It could have started better. For me, I mean, rather than Frankie. While waiting for my tickets at the box office I became quite excited recounting a story to my friend, with much laughing and fist-waving to animate my point. What I didn’t realise was that mid fist-wave Frankie was standing next to me waiting to go upstairs. What followed, after what must have looked to Frankie like an overenthusiastic show of support or a wanking gesture, was him waving his fist at me in return and a bemused look from both of us.

   Not the most conventional start to a gig.

   Apparently going for the front row was a severe misjudgement. In a theatre of 54 seats I had predicted a stampede for the front row that resembled the onslaught of the Orcs of Mordor. As it was, me and my friend were two of the grand total of four brave souls in the front row. Even when there were sure to be no more seats in the back rows, people created more seats. By the time I had realised the consequences of my mistake it was too late and I had become a waiting victim of peoples’ fear.

   ‘Oh, it’s my stalkers,’ Frankie said upon coming out, by which point I was sat so far off the edge of my seat I was performing a semi-sexual assault on my friend. It was no more than my naïve enthusiasm deserved.

   Recounting gags serves no purpose when this gig was only a warm-up for what is reported to be his last ever stand-up tour, though I suspect he might have made a snap judgement of the audience and toned it down by 20%. His remark of, “You must be the (insert suitably condescending word here) audience I’ve ever seen, but don’t worry, I’ll work past your mental and social barriers” confirmed my theory.

   Whereas I could have had an entire hour of Baby P and Holocaust material, there were also a fair amount of laughs that had no edge of shock. Frankie himself was typically unceremonious in his delivery, dressed in a zipped hoodie and carrying a clipboard with fascinating bullet points on them such as:

• ET’s balls
• Kramer vs. Kramer, a touching account of a father fighting for custody of his son

And so on…

   There was also much recounting of gags that hadn’t made it past the producers of Mock The Week, which made it easier to see why he views TV as so restrictive. One of the examples of Bad Things To Say At A Dinner Party that unsurprisingly didn’t make it on air was, “Well, as we’re all here…who’s looking after Madeleine?”

   I laughed. I laughed until I almost cried. Compared to the overly-discussed (and uncannily accurate) Rebecca Adlington comment that the UK media was calling for him to apologise for, these were not only more offensive, but genuinely funnier.

   The atmosphere is undeniably tense though, and I got the impression that was exactly how he wanted it. He has a disturbing knack for choosing someone in the front rows (which was me on more than a few occasions) to maintain eye-contact with during the build-up to a grim punch-line. It was yet another reason why running for front row is something I won’t be doing again in a hurry.

   It did however, convince me that this tour, whether it is his last or not, is going to be well worth the money. He remains the master of innovative, intelligent and fearless comedy. Roll on June and the feature-length gig, where I’ll probably confirm his first impression of me as a stalker.