Is the show the same as last year or have you been tweaking?

The material is pretty much the same. I toyed with moving things around but then I thought it’s unfair on the people who saw it last year if there’s a slightly newer version of the show going round. All that’s really changed (and this always happens every year after Edinburgh, once the last reviewer has been in) is suddenly I work out a different way to tell one of the old jokes; it will fully transform the show and I’ll be furious every year. Often it’s just a change in hand gesture or moving the microphone from one hand to the other, but it means a joke that wasn’t getting much suddenly gets much better.

You’ve also got a work-in-progress show at Monkey Barrel?

That’s a fully different format for me; it’s for a Radio Four series I’m doing in the autumn, four half-hour episodes of stand-up. The idea is that each day of the run to try out two different episodes. It’s very much a stand-up show but it will be two-and-a-half hours of very different stand-up sets. It’s kind of a compilation of lots of material I’ve been doing over the years and trying to fit it into a new, more Radio Four-y framework. It’s fun to have something I can move around and change loads during the day. I’ve always been really frightened at the Fringe of changing a show around too much as there could be an industry person in; you worry you could screw it up. In the same way that if you’re doing your driving test, you wouldn’t pull out a new manoeuvre you’ve never done before. It’ll be really nice to go to the Fringe and every morning just go, ‘I’m going to try a brand new half hour.’ That’ll be exhilarating.

You see some odd sights at the Fringe but what’s the weirdest thing you’ve witnessed?

On the Royal Mile, some theatre group were doing a children’s show and they were each dressed as gods. But all the cast were over six foot and were wearing these huge gowns over their heads, and then they had a stick-head on top of the gown that was all made of wire mesh and tin foil. They looked absolutely fucking horrifying. Each time they came across a child, the tin-head would have to swoop down and hand them a flyer and they were leaving this trail of destruction in their wake of crying, screaming children. Oh man, so up my street. It was incredible, so wildly misjudged; I so wish I’d seen that play.

What led you to take up comedy?

I wanted to go into acting when I was a kid. I think when you’re a kid you choose from four or five really frivolous jobs like astronaut, Hollywood star, horse, singer, anything like that. For me, it was, ‘oh my god, Hollywood actor! That’d be the absolute dream.’ I remember at the age of five telling my mum, ‘I want to be like Macaulay Culkin when I’m grown up,’ because I’d just seen Home Alone. Mum said, ‘you kind of needed to have been in adverts and TV shows when you were a baby.’ So I got told at the age of five that I’d left my life ambition too late. Then at uni I really enjoyed being in comedy plays, and it’s really nice getting a laugh, but you’re always getting a laugh from a famous playwright’s words, not your own. That felt a tiny bit empty. I think that’s where it came from.

When we last spoke, you told me an ambition was to eat through a Wetherspoons menu in a day. Have you managed it?

No, it’s still a dream of mine to one day go to the Tuesday Steak Club and do every single type of steak. It’s brilliant, it’s like McDonald’s: no one has ever complained about McDonald’s because you’re getting meat for 99p; you have no right to. As for eating everything on the menu, as each year goes by, I think that is becoming more and more of a grave health risk. If Tim Martin is willing to offer a Wetherspoons tasting menu at some point, like a silver service sort of thing, then obviously I’d be the first customer through the door.

Glenn Moore: Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me, Glenn I’m Sixty Moore, Pleasance Courtyard, 3–15 August, 6pm; Glenn Moore: Work In Progress, Monkey Barrel, 3–15 August, 11.20am.