★★★★☆

Russell Howard’s stand-up tends to be underpinned by a core message of carpe diem, of celebrating inclusive, quirky little moments of humanity and not sweating the small, divisive stuff of identity politics. In the huge arenas that he usually plays, it can sometimes feel like a vague, unfocused, even cloddish way of trying to keep as many people onside as possible, an upbeat message for the sake of a message.

In the reduced capacity of a theatre though, his worldview feels a lot more organic, tempered by a smattering of cynicism. And you’re reminded what a phenomenally accomplished comedian he is, his boyish brilliance undimmed by the fact that he’s now comfortably into middle-age, still embracing his arrested development. In marked contrast to his hard-working, grown-up doctor wife, Howard portrays himself as a naïve, simple lad who got lucky in writing jokes for a living and remains lucky to still be alive, his views and approach to the world stuck in the eccentric but loving and optimistic idiocy of his Bristolian family.

Although he slams Gwyneth Paltrow for her snake-oil wellness products, he outs himself as one of the few (male) comedians who openly subscribes to such mumbo-jumbo therapies, endearingly admitting that he brought an alternative medicine necklace for an obscene amount of money because of his wobbly mental health.

His opening mockery of the misguided ‘Great’ in Great Britain and excesses of the coronation, alongside our nation’s slavish adoption of American things, are typical of the broad, liberal preaching to the choir that so often characterises Howard’s television shows: consistent and amusing enough but without that extra spark of invention that he’s capable of.

Indeed, it’s when he challenges liberal orthodoxy that he’s most interesting and surprisingly Eeyorish, dismissing drag queens as pastiche rip-off merchants, naturally laying into right-wing, free-speech advocate comedians. But he also berates the overwhelming majority of his peers, for their appearances on podcasts and inane, non comedy-related television when stand-up ought to be their focus.

For a mainstream voice, he’s appealingly clear-sighted and outspoken on the toxicity of youthful masculinity and the lure of Andrew Tate’s philosophy to vulnerable men. Equally though, he’s supremely adept at exploiting the bizarre situations his fame attracts, be that meeting Stephen Hawking and making a fool of himself, receiving an invitation to a celebrity sex party, or tabloid claims about his kinky gym perversion. His act-outs are committed and tremendous, the writing gag-packed but so casually delivered. Superb stuff.

Russell Howard Live tours until Sunday 14 January; review from Theatre Royal, Glasgow.