Bennett's shredded bleat

Bennett Arron already has a unique selling point on the comedy circuit as the only Welsh Jewish comedian. His mother apparently brought him up on "chicken soup with a hint of leek".

Not content with that niche, he has now penned a pleasingly informative show about having his identity stolen, an unfunny fate that recently also befell Alistair McGowan.

In It Wasn't Me It Was Bennett Arron, this deadpan, selfdeprecating stand-up gently recalls the different stages of his experience.

He goes from the shock of discovery to the anger at judicial apathy via the Kafka-esque nightmare of trying to convince banks that, yes, he was Bennett Arron, but not the Bennett Arron owing money everywhere from Littlewoods to Harrods.

It is an illuminating journey with absurdist edges and a bleakly witty centre, as Arron vividly charts the years and cash spent fighting back.

Rock bottom came when the thirtysomething comedian and his pregnant partner had to move in with his parents.

Elsewhere, sharper visuals would have helped. The unintentionally hilarious correspondence from stone-faced bureaucrats cries out for new technology rather than a lo-fi flip chart.

These travails would have made a punchy feature on That's Life. The echo was so strong last night that I wouldn't have been surprised if Esther Rantzen had had a cameo.

And perhaps it needs her. Arron's style is so understated it occasionally feels toothless. This clever cautionary tale will not harm his career, but it may do more for the sale of home shredders.

Also 18 July. Information: 020 7482 4857.

Bennett Arron & Earl Okin: Edinburgh Preview