Glenn Wool: This Road Has Tolls

Fuzzy toys head-banging to hard rock: as intro clips go, it's an effective way to set the tone for the grubby, good-time puckishness that follows. In fact, given that Wool's last show concerned the grim tale of a cavity search, the glove puppets seem fitting.

As in 2011, he's still living a rootless existence between airports. Spat out by LA, he offers some faux-dejected pre-amble about being back in this, his natural habitat. The Canadian's reimmersion sees him ease into some half-formed mockery of royalism and the horsemeat scandal – an excuse to deploy his hysterical whimpering, which goes down well as ever. It becomes a typically punchy hour, but not before a bungled attempt to join the conga line over Thatcher's grave. It's barely noticed by the closest thing the nomad Wool gets to a home crowd.

In time, the 'Woolaholics' are in raptures as he dances around Islam and Operation Yewtree. It's like watching a drunk disarming a bomb, but we're in capable hands: each outrageous line is swiftly justified. His taste for rancid puns aside, his strength remains the anecdotes. That louche, shameless persona is now so established that when we find him on a nightmare flight with a monk, or playing to a busload of decrepit Jewish retirees, real anticipation descends.

Wool's still defiantly over-dramatic in delivery, still apt to force a supposed through-line. But, with a closing flourish that cocks a snook at the conventions of a Fringe hour, he's also skilful and self-aware. It's good to have him back.