Fringe comedy reviews: Rosco McClelland | Alana Jackson | Abby Howells + more

Monkey Barrel Comedy (Cabaret Voltaire) (Venue 338) until 24 August

As the best reviewed Scottish comedian at last year's Fringe and subsequent winner of the Sir Billy Connolly Spirit of Glasgow Award, Rosco McClelland has had a fantastic 12 months professionally. So why is he so unhappy and entertaining thoughts of suicide?

The Glaswegian feels played by the system, encouraged to share too much of his vulnerabilities for critics salivating for grit and trauma. As he acknowledges, no one's forcing him to perform. Yet he leaves this oft-whispered in hindsight thought from comics, rarely publicly expressed, to hang uncomfortably. After all, with his theatrical blackouts and appropriation of others' oppression or fatal endings, who's exploiting who? Even for an act as historically roistering and rascally as McClelland, the frivolity with which he approaches some of the bleakness in this hour is striking.

His standout early routine, about his mother's robot vacuum being lost and absconding, feels deliberately lightweight, contrived and crowd-pleasing, a series of flights of fancy about AI, missing pets and grief delivered with unapologetic verve for its inconsequence.

The extended, contorted run-ups to some of the punchlines, the self-conscious clunkiness to some of his wordplay is amusing in and of itself. But it also seems designed to establish a breakwater between the garrulous Rosco and the more introspective Ross, the sometime plumber and “sexy wee boy”, who once fought off inappropriate sexual advances.

By including such stories, he's not assuaging any discomfort, echoed in the entertaining accounts of his domestic squabbles and spite with his partner, which, noticeably, remain unleavened by expressions of love and compromise. His routines of exaggerated fury at developments in plastic recycling or having his personal space invaded on a long-haul flight work in isolation as funny, sustained tales of simmering irritation. Yet as part of the larger whole, they seem an additional expression of his deeper malaise.

Jay Richardson

Alana Jackson: Last Orders ★★★

Gilded Balloon at Appleton Tower (Pip) (Venue 140) until 24 August

As reigning winner of So You Think You're Funny?, UK comedy's most prestigious new act competition, Alana Jackson has the double-edged sword of eyes upon her, but pressure to make the jump from a seven-minute set to an hour. The London-based Glaswegian struggles to fulfil the latter part of that bargain. But she reiterates the ready charm and attitude that have established her as a stand-up.

She isn't the first struggling actor working in pubs who has pivoted into comedy in an attempt to take control of her career. But she makes it the focus of Last Orders too. Broadly but effectively contrasting the middle-class manners and relative temperance of metropolitan London with her more rough and ready pint-pulling jobs in Glasgow, she also stood out amongst the privileged, international cadre of her drama school, the pretentiousness of those classes recreated.

At this stage in her career, Jackson has a tendency to go for the easy laugh. Her mocking of the obligatory 40-minute sad section of Fringe comedy shows is clumsy and she pads out the hour by portraying her extravagant former bar manager, to no great distinction. Regardless, she's a compelling performer who just needs to sharpen her writing.

Jay Richardson

READ MORE: Edinburgh Fringe 2025 Four Star Comedy: 17 shows for the weekend

Abby Howells: Welcome to My Dream ★★★

Assembly George Square Studios (Venue 17) until 24 August

Considering the prejudice and bullying Abby Howells has faced throughout her comedy career, it's a pleasure to see her flourishing. A high-functioning autistic actor who's unable to maintain eye contact long enough to do all but the most fleeting crowd work, the girlish, preternaturally youthful-looking 35-year-old seems even slighter and more delicate in her inexplicable Victorian governess dress.

Yet the Kiwi stand-up has evolved a more forceful style of delivery that makes little distinction between her seemingly arbitrary vendettas, against a slightly rubbish tourist attraction, and a member of her former improv troupe that relentlessly abused her. Her viral online clips will have attuned more people to her atypical wavelength but they've also brought the haters out in force. Still, Howells is unswerving in her conviction that she's “crack up”.

And she is. From considering quitting comedy, successive shows have recorded her resolve and personal relationships faltering. Emerging stronger in every respect though, while not allowing her vocation to fully consume her as it has some Michael Jackson impersonators she observes, a bit of eccentric whimsy featuring an imaginary pig double act partner showcases the direction her material could likely go, once she can eventually stop defending herself and simply be a comic.

Jay Richardson

Jessica Fostekew: Iconic Breath ★★★

Monkey Barrel (Venue 515) until 24 August

Plenty of things annoy Jessica Fostekew, but is she as prone to anger as her father, she wonders? Either way, we benefit as she rages with witty precision about everything from the irritating cadence of female American podcasters to being used as a human lectern on a crowded train.

Fans of Fostekew always look forward to updates on her young son, who, despite her progressive living and parenting, reveals quite the instinct for blokey behaviour. His least toxic hero, she muses, is Godzilla (the character offering a clue about the show’s title), and his love of playing football means she now spends a lot of her time screaming from the sidelines during his matches.

As a result, she now spends more time than ever before with people who have very different values from her own, which lends itself to some engaging material about how we find ourselves members of unexpected new communities.

Fostekew is a persuasive and charismatic presence, lighting up the room with descriptions of how she and her girlfriend resolve conflict, and allowing herself to reveal some touching tenderness about her late and adored grandmother, a maths whizz and former World War II codebreaker.

Ashley Davies

READ MORE: Fringe comedy reviews: Robyn Reynolds: What Doesn't Kill You + more

Phil Green: A Broken Man’s Guide to Fixing Others ★★★

Banshee Labyrinth (Venue 156) until 24 August

Phil Green is on a one-man mission to save middle-aged men from mid-life crises. He reckons he has all the tools he needs to do so, and to teach his audience how to help prevent crimes against lycra. A scouting prodigy (although he doesn’t like to talk about it) in his 40s who has suffered his own dark times and is no stranger to an Iron Man race – he’s slap bang in the middle of the demographic Venn diagram.

The resultant comedy TED talk, complete with the inevitable PowerPoint, identifies as being “a life-changing show” and, while that may be comic hyperbole, it does have more than a scintilla of seriousness, covering as it does the poor mental health commonly suffered by men of a certain age.

There’s a lot of material here, even putting aside the many visual and prop gags, and Green’s rapid-fire delivery can be exhausting. He’s at his best when he dials things down a little, the wonderful routine about a Chief Scout Award achieved at a young age being a perfect case in point – letting the jokes breathe, with laughs effortlessly filling the gaps so sorely lacking when he’s in full flow.

David Hepburn

Homesick Or: I Don't Belong Here ★★

PBH's Free Fringe @ Satyr (Venue 337) until 24 August

Halil gets two stars because I don't believe he is strong enough to cope with the crowd that a one-star review attracts. The programme entry promises “deadpan wit” and “dark political satire”. What we get is borderline incomprehensible ramblings and assurances that “this bit normally kills”.

There are stories about coffee house adventures in Amsterdam, his now-home, and considerations of Turkish racism and 'what is white'. He is performing in a second language, and that will affect things, but not to the extent that he has to explain “that was the punchline” at the end of a routine.

Kate Copstick

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