Bob Slayer: Worldwide Bawbag

It's hard not to like Bob Slayer. In some indefinable way, he seems to believe he's doing God's work. It's not just his DIY vision of the Fringe—in a nutshell, why should performers lose thousands on a Fringe run?—which has led him to perform here, in the back room of a rented house on South College Street.

His sincerity runs deeper than that. He demonstrates a heartfelt commitment to “being an idiot” as a lifestyle choice. The bulk of this artfully ramshackle and under-rehearsed show (Bob hasn't finished getting dressed, and often pokes his head through the curtain separating the “stage” from the bar/front room to interrupt his friends' conversation) consists of anecdotes about the idiotic things Bob has done, and the even more idiotic things he saw other people do in his former life as a road manager for, among others, the Bloodhound Gang and Snoop Dogg. Of those two, the former have the better idiocy stories. running a Snoop Dogg tour merely required sourcing large quantities of dope (who knew?), while the Bloodhound Gang like to shit on each other and put sausages up groupies' bums. If it's idiocy you're after, these are your guys.

For the most part this is an enjoyable hour in the company of a natural storyteller and a nice-seeming bloke, but Bob is docked a star for getting his cock out at the end. When there are six people in the crowd, you should be able to judge its mood better than that.