Huang’s show begins before the allotted time, as the audience trickles in. He’s already in full host mode — chatty, disarming, and greeting newcomers with the warmth of an old friend. We’re in his “Yurt of Mirth,” a circular little haven that, only days earlier, was blown halfway to Leith like Dorothy’s farmhouse in The Wizard of Oz when Storm Floris came calling. Thanks to the tireless Hoots staff, it’s now back, repaired and restored to full comedic capacity — and this afternoon, Huang is tearing it up.

Taiwanese-born Huang proudly declares himself a “gay pop music whore,” a man whose encyclopedic knowledge of breakup ballads could power a pub quiz team for decades. Adele and Little Mix are dispatched with loving brutality, the kind of teasing that comes from deep familiarity. These are the canapés before the main course — a warm-up for what’s to come. And like Huang himself, the main course is an absolute delight.

The show’s premise is gloriously specific: Andrews are the worst people on the planet. A bold claim, yes, but Huang builds his case with lawyerly precision and comedian’s instinct. Andrew Tait, Andrew Prince, and, in one of the night’s best put-downs, Andrew Bryant — the Coldplay concert–attending CEO caught on camera clutching his mysterious condiment — all fall under his comic scalpel. You can’t argue with the data he provides, though you might wonder how he’s kept the receipts.

The bile, of course, comes from a personal place: both of his ex-partners were called Andrew. One from London, the other from Canada. While wildly different in some respects, there are undeniable shared traits, and Huang relishes detailing them, each observation landing with both sting and silliness.

This is where the show shifts up a gear. Huang’s dissection of these relationships is as sharp as it is playful, painting miniature portraits of love gone sour without ever tipping into self-pity. His crowd work is instinctive and unforced — he pulls people into the narrative without derailing it, like a conductor cueing an orchestra. Even his rants feel inclusive, more like letting us in on a delicious bit of gossip than venting personal grievances.

Along the way, there are wicked little detours: digs at the quirks of Chinese culture, a bizarre and brilliant Jason Statham–meets–Grindr cosplay scenario, and an exquisite low-budget acupuncture experience in London that could have been lifted from a lost Carry On film. When he raises his voice, it’s not anger but emphasis — a way of wringing out the tension before the next laugh hits.

The mixed-age crowd is utterly with him from start to finish, following this pied piper of sass and sparkle right to the end — which is rare at the Fringe, where a distracted punter can be lost in a heartbeat.

This is an excellent hour from one of the sharpest Asian comedians working today, in complete command of his room and his material. Sign up for the cult of Huang now — by the time you leave, even the Andrews in your life might grudgingly admit they have flaws.