The one-liner is a difficult beast to tackle. Too often hijacked by the local pub-dweller, its fleeting nature means it’s difficult to build up momentum, and too many of them all at once can result in comic fatigue.

Milton Jones himself admits to varying his angle of attack, because “if you do more than 20 minutes of one-liners, you can see blood coming out of peoples ears. It’s just a bit too much”.

And his plan worked, although it wasn’t without its flaws. His first strategy was to come onstage as “Milton’s grandfather”, dishing up the first 20 minutes of gags with the help of a flat cap, overcoat and tartan shopping trolley. A particularly persistent heckler meant he had a tricky start but dealt with it expertly, even though it took several attempts before he could finish his first joke.

After this, however, came the support act – relative newbie James Acaster – whose long and drawn-out musings on slicing cheese and the adventurousness of apricots were tempered, thankfully, with a funnier climax, demonstrating a tandem skydive with a member of the audience.

However, this format had its problems. Once you’ve seen the performer you’ve paid to see on stage, it seems at odds to then spend half an hour listening to a support act. It served its purpose in breaking up the barrage of one-liners, though, so credit must be given for that.

When the second half commenced, Jones came on (as himself this time) and treated the audience to the cleverly constructed, quick-fire jokes that are his bread and butter. The surreal slant he lends to his material sets him apart from others, and the audience lapped up the stream of brilliantly bizarre and wittily worded one-liners.

With musical excerpts and the use of an old-school overhead projector, Jones ensured there wasn’t a bleeding ear in sight.