As indicated by the title, this is a strange little show from a sweet speccy chap in a suit.
Star rating: ***
Venue: Cowgatehead (Venue 32)
It is endlessly inventive and fun, with community singing, some innovative impressions, a great deal of bad feeling between his glasses and his tie and an analysis of what comes out when you are sick on the street when you are 20.
We are drawn in by Frank Foucault, who creates seduction scenes with plugs and offers up the Macarena in hilarious slow motion. Thanks to a girl in the fifth row, we also get 70 seconds of the sound of a kettle coming to the boil. His interstitial chat is kept to a minimum.
“That was that bit,” he says, having just recited a Dylan Thomas poem and done an impression of a pre-broadband internet connection. His last gag is a tiny work of comic genius. I will say no more. “Weird is a matter of perception,” says Frank. Do go along and perceive away.