You cannot teach an old dog entirely new tricks, but perhaps they can learn to be more tactful.

The last time Billy Connolly appeared at the Hammersmith Apollo, in 2004, he caused an uproar with a controversial remark about Iraq hostage Ken Bigley.

Last night, opening a three-week run, he stuck his tartan brothel creepers firmly into more deserving targets, from smarmy politicians to snout-in-trough bankers. 

Now 67 and almost completely white-haired, the comedy legend lost his way more than usual, but the random approach has always been part of his chatty style.

One moment he was revealing the sock-stealing pranks he used to play in youth hostels, the next he was recalling spotting the face of Jesus in an iceberg and then singing the praises of his gran, who was so tough she used to shave her armpits with broken beer bottles. A lot of comedians have emerged in recent years to challenge Connolly for the mainstream stand-up crown. Peter Kay and Michael McIntyre have come close, but the Big Yin is holding on like an ageing prizefighter. 

Amid the scattershot riffing there were some classic routines. He was scalpel sharp on the protocol of swearing (“there is no such thing as bad language, only bad use of good language”) and his impersonation of a linguine-legged Edinburgh drunk was priceless. 

The most shocking thing, apart from admitting that he liked Cliff Richard, was that while Connolly has not exactly mellowed — the front row needed umbrellas during frequent spittle-flecked tirades — compared with Frankie Boyle and Jimmy Carr he seemed benign. An anecdote about exposing himself at a posh Edinburgh buffet was crude but strangely playful.

And he almost made amends for his Ken Bigley jibe with a passionate anti-war observation about increasingly large memorials. Apart from the lack of an interval, suggesting that the Billy bladder is in as fine fettle as his wit, there was only one other issue. Two hours of original material was bulked out by the repeating of old gags told by showbiz chums such as Frank Carson and Jimmy Nail.

Yet even here his storytelling supremacy turned well-worn lines like the Irish Titanic joke — “Built In Belfast. It was OK when it left here” — into gems again. Angry, arrogant and barking mad. And still top dog.

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