Oh my stars and garters, where to even begin with this show? Fish in the Sea is magical theatre, in the sense that you’re not quite sure how it even exists. The concentration of tiger-print, sequins and too-tight jean shorts in such a low-ceiling venue must surely violate the laws of physics, let alone the laws of human decency.

A show like this defies description, but it is essentially a tale of a man learning to love again after a difficult breakup. Salmonella hotdogs, Keynesian record-keeping systems, and interventions from the spirit of reggae ensue. Lessons are possibly learned, but I'm not quite sure. I'm still reeling from all the fish-buggery gags.

I have no idea whose fevered mind this show was birthed from, or where they found their costumes and props, or how more than one person agreed to realise its twisted script as a Fringe show. And I'm not entirely sure what audience it's intended for. But if you like the sound of a show which openly styles itself as gross-out amateur theatre, and then just commits too too far to the concept, then you're going to have a good time here. Because for all the existential confusion this show inspires in me, I can't deny that it's a hell of a lot of fun.

It unfortunately runs long – the show I attended went twenty minutes past its advertised end-time – and the frenetic pace gets tiresome after a while. Almost paradoxically, as the non-sequiturs become more outlandish they start to feel more predictable. But I'm sure the show will tighten up on subsequent performances, so don't let that put you off too much. But if you are going, probably best not bring your nan.


For show times and to book tickets, see the Fringe guide.