Whenever he can, Larry Dean indulges in what stand-ups call ‘vicaring’ before a show (or at least the Catholic equivalent), by greeting his audience at the door. An unexpected smile is a ‘win-win’ which lifts everybody’s mood (his own included), the engaging Glaswegian suggests, laying the groundwork for crowd interaction. When we meet for a cup of tea in the city centre, he apologises for running late: diary confusion. He’s not the eager-to-entertain, physically spasmodic Dean, intensely baring his soul on stage, literally disco dancing as he trauma-dumps during one memorable routine. But he is thoughtful and measured, and no less forthcoming, opening up about some difficult experiences.

Still, it’s surprising to hear that the triple Edinburgh Comedy Award-nominee is dreading bringing his show, Dodger, to the Barrowland Ballroom, a Glasgow institution that he’s wanted to perform in since attending music gigs there in his teens. As a once disruptive, problem schoolkid, the 35-year-old is usually only concerned with finding former teachers at his hometown gigs. But the iconic venue has a frighteningly wide stage, and he figures it’ll likely be the most chaotic gig of his tour, certainly the loosest. ‘I’ve not seen many comics put a show on at Barrowlands,’ he notes, ‘and I might just find out why.’

Truth be told, Dean ‘hates’ performing in Glasgow. ‘I get so worried that somebody will take something wrong,’ he admits. ‘It’s like a village. Everyone talks to each other. And news spreads quickly. Being Catholic, most people in this city are my third cousin. I have to explain to my family that I give my Nanny a weird voice because if I did her real voice for the whole tour I’d go mad. My best shows are ones where I haven’t compartmentalised reality. But I’d be hanging from a tree if I was doing that every night. Somehow, getting my Nanny’s voice wrong is worse for my relatives than me talking about masturbating in front of 1500 people.’ The gay comedian (who came out to audiences before his family) reasons ‘that if they’re not happy about it, at least the Frog & Bucket were impressed.’ 

In mitigation though, and with considerable ‘cringe’ for him, his father once supportively told him that one of his favourite routines was his son confessing to finding cuckoldry a turn-on. Dean smiles, weakly. ‘He pronounced it “cuch-hol-did”. Like it’s a rural Scottish village.’ He reckons he’s funniest when he’s at his most insecure. Candidness is empowering, allowing him ‘to own my own business’ before others can attack him with it. Nevertheless, outside of short club spots, Dean has quit announcing himself as gay, taking his friend and fellow comic Sofie Hagen’s advice to simply allude to his boyfriend and let the crowd join the dots.

‘Everyone who’s liberal will do the most powerful thing a liberal can do,’ he grins. ‘Pat themselves on the back and think “yeah, and I’m ok with that”. You’ve already won because they leave feeling good about themselves.’ Not everyone is onboard. Or as smug. Some online commentators, perhaps in denial about what they’re feeding their algorithms, protest that he’s constantly referencing his sexuality, when in reality ‘it’s maybe one clip in 20.’ As an act who aspires to observational relatability, this frustrates him given that he’s less camp than, for example, Michael McIntyre or Hal Cruttenden. Yet by being ‘straight-passing,’ he can turn it to his advantage. ‘Would McIntyre be seen as an everyman if he was talking about his husband?’ he wonders. ‘I might just go back into the closet for a while, see how that works. Then I’ll come back out again. It’s nice to be able to play with it.’

His recent Royal Variety Performance debut was generally well received, both in the room and on television. But he’s irked that one of his signature physical bits, a brilliant routine about the way in which different nationalities smile, seems to have offended some Scottish viewers. ‘There’s this feeling that making fun of Scotland to an English audience is traitorous for those that think Scotland is the only country worth living in,’ he laments. ‘I just think we have small-man syndrome sometimes and these people hold us back. We’re known for our sense of humour; we’re known for Billy Connolly, Frankie Boyle and Kevin Bridges. But we sometimes find it really difficult to laugh at ourselves.’

Processing grief and the passing of his beloved grandmothers, his current show Dodger follows Dean’s 2022 work Fudnut, about the death of his director and friend Paul Byrne. Going further, it’s also about a troubled childhood relationship with his mother. ‘That’s kind of the deep-seated stuff, the weird first part of my life. But as I say in the show, that’s why I got so close to my grandmothers. Because if you’re missing something from your childhood, kids will fill it in some way.’

His most recently deceased ‘daftie’ Nanny directly inspired his love of comedy and horror films, reflected in the tattoo he unveils in the show, the often gruesome, gurning faces he deploys, and the creepy images and motifs that understatedly slid into Dodger. With former stand-up Jim Campbell as Dean’s new director and chief sounding board for jokes, his erstwhile Edinburgh Fringe flatmate Hagen helped with pacing the narrative: ‘Sofie’s way more in touch with her emotions than I am.’

The Danish comic advised him to worry less about the quantity of gags and more about giving his existing ones space to breathe. He cites The Exorcist as a storytelling template for taking your time, carefully building tension. ‘I think of jokes as being like jump scares; they’re surprises. I want my show to make the audience care and listen. The more I can push that, the funnier it’ll get. And it ought to be hilarious by the end. Obviously, that’s hard to achieve though. Especially in the UK because we’re so pessimistic.’

Throw in a recent diagnosis of high-functioning autism, and it’s clear that Dean has plenty to psychologically draw from. And yet the animated, snake-hipped performer, who credits both Elvis Presley and Jim Carrey’s larger-than-life turn in The Mask as formative influences (inspiring his expressive facial contortions and bodily jerks, ‘adding sprinkles’ to punchlines) appears quite self-contained and content. He recently made his feature acting debut in the romcom This Time Next Year as Hamish, a lovelorn, enduringly romantic London bus driver: ‘it was fun, pretending to give a crap about a relationship I had years ago, which is so not me.’

And in June he’ll marry his partner, the English actor and fellow Presley-obsessive Mikey Crump. Having just come back from a pilgrimage to Graceland, they could return for their honeymoon and would uproot to Memphis if it ‘wasn’t one of the most dangerous cities in America. What you save on rent, you spend on guns and dogs.’ Compromising, if they can acquire visas, they’re leaving for New York or Los Angeles by the end of the year. ‘We’re told that they like the Scottish and English there,’ he observes. ‘So it’ll be nice to potentially have a bit of an advantage. Assuming they can understand my accent... ’

Larry Dean performs Dodger at Barrowland, Glasgow, Sunday 16 March as part of Glasgow International Comedy Festival; the Dodger tour runs until Friday 20 June.