The long awaited return of Acaster to the real space. I saw a preview of Hecklers Welcome in a very, very embryonic form at last year’s ARG, which was mostly about giving away mugs and seeing Turnstile at Glasto. So I wasn’t quite expecting such a tightly structured show, based on that and the general title slash vibe. How wrong I was. This is Acaster operating - still! - at the top of his game, but through a slightly new lens. If the Repertoire shows and Cold Lasagne Hate Myself 1999 were about the same thing as Hecklers Welcome, the latter is coming from a comfortably happier place. Not perfect, but more content. A discursive tour through the experiences that might explain his aversion to performing stand up, he alights on the beautiful image of protecting the boy on stage, and that core filters through the whole show in different ways, to what is one of my favourite ways he’s ended a show, in a genuinely heartwarming and romantic way. Alasdair and I bump into another comic friend of ours and end up back at James’ hotel for a drink, which feels way too familiar and yet is a wonderful time, however nervous Alasdair might have been.