Stewart Lee has adopted an uncompromising North American alter-ego in his stand-up before, appearing as Baconface, the gruff Canadian in a Mexican wrestling mask slathered in bacon. But whereas Baconface played up the enigma of the character’s origins, Lee is more explicit explaining his transformation into the imposing figure of the Man-Wulf.

Lurking in his most familiar stage persona, the oft-cited “Character of Stewart Lee”, is the comic’s preoccupation with those exploiting stand-up to punch down, lucratively so for Netflix, the likes of Ricky Gervais and Dave Chappelle, bully boys participating in the same grift as Donald Trump. The Man-Wulf is his expression of such populist Netflix comics, amorally attacking minorities for million dollar paycheques.

Though disdainful of the insecure jingoism that that sees bigots cloak their hatred in flag waving, pointedly tossing a Union Jack off the stage at the top of the show, Lee is devoted to British folk history, tinged with misanthropy for actual people. And he recalls one fateful night visiting an ancient monument where he was attacked, succumbing to lycanthropy, with strong echoes of John Landis’ An American Werewolf in London and Stan Lee’s Incredible Hulk.

Before he gets to that though, in his extensive preamble, Lee sets up his high-concept gambit. After some initial fulminations about the pace of the current news cycle, his jokes about Gregg Wallace written 18 months ago having acquired additional toxic connotations, he discloses that in the show’s first half he’s going to do liberal stand-up as his physically decaying, self-parodying self. In the second half, he’ll do reactionary Netflix comedy as the Man-Wulf, before an attempt to do liberal stand-up in the wolfy Netflix-style.

Not that it plays out that straightforwardly. At various points Lee also pays homage to the casually classy delivery of Irish stand-up Dave Allen, regaling from a chair. Elsewhere, he deploys the bulky but visually impressive, £6000 werewolf costume for clowning, the creepy creakiness of the beast recalling The Crack Fox of The Mighty Boosh, whom he once directed. Then he combines the two approaches for controlled slapstick self-abasement.

As ever with Lee, there’s plenty of neatly constructed meta-commentary and deconstruction of punchlines and his persona as he goes, with real edge when he wearily invites his inner monologue to “fuck off!”, his withering tone matching that he affects for the audience, or perhaps genuinely expresses, whenever they don’t quite give him what he wants in response.

A tale of him mocking a model at an exhibition by surrealist painter Ithell Colquhoun features a guilty admission that part of him enjoys belittling, bullying humour, with a passing slight towards his (unnamed) former double act partner Richard Herring. Similarly, his empathy for the impotent rage of Liam Neeson’s recent tough guy movie roles contains a muttered riposte to his (unnamed) ex-wife Bridget Christie, who was performing stand-up in visual metaphor creature costumes years before him.

His material is so painstakingly crafted, intelligent and noble in its ultimate aim, but in moments, savagely red in tooth and claw viciousness. He even offers his teenage son as a symbol of possible hope for the future, before cynically pulling the rug away.

He presents damning sketches of men such as Wallace, Russell Brand and Addison Cresswell, the late manager of Michael McIntyre, who succumbed to their baser, beastly instincts. But with his brash American attitude and energy, his rhythmic catchphrases and ridiculous costume, there’s something that remains horribly compelling about the Man-Wulf, Lee’s latest committed attempt to explore just what comedy is for.