CONTRARIAN comedian Stewart Lee enjoys turning convention on its head.

Swimming like the Canute of comedy against the tide, he likes to heckle his audience, restlessly and constantly throughout his latest acerbic, acid-witted show, especially here in York, where he has never forgotten the flattest night of a previous tour being the Theatre Royal one he happened to be filming for TV and DVD release. “You ruined it,” he says.

Six nights into cutting his lupine teeth on a new tour, he opened a five-night run of Stewart Lee Vs The Man-Wulf at the Theatre Royal on Tuesday, “the worst night of the week for comedy in the dullest town”, as he put it.

It was not so much Stewart Lee Vs The Man-Wulf as Stewart Lee Vs Everything – a false start, a Tuesday night, an “indifferent York audience”, the erratic theatre dry ice machine – but also Everything Vs Stewart Lee.

Everything! Theatre Royal technology; the high-speed turnover of topicality (Gregg Wallace, Toby Young); the dull efficiency of the new Labour Government limiting political content; a button coming off his jacket-coat; the heat emanating from, spoiler alert, his second-half £6,000 werewolf coat.

All that, and his indecision over what this nascent show is about; the purpose, the place, the point of comedy after 36 years on the billboards, now in a world of Trump, Musk and Gervais.

“We’d all love not to care and be off the hook,” he speculates. “To not be accountable.” Like how a werewolf or vampire thinks. Except that Lee holds everything to be accountable.

Especially Everything Vs Stewart Lee, and above all, everything about this audience. “It’s not me who’s the problem, it’s you,” he says, berating a lack of sophistication when we should surely be above “entry-level comedy” by this juncture and castigating us for not appreciating his “toppers”, when a run of three of punchlines should each be greeted with a louder laugh, but not so tonight! Not once, not twice, but thrice.

Dear Reader, I should point out that the audience – on first impression, BBC Radio 4-listening, Observer-reading, more men than women – are lapping up his cajoling. They love being worked over by the deadpan grilling of Lee, who makes you work harder than any other comic on the crowded British circuit.

No comedian reflects on comedy in motion and commotion more than Lee, a lover of Sixties’ experimental jazz who brings that avant-garde, deconstructive, unconventional modus operandi to the craft of telling and not telling jokes.

He is constantly thinking on the hoof; you must do so too, amid the rhythmic rat-a-tat-tat of repetition, the teasing and hectoring, to keep up with storytelling that functions like SatNav on the blink, suddenly taking you back to where he’s been before.

Repetition, one of Lee’s trademarks, takes a different form here, where he announces he will play the same material three ways in this age of his bug bear: the comedy of offence perpetrated by Netflix-marketed, 60-million dollar, right-leaning stand-up comedians.

First up, he will tell liberal jokes in a liberal way, then, after a screaming transformation into the Man-Wulf in the first half’s denouement, reactionary jokes in a reactionary way post-interval and, finally, wolf’s head and distracting miniature penile appendage removed, reactionary jokes in a liberal, left-leaning way.

He chides the York audience for not laughing loudest at the American-accented reactionary joker in wolf’s clothing – unlike previous audiences, he says – but he knows only too well he is playing to a liberal crowd who will refract everything through that prism.

Along the way, he takes digs at Jimmy Carr, Ricky Gervais, Noel Fielding, Laura Kuenssberg (“if she leans any more to the right, she’ll need scaffolding”), even slyly at erstwhile double-act partner Richard Herring, without naming him.

He gives off a shambling, even shambolic air, and yet a shard-sharp intellect always pierces that front, whether revelling in syntactic pedantry or parading his knowledge of the Ripon curio, the watch-setting Hornblower (although he did say 9.30pm, when 9pm is the precise custom!).

Lee is a cracking mimic too, sending up money-fixated Yorkshiremen and a topical, balladeering Bob Dylan on acoustic guitar, revealing a Dylanesque poetic turn of phrase in his lyrics.

He fires off pot shots aplenty, not only at all around him, but self-deprecatingly at himself too, reeling off a list of Lee lookalikes (from Mark Lamarr and Terry Christian to UB40’s Ali Campbell and Showaddywaddy in 2025) and commenting on how he bores even himself sometimes by knowing exactly what he is going to say next. Yet surprise, unpredictability, is one of his best assets.

Favourite line? “Mark Twain said tragedy plus time equals comedy,” says Lee. “Tragedy plus time equals Morrissey.” Now that’s a topper.

“I’m not a stand-up,” he says. “I’m more of a literary artist. The equivalent of a James Joyce novel.” Only much funnier, if perennially disappointed in humanity at large and York’s Tuesday audience in particular.