Glasgow can be a strange city in March. The grid layout of the central streets means it is very hard to get lost... yet every junction seemingly has its own weather system. You can turn a corner to drizzle, another left into downpour and then retrace your steps minutes later to find the air arid and the sun peeping between the grey above. With the zipper and hood of my coat getting a full up-and-down workout it can be exhausting hopping between shows with minimal downtime. So spending an evening in the ornate old comfort of The King's Theatre to see Ardal O'Hanlon proved to be a much needed tonic.

Skipping out in his showbusiness Sunday best of a tailored black suit, he eases us in with a well layered story of taxi cab stupidity. It includes references to his TV credits which early doors sates the fame hunter and name hounds in the two thousand strong audience. Father Dougal, Death In Paradise and decent kicker accomplished, he has the next 90 minutes to fire out a masterclass of relaxed funny. The starting block tale proves a customised foundation to build a tour show from.

The first half isn't always smooth. A wonderful little wispy aside involving geese and ants fell out to little response from the audience. A small spurt of filth about the only porn mag in the county is met with OTT shocks and gasps. I can't think of a more innocent jism joke. And this is Saturday night in Glasgow. The first section wasn't exactly rocky but whenever O'Hanlon tried to stray away from observation or anecdote the crowd were unsure of themselves. By the second section though, things were plain sailing no matter what minor tempests the comedian tested their mettle against. That extra pint, or a little group realisation that the TV star had a bit more about him than light entertainment, and we were fully on track.

They lapped it up when O'Hanlon reaffirmed values. Food shouldn't be served on slate; gluten intolerance seems a baffling pandemic given bread's dominance through history; and variable pronouns. His extended bit on being the third born in a family had enough girth and research to it to be a themed Fringe hour in its own right. A lovely way with words, the sweet memorable poetry of his "guilt jockey", "minty biscuits" or "hummus of Christ".

O'Hanlon's most playful material seems to be preoccupied with food and / or religion. He ends an erudite bit of what it says about those who believe in a vengeful God or a benevolent God with a self-deflating "There's some philosophy for you there..." Who could predict a Michel de Montaigne reference later on? He remains mainstream and classy throughout but it was a pleasure watching a comedian punch just a stamp above the weight of his audience. You have to remember the man has written a fine novel - one that I remember being on every London Irish night stand at the end of the Nineties. Gentle grumbling with a surreal intelligence was the order of the day.

Liam Farrelly's God's Brother-In-Law is a debut hour of note. So much so that Farrelly walks on stage and adds a foreword: he is as shocked as we will be that he has been threatened with written legal action five times since the start of the Edinburgh Fringe last year. He is correct to be surprised, as in terms of what happens on stage at a stand-up show, the show feels medium spice. Sure he talks about his aunt and sister being nuns, which allows him to fire off a few stray rounds about Catholicism... but not in a way that should even catch the wrath of the fanatics. The label 'God's Brother-In-Law' clearly was a red rag to a bull for one lone believer. I wonder if the litigious obsessive at least enjoyed the unrelated tales of buying guinea pigs or working for Pizza Hut during lockdown?

Farrelly ambles on in a t-shirt declaring Bad Reputation. You can tell he is amused by being an accidental edgelord with his pleasingly serviceable show. It is his delivery style I am fascinated by. Immobile, slow, loud. He bashes each syllable like a snare drum. The audience is hypnotised by him, their freewill bludgeoned out by each simple morse code sentence. There is very little variation and if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

This statuesque totalitarian mode of speech really panel beats the audience into laughter. The Glasgow crowd love his local material about life in Paisley. All of his stories prove well formed, building over steady 10 minute regularities to skyscrapers of reaction. Farrelly loves a callback and by the second half every other punch or topper is slapping us with a recall to a previous routine. He might be the most controversial comedian on the Scottish circuit this year thanks to one dedicated adherent but personally I think he wears more comfortably the crown of King Of The Callback. Fans of Kevin Bridges will find much to write to home about here and I reckon every minute of his hour would work equally as well on the live circuit.

A brisk half-an-hour turn around and we are back in The Stand for another full house on a Sunday night. There's nothing like a venue with more width than depth, brilliant sightlines and a low ceiling. So when you get an act who can exorcise howling, all-around-the-room, massive laughs, The Stand really feels like no place on earth. Kai Humphries made a 100 or so people unify and scream and roar so often and with such velocity that he deserves some kind of plaque erected in the side of the venue.

It is his cheeky innocent face, it's that devil grinning away behind his eyes, his authentic working class Geordie voice, his primed wiry body movements. It is the fact he is a naturally funny fucker who clearly loves that this is what he does for a living. He's infectious; incurable; a full blown outbreak of hilarity.

I've met Humphries once; seen him often. I remember going for a late night pint with him 15 or so years ago. We were in a loud metal bar down an alley in Soho, the few nerdy comedians sticking out like sore thumbs in a corner compared to the dark leathery regulars but, sure, weren't they still serving after midnight? At one point Humphries emerged from the toilet with a heavy biker chain covered in used loo rolls around his neck like a WC Mr T. He danced around for the night like that, like he was in Ayia Napa not The Cro Bar. He might be older now, certainly wiser, but the show Mischievous proves he's still a tearaway who cares little for following the rules.

Mischievous is a Nineties nostalgia show about his life growing up on an estate in Blyth and all the concrete naughtiness that entailed. He conjures up a rich tapestry of characters who wind in and out of his Joop tinged ASBO tales; Paedo Terry, Podge and Peggy. His mum becomes an unlikely vigilante wielding an even more unlikely weapon. Half the audience see their own childhood resurrected in these tales of estate living, codes and wobbly friendships. A hardcore Byker Grove that would eat PJ and Duncan alive. Others in the room flex that they are the same as us but Kai is smart enough to catch out at least one of the posing middle class, middle aged kids with a simple question. He builds a convivial but conspiratorial atmosphere around his naughty teen years. In all honesty, I hope we get to hear the next chapter when he starts growing up and getting into comedy. If memory serves me right, he's been a hit with audiences since a very young age.

Humphries is unguarded about all the fantastic doors his stand-up career has opened up to him in the 21st century. He has every right to be proud of his achievements and his grounded, positive attitude to life. His quick footed opener about gigging in Mumbai keeps the audience guessing. His gym towel anecdote to close the show twists the usually overly confident lad into being a little out of his comfort zone. It is all very relatable, feels spontaneous and the response he elicits is like nothing else. A lot of comedy press inches are devoted to TV names and rising quirksters but Humphries is doing circuit stand-up at a level that should be equally recognised. Man has mad chops.