Edinburgh native Connor Burns is an overnight success after a mere seven years plying his stand-up trade, filling a big room and now face-on-the-side-of-a-bus famous. And while he’s a solid club comic to his core, he’s meeting the Fringe’s expectations of a narrative by taking the familiar harrumph of older generations that things used to be better in their day, comparing the number-one music singles of formative points in his father’s life to those of his own. A decent, workable structure that allows him to have a bit of fun dissecting daft lyrics, he also uses it as the launchpad for some pretty dubious stand-up.

He can just about justify a routine featuring a group of international comedians compiling hierarchies of racism, in that everyone involved was in on the joke, laughing at stereotypes while still eliciting laughs from them. But his reflections on a transgender acquaintance stretches the ironic heteronormativism and misogyny too far, with a quip about the sexes’ differing motor functions harking back to the 1970s.

Elsewhere, he’s keen to highlight his progressive credentials but a tale about his trip to a hipster barber is tediously predicated on the notion that their growing bond could make him gay. Having dropped the number-ones framing, Burns is at least perceptive and droll on the hope that kills Scottish football fans. And while the account of proposing to his fiancée in Australia is a tad on the long side, he does bring it to life in vivid detail.

Connor Burns: 1994, Just The Tonic Nucleus, until 25 August, 9.45pm, plus 25 August, 3.10pm; main picture: Troy Edige.