Tim Vine: Timtiminee Timtiminee Tim Tim To You

Without imposing subjective bias, it is safe to say that Tim Vine is not for everyone. While maintaining editorial integrity, one could even go so far as to say that an hour with Vine is many people's idea of Hell. Indeed, to some Fringe-goers, if the cosmic war between good and evil was won by Satan's horde, his ghoulish legions ushering humankind into the Underworld beneath a venom-blackened sky, it is entirely possible that the Seventh or Eighth Circle of Hell would be an auditorium in which Vine pulls on a boater hat and utters the words: "My girlfriend is a raspberry. I sure know how to pick 'em."

Through the echoes of uproarious applause, you notice that your watch has stopped running. There is breath at your ear. "I am the All-Master," whispers a voice. "I am the Morning Star." The voice is there and not there. The air is thick with the once-mortal heat of damned souls. Tim Vine starts to jitterbug.

But that is only the opinion of a few – and they aren't here tonight. There is indeed that uproarious applause, and Vine's audience of hundreds is in stitches from start to finish. There's an injured dancing pig ("He pulled his hamstring"), and an Arnold Schwarzenegger bit. Vine hasn't deviated from his long-standing shtick in the slightest – his act is still a onslaught of fluffy puns, contextless musical numbers, and a smattering of the surreal. Vine provides us with no narrative structure. He doesn't need to: Something is at work in the hearts of his fans, and if you happen to be one of them, you will adore his hyper-energetic hour.