I’ve never thought about the title before. It’s been on our screens for over 20 years now, weaving itself into the very fabric of the day to day, so that the words Curb Your Enthusiasm have become a totem, a signifier of all that lays within, their original meaning masked by familiarity. What is Larry David telling us? Is it the tragic lesson his alter-ego can never learn, to reign in his passion for righting the perceived wrongs of the modern world. It sounds like a challenge to us all, perhaps he sees our zealous commitment to unthinking dogma as the source of the worlds ills. It could have been a private joke on the HBO execs who must have been over the moon to nab the co-creator of Seinfeld, the source of LD’s powers of wealth and credibility that make him LA’s answer to Bruce Wayne. Or he could be saying, chill out, it’s just a comedy show.

I reckon he just thought it sounded cool, the same reason he picked the theme tune after hearing it on a commercial. He trusted his comedic instincts, as he trusts those of his cast as they improvise through the carefully curated scenes. The moment the mandolin kicks in and the tuba backs it up, if you’ve seen one episode you know what you’re in for. The core elements stay the same, the main cast, the guest celebrities, the LA background of the rich, huge houses, nice restaurants, golf courses, but like a jazz performance the tune is shuffled, different styles from slapstick to silliness to social commentary emphasised, everything taken apart then recombined so that what’s played comes out as its own new piece of art.

What that might also mean is a slight dip in the finished product, the elements not always coming together to create something greater than the whole. I’m happy taking what I can get, an addict more than grateful to glug the bottle even if this year’s fine wine isn’t vintage. I’ve waited two episodes into this season, the eleventh, to sniff the cork and take a swill, to see what the background theme, usually a failed TV show or business venture, might point to. It’s the former, and so far, signs are good. Pretty, pretty…well you get the idea.

Albert Brooks channeling Larry Sanders, John Hamm, who I demand be in every episode vacillating between goofiness and matinee masculinity, urethral discipline, plopping, toilet seats that won’t stay up, the correct age of towels, even a throw away moment about where someone chooses to sit, are all high notes of comedy, and they keep on coming, even though the episodes seem to be getting longer, coming in around 40 minutes. There’s a dissonant chord or two, but they’re not from laziness, rather being the result of a conductor stretching themselves to push ever further. That they deign to play for us at all is a gift, and as long as we can trust humanity to continuing failing Larry, long may he continue not failing us.