A large, almost throne-like white armchair sits in the middle of a raised platform: it can only be accessed by a rise of steps.

It's a succinct visual metaphor for the challenges Robert Softley faces in his everyday life and career: he has severe cerebral palsy, muscular dystrophy and a speech impediment. As Softley crawls onto the stage, there's a roguish grin on his face, maybe because he knows his monologue, his very presence, is a challenge to how society still pigeon-holes the disabled – and it's probably not as the kind of well-educated, successful writer/performer who now entertains us with personal anecdotes of a frank and sometimes horny nature.

The man is a charmer. Good-looking, self-aware and a slyly witty raconteur, he weaves together moments from his own, and three other people's, experiences of physically limiting disability. As grainy monochrome portraits come and go on the screen behind him, their very stillness eloquently counterpoints the random restlessness that, in one instance, saw him stripped of clothes and dignity by a curious hospital doctor: Softley was actually a visitor, not a patient.

This incident, like most of his solo show is rendered wryly humorous. But it's when he muses on his body's deteriorating condition and how that will impinge on future choices and relationships that you truly appreciate Softley's untrammelled passion for being alive in the moment – fine, fierce and inspirational.