Philip O'Shea

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For two reasons, Philip O'Shea is a very silly man. The first is very much linked to the torrent of nonsense coming not just out of his mouth, but also out of a Lidl bag-for-life, springing from crudely drawn artboards, and attached to the end of his hands. Utter, delicious nonsense. Linking Bruce Forsyth with Rodin's 'The Thinker', for instance. Or Werther's Originals with Andrex puppies and jellyfish. Or inventing animal-shaped jam jars. Literally, one could list every 'joke' in O'Shea's set and leave a reader none the wiser as to what to expect from this whimsical manhandling.

"I would hate for you to go away thinking I've not got a good grip on reality," he pleads, knowing full well that this may be the only conclusion to draw from a very skilfully delivered voyage into imaginative unknowns. Problem is, O'Shea dies a little this afternoon.

Cue point two: his choice of venue is plain daft. It's pretty churlish to criticise such a thing in a festival where just getting on a stage is a minor victory, and even more churlish to diss an audience for not laughing. But there it is: few punters ambling down the Grassmarket and into a free show to kill an afternoon hour are going to get much from a performer positioning himself right on the alternative edge of invention. O'Shea has found an original and interesting comic voice; he just needs to find an audience for it.