The Ashenden, Fiddaman and Owen Show started with a powerpoint, and, understandably, the sold out ADC theatre audience was immediately on board.  The best thing about this show, and what set it apart from the many well-executed sketch comedies put on in Cambridge, was was the degree of subtlety with which it was carried out.  The calm ability of Ashenden and co. - apologies to those relegated to ‘co’; I assume that the show’s title was alphabetized to avoid such confrontations about who was most important - to slip seamlessly in and out of character in order to smile gently at their success was a joy to watch. It was some of the sweetest, most amiable smugness which you are likely to see in comedy.

And this was another contributor to the success of the show: its three eponymous stars were unshakably likable.  There was nothing mean-spirited in any of their material; it was only ever cheeky.  This was because anything which even approached cruelty, such as the parody of charity appeal adverts (‘Think about it.  Don’t go to Somalia’), was executed with a sense of impish knowing.  Most interesting, given the breadth of demented characters featured in the show, was the fact that Ashenden and co kept the audience consistently on side.  There were even audible ‘awws’ at the hint of discomfort for an exasperated Mark Fiddaman struggling to tell his two friends a joke.

At this point, it is necessary to mention one thing: Ben Ashenden has a very special left eye.  His capability to execute the most carefully timed maniacal twitches consistently enlivened his more peculiar character pieces, and his willowy physicality thrilled the already over-excited audience no end. All three skinny jean-ed young gents carried off an impressive range of rhythmically unpredictable voices in which odd emphases on words turned simple context lines into big laughs.

Aside from the obvious professionalism of the cast, the writing was stellar too, especially in the interweaving narratives of parallel sketches. Like all sketch shows, the lads toyed with cliched premises, but managed never to approach cliche themselves, and as such we were treated to some the most refreshingly stylish smut which I have seen in Cambridge.  The opening sketch was about premature ejaculation. And yes, it was funny.

It’s usually good to put a snappy quotation in your review, and it’s telling that in that respect, I have failed. This wasn’t because there weren’t any gleefully quotable lines - there were many - but because the show was so tightly constructed that the majority of lines would require too much context to be included. This was the final, resounding success of the show: its sense of unbending unity.

I enjoyed it so much that I neglected my comedy train-spotting-style tendency to note down the premise of every single sketch. This was Cambridge comedy which didn’t even require constant and studious analysis to be funny.