This is the kind of show you will either love or hate - and I loved it. It is possible that Julian Fox is a very ill man in need of counselling and anti-depressant medication. I prefer to think of him as curiously clever.
He is an odd little man with a surreal little half-hour show that is entrancing and strangely, irresistibly funny. No jokes, the kind of pauses that make Pinter look like Ross Noble on a roll, and the kind of obsession to detail that turns his monologue into a kind of verbal calligraphy.
He enters carrying a large inflatable Northwest Airlines jumbo and a photo album. He looks at us for what is really quite a long time in Fringe comedy. He says, finally, that he has been trying to put together a piece of experimental theatre. Exploring his thoughts. About masculinity. And God. After which he gently treats us to a series of random thoughts, memories and observations rather than indulging us in any kind of narrative.
His sentences have a habit of ending abruptly, his trains of thought do emergency stops long before they reach a station. He pulls tiny folded pieces of paper from his pockets and reads from them. We listen to "songs" that are more recitative than aria while we pass the photograph album around and look at snaps of cityscapes and landscapes, London and Edinburgh. We have absolutely no idea what he is on about.
But we love him. He is talking us through a painting of four cubes which he explains is "a bit abstract" but makes him think of his family. "The little cube at the bottom is me," he confides and a woman melts and utters a sympathetic "aaaahhhh".
He dances with a minimally clad Ken (he doesn’t seem the Barbie type), he tells us his first love was Gatwick Airport and he even describes a dream he had about Lou Rawls showing people round a noisy housing estate.
It struck me that the government don’t really need to legalise cannabis while Julian Fox is performing. Go. Chill. Giggle. Enjoy.
Until 27 August