Hangdog Hardy’s tetchy set has always had an air of despairing futility, which certainly improves with age. The risk is that he slides into polemic, rather than comedy, as he gets on a particular hobbyhorse – and it’s a trap he can't always avoid.

Typically, his routine will start strong, with a barrage of fervent material deriding youngsters and the Tory Party past and present, all with good reason and better jokes.

He stumbles over a few gags, backing up his endearingly confused demeanour. ‘Imagine how good this material would be in the right hands,’ he self-deprecatingly acknowledges.

But once he’s built up our trust that he’s funny, Hardy slips gradually into lecture mode, bemoaning terrorism, politics and the sizeable catalogue of things that gets his goat. The laughs subside into smatterings of applause – a sign that the audience agree with him, or find that he’s made a point particularly pithily, rather than the reflex of laughter that something’s hilarious.

Still, despite his flaws, Hardy’s becoming a national treasure, a sort of pet, avuncular Leftie to follow in the pipe-smoke of Tony Benn.