The comedian John Gordillo set out to write a show about politics, and ended up writing one about his dad. Next year, he says apologetically, “I'll write a show about the world around me.” But he already has. Gordillo's intellectual yet heartfelt show makes the personal political with the sort of relaxed intelligence associated with Reginald D. Hunter, whose shows Gordillo used to direct.

Wearing glasses, jacket and jeans, Gordillo has the air of a public-school liberal. But actually, he tells us, he grew up in a council flat, the only child of a Spanish Socialist. He super-anglicised himself in answer to his father's fits of fury at anyone he saw as an enemy of the workers: “I can't tell you how often Hitler was spotted in Enfield in my childhood.”

But doesn't Dad have a right to be infuriating: abandoned by his own father, growing up poor in Franco's Spain, then raising a child on his own in a foreign land? Swinging in and out of his father's heavy accent, Gordillo tries to find what's really making his father so fractious. And ends up arguing that political extremism springs from emotional repression. But he manages to make it stand-up, not a lecture.

When Gordillo is being heartfelt, intellectual or angry, such as in a tetchy account of a family trip to the circus - “the plague with juggling!” - he's dynamite. When he's plying less personal fare, such as an OK routine about organic chicken, he can look like a man imitating a comedian. The father and son stuff is what matters here, and you want to see even more of it. By his own admission, it doesn't all work as comedy. But it covers enough intellectual and emotional terrain to be riveting anyway. It's the kind of show that makes you delighted to be at the Fringe.

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