’s dancing. He’s clapping, someone else is dancing.

When the music dips, the energy doesn’t. He steals about the stage, raising an eyebrow, clawing at the air, swinging his mic in precarious arcs, promising us he has never once dropped it. He draws our attention to a bar stool – some comics would take a seat, he scoffs, but this is standup. His mesmerically physical delivery elevates every punchline.

Copland rarely pauses to soak up the laughter, moving on to the next slapstick moment or silly aside – a bit about the inventor of the exclamation mark, a great joke about celebrities with veneers, an extended section of continental cheek kisses (“Mwah! Mwah!”) with the still unscathed mic. He wasn’t picked on at school, he tells us, but he’s in the market for a bully now. When nobody volunteers, we’re treated to a sublime slice of physical comedy as he tries in vain to “kick my own head in”.

Yet dripped between the bedlam, gathering momentum, something more complex is happening. Copland plays with us: has he written a show? Is any of this planned? He reveals that, in his 30s, he has started working as a bakery pot washer to support his comedy dreams. He claims he’s training us to be the best audience, a star in our own right. He asks increasingly desperate questions about success, satisfaction, a life well spent. Recounting the discovery that Tiger Woods was never content with his achievements: “What’s the point of being number one if you can’t enjoy it?!” he screams.

Copland has whipped the audience into a turbulent euphoria, so when he slams on the breaks for the final 10 minutes – our chance to prove we’re the best audience – it layers depth and intrigue atop the plentiful laughter.

It’s the sort of show every festivalgoer hopes to stumble across – controlled chaos in a free fringe basement. Rarely has an existential scream been this much fun.