"Obesity is killing thousands of poor people especially in the north," advises the parliamentary private secretary Frank (Clive Hayward), the traditional, caring voice a working-class northern voice of the old Labour Party. "Good!" drawls his lord and master, in whom has died (did it ever live?) any trace of human kindness. Yes, Alan B'stard (Rik Mayall) is back, fouler and, happily, funnier than ever.

It is a shocking comment on the New Labour 'project' that Laurence Marks and Maurice Gran's grotesque comic creation an ogre conceived in response to the venality, mendacity and sleaze of the Thatcher and Major governments could now be imagined as thriving as a member of Blair's team. But with all we are coming to know about, inter alia, the peddling of peerages, the bedding of secretaries, the vastly expensive party-funded coiffeurs for the leader's wife all gleefully referenced in a script that is obviously being rewritten from day to day as new scandals emerge B'stard can be seen to be very much at home there.

Subtle The New Statesman is definitely not, with none of the wit and insight of, for instance, Alistair Beaton's Feelgood, which was seen at the Oxford Playhouse five years ago on its way to the West End. The plot involves kidnappings, blackmail, murder, weapons of mass destruction and lots and lots of sex, which is talked about continuously and occasionally rather graphically demonstrated, as when Alan endures a peripatetic romp around most parts of his panelled office at No 9 Downing Street (designer Bob Bailey) with pneumatic political wannabe Flora (Helen Baker). A sexy, strutting, mini-skirted Condaleeza (Alexandra Gunn) puts in a couple of appearances, quelling our hero's ardour on her first visit with a well-aimed knee in his groin. Further punishment comes his way at the hands of an Al-Qaeda terrorist (Kamaal Hussain) whose ambitions he is treacherously assisting.

The absurdity of the plot is such as to suggest the influence of works by Joe Orton, while the monomaniac horror of B'stard himself can only properly be conveyed through comparison with Alfred Jarry's Pre Ubu. Mayall manages the full-throttle performance necessary to present this manic monster, after a little uncertainty on the opening night caused by the off-putting antics and hyena laugh of a woman in the middle of the front row (this was the first time since punk days that I can recall hearing the star of a show telling one of his fans to "f*** off").

The biggest laugh of the evening (Hyena's included) came when the wonderful Marsha Fitzalan, as Alan's terrifying upper-crust wife Sarah a character familiar from the TV series explained the origin of the beautiful fur coat encasing her slender form: "It was woven from the pubic hair of a thousand animal rights activists."

What a politically incorrect lot we are!