The man with the most distinctive face in comedy ­ part glam rocker, part garden gnome ­ is in high spirits tonight. Formerly one half of the Perrier-nominated Arctic Boosh, Noel Fielding has returned with a solo show and is brimming with confidence. "I feel good," he declares, swivelling his skinny hips and flashing a saucy smile. "Let's go rock climbing."

His is a surreal world of men with antlers and ram's legs, talking woodland voles and wolves in trilbies. If you think that sounds weird, you don't know the half of it. Unlike, say, Ross Noble's improvised psychedelic tales, Fielding's are densely scripted and come spilling from his mouth like water from an overflowing basin. There are drawbacks to this mile-a-minute patter, however. In one instance he loses his train of thought and his precariously constructed vision ­ something about a shaving box and a penguin ­ comes tumbling down around his ears.

As with his work in Boosh, Fielding's show comes with an enticingly theatrical edge and a taste for the macabre. The aforementioned wolf in a trilby is in fact a beast of the night who rapes people's shadows. Scary? Perhaps not. Funny? Without a doubt.