Tom Ward: Sex, Snails and Cassette Tapes

Tom Ward immediately puts paid to any conventional sense of momentum or excitement as he materialises on stage to the strains of The Smiths, allowing his intro music to continue playing out of respect for Morrissey. The audience interaction that follows is commendably thorough, and further proof of the man's inclination toward haphazard spontaneity. What's most notable at this point in the set, however, is the lethargic pace with which Ward goes off piste. It's the first Fringe performance of his debut hour, and already he seems tired. This isn't deadpan schtick, but more likely a capable newcomer concerned that he lacks the stamina necessary for a uniformly strong performance.

This is unfortunate as much of the ensuing material is in need of a hard sell. Focussing first on relationships between men and women, Ward comes off as a sort of indie Jim Davidson with his crass generalisations about the opposite sex. Elsewhere, he refers to nights out in gay clubs as though a beacon of worldliness and enlightenment, his tolerance undercut by the implication that the older men inhabiting these venues all wanted to sodomise him in the toilets.

“Can you picture me listening to Cher?” he asks incredulously. Well, I don't see why not mate, music's a broad church.

For all Sex, Slugs and Cassette Tapes' faults, it's to the performer's credit that even his most hackneyed routines offer glimmers of inspiration, his lyrical, descriptive language in turns poetic and surreal.