Reginald D. Hunter needs no introduction and gets none; he merely strolls onstage and tells us who he is. We know anyway; we saw him sell out his show last year and appear on TV frequently before and since. He is very funny. But more than that, he’s intelligent and confident. Those attributes allow him to say whatever he pleases, motherfucker, to express his opinions and tell bawdy – that’s a euphemism for filthy – stories about himself and his family.

He starts by talking about language itself and inadequacy of English to express what we’re trying to say. He riffs about US politics and whether, as some pundits claimed, Obama is the realisation of Martin Luther King’s dream. ‘He’s not,’ Hunter says. He claims ‘the system will change the man before the man can change the system.’There are moments of near profundity like that before he plunges back into comedy.

Hunter is rude, crude but strangely inoffensive. Perhaps it’s the deep voice; perhaps it’s the laughing eyes. He gets away with it all. Who else could admit to a slight admiration for Austria’s Josef Fritzl (who kept his daughter under the house) and joke about it?

Hunter explains early on in the show that sometimes he sounds like somebody who reads a lot of books and other times as if he has just left the plantation. He was right; he can philosophise on changing sexual mores, America’s global attitudes and bad parenting as easily as joke about anal sex, masturbation and incest.

It’s a singular hour of comedy, full of dirty stories, food for thought, moments of pathos and gales of laughter. Small wonder Reginald. D. Hunter is packing them in.