16 years since becoming a regular on our TV screens, it's good to see that Russell Howard is willing to speak with uncomfortable honesty on stage. Ticket holders would be advised to brace themselves, for the hard truths just don't stop coming in his latest tour show: throughout, we're variously shocked to discover that nurses are apparently underpaid, politicians and journalists sometimes tell lies, consent is important, that money spent on the royal family might have been better-utilised funding schools, that America could benefit from exercising a little gun control, and that Liz Truss's tenure as prime minister maybe wasn't a consistent stream of unequivocal political success.

Audience members that survive the detonation of these truth bombs do, at least, usually get a decent punchline that goes some way to justifying each piece of stating-the-obvious, sixth-former political thinking. If there's a sense he's not providing the hottest political takes in comedy, there are additional ways in which you feel Howard sometimes goes overboard in trying to convince you he's One Of The Good Guys, deploying sentimentality and - on four separate occasions - mentioning the fact his wife is a doctor. In the hands of a less-skilled joke writer, these would be actively annoying traits. The thing is though: Russell Howard is definitely a skilled joke writer.

Another thing you can usually expect at a Howard show is stories about his quirky, unconventional upbringing. Long the stock-in-trade of his live shows, it's somewhat impressive that, at this stage in his career, he's still able to present fresh stories from his family life. But fresh stories he has, and they still manage to be both high quality and surprising, which feels like quite an achievement.

It does feel as though something else is being achieved here. After a fantastic opening 20 minutes that features several of the show's best punchlines, things settle down into what you'd describe as "consistently good fun". Other big-name comedians at this stage of their career have long since struggled to maintain this dependable level of quality. It might not be breaking new ground, but it's good at doing the most important job: making you laugh.

I've spoken a few times before in this column about how working class representation in comedy is not just bad, but actively getting worse. Makes sense, then, to take a closer look at those who are working to find solutions to the problem.

Best in Class was set up in 2018 and describes itself as a "crowd-funded profit-sharing show that champions the rich talent of working class comedians". The Edinburgh Fringe is seen as a place where comedians improve their craft, but by many it's also seen as something of a trade show: a crucial platform for them to display their skills to the industry in the hope of getting talent-spotted, offered more lucrative work, or becoming one of that year's breakout stars. The issue is, it's also notoriously unaffordable. This means less and less working class comedians are managing to break through into the industry. Best in Class are working to improve access for comedians who would otherwise stand no chance of being able to perform there.

These commendable efforts led to them being awarded the panel prize at last year's Edinburgh Comedy Awards (the £5000 prize money from which they have since admirably decided to give away as bursaries for working class acts attending this year's festival). After winning the award, however, Best in Class founder Sian Davies publicly complained about their poor ticket sales, telling the industry that "clapping isn't enough" and asking them to "put their money where their mouth is".

What conclusion to draw from this? That comedy fans have a tendency to attend shows for a good night out, rather than a sort of support-the-strikers sense of collective solidarity? If it's true that Best in Class is a comedy night worth attending because of how great their cause is, is it also a show worth seeing for comedy fans just looking for an evening of high-quality stand-up?

It helps that the show is well-programmed. On the night we attend, guests Fran Garrity, Sapphire MacIntosh and Kathryn Mather are all on great form, with Mather in particular clearly worthy of wider attention.

The only substantial issue with the whole operation is, tonight at least, our host. Whilst Davies is excellent when explaining exactly why her organisation is an important one, at the start of the evening - when she has the job of creating a bit of comedy club atmosphere - things fall flat. It's not helped by the fact that, when engaging the audience, she asks everyone the same question - "what did you have for your dinner tonight?" - and each time it fails to produce any funny interactions. It's then left to the guest comedians themselves to generate some atmosphere in the room.

Davies suggested back in February that she'd be hosting the shows less moving forward. Amongst Britain's other stand-up showcases, Weapons of Mass Hilarity - which champions Middle Eastern comedians - has opted for having a different host from the comedian who originally set the night up, and it does the shows a world of good. You're left wondering if - by taking a similar approach - Best in Class might now really take flight as a big successful comedy night.

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