James Rowland doesn’t really die at the end of the show. But if he was going to, these are the fundamental truths he’d want you to remember about his life and the human species. He delivers his material in a hospital smock open at the rear, so we learn early on that the truth is hairy. Also, he loves stories. In fact, we get the idea that’s what he loves most of all, and that in his view, the best thing about humans is our capacity to tell stories in ways that give meaning to our lives and encourage us to value ourselves and each other; in spite of the vastness of the universe and the relative insignificance of every action we’ll ever take.

There’s an intimacy to Rowland’s delivery that reflects the way he hones his practice (as he tells us): through repeated live performances, without a script, responding to the emotional ebb and flow in the room and to a series of scrawled or drawn prompts. The resultant, spontaneous sense of warmth is the abiding and most pleasurable feature of this show. Indeed, at times, the puns that pepper his tales feel like an alibi that’s not required. At its core, this is closer to folk storytelling than comedy and is all the lovelier for that. 

James Rowland Dies At The End Of The Show, Summerhall, until 26 August, 6pm.