When the makers of last year's Joy Division biopic, Control, wanted someone to play punk poet John Cooper Clarke in his 1977 fury, there was only one candidate: Clarke himself. With his trademark barnet (reminiscent of Bob Dylan circa 1966), permanent sunglasses and legs that might be too thin to use as pipecleaners, he looks the same as ever. For many years, the same could have been said about his act. However, as another generation of young performers is inspired by him - led by Arctic Monkeys' Alex Turner - the Bard of Salford seems to be re-energised by another chance to re-engage the public.
For much of this fly-by two hours, Clarke is in brilliantly phlegmatic form, firing off one-liners on everything from STDs to Skodas, imbued with his uniquely off-kilter worldview. But Clarke is more than a standup. Occasionally his sneering, relentless delivery is interrupted by rustles in a carrier bag as he digs out the poetry that made his reputation. The stark poem Evidently Chickentown - which contains so many expletives, Clarke jokes that his swearbox is an "investment plan" - is still jaw-droppingly shocking in its depiction of 1970s grime. For 2009, Beasley Street has become Beasley Boulevard, a living hell infested with noodle bars, urban planners and Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen.
Clarke really must make more of an attempt to tackle modern times, and he doesn't need to borrow old gags from Bob Monkhouse. But he finds a rich seam with the clearly personal subject of "getting on". His monologues on ill health and frailty are brutally funny, and sometimes just brutal. As the midnight curfew approaches, Clarke's 60 years begin to tell as he forgets words and his timing wavers. But he is sharp enough to make this part of the act. "How long have we got?" he asks. "That isn't an existential question."