Basil Fawlty, Loadsamoney, Victor Meldrew... we Brits have a soft spot for comic monsters. No wonder we've fallen head over heels for The League of Gentlemen, creators of such horrors as Edward and Tubbs, the inbred xenophobes who kill anyone who dares enter their "local shop for local people", Pauline, the "dole scum"-hating Restart officer, and Herr Lipp, the foreign exchange teacher with a taste for innuendo and teenage boys. These titans of certainty and self-esteem stride through life on a carpet of little people, yet now and again we find ourselves identifying with them and feeling a little of the sympathy they never will.

The League have spent six years honing these villains and their victims; their two TV series, set in the fictional northern town of Royston Vasey, offered a fine chance to spot sketches recycled from live shows and radio. But the repetition did not matter: there was always some twist to keep things fresh. And Steve Pemberton, Mark Gatiss and Reece Shearsmith are outstanding comic actors.

Now they are mixing things up in the West End, with more than two energetic hours of new material and old favourites. For the first half, the League wear the dinner jackets they originally adopted as an ironic nod to the dominance of Oxbridge revue acts. One of the earliest sketches, where Gatiss and Pemberton don football scarfs to play two boorish theatre fans at an unseen Shakespeare play ("C'mon, Hamlet, make your fucking mind up") confirms they can still do the simple things, and do them well.

But they return after the interval to give us the full Royston Vasey experience, complete with grotesque make-up and outfits, innumerable set changes, thunderflashes and dry ice. This is what the audience has been waiting for: Potts and Tubbs, Herr Lipp, Pauline, toad-obsessives Val and Harvey Denton, Babs the transsexual cab-driver, failed rock star Les McQueen, and Dr Chinnery, the deadly vet, here pulling the head off a rabbit in a failed magic trick. The crowd are so fired up by the chance to see live TV stars that they'd laugh at any old rubbish, and it's to the League's credit that they barely slacken.

Pemberton does have a tendency to play to the audience, a smug little simper on his chops. But then, as Herr Lipp might say, sometimes you have the right to feel a little cocky.

• Until April 7. Box office: 020-7494 5000.