Ban this Filth!

There's a moment at the climax of Alan Bissett's new piece where it all gets awkward. Really awkward. Edinburgh's dutifully liberal theatregoing set find themselves thrust into the position of domineering aggressor, soliciting cheap thrills out of the writer's vulnerability, all the while willing him to enjoy it as much as he has the previous fifty minutes of relatively easy philosophical banter. It's also the moment where Bissett's sixth-form cod debate on feminism falls apart, making way for something much more interesting.

What he sets up here is a straight head to head between the musings of a Falkirk native brought up on a diet of Predator, football, and Jamie Lee Curtis' boobs in the film Trading Places, and Andrea Dworkin's no-holds-barred mauling of pornography and patriarchy. Both come out of it bloodied and barely standing. It's a nice conceit, and largely works – and in places, that's shouldered by some neat writing, Dworkin's strident, furious lamentations contrasting with the easy colloquialism of Bissett's masculine—and feminist—awakening. But for all the charm (and, dammit, Bissett has it by the bucketload), there's a weight his banter can't support. Marking the move from childhood into teenage years, for instance, Bisset moulds and modifies language and references to a child's changing priorities and growing prejudices. But it's a podgy monologue crying out for the discipline of an editor's pen.

Absolutely, Bissett juggles his ideas here with dexterity and a strong sense of form. But when it comes to execution, he's phoned it in a bit here.