Any lady staging a hen night in Edinburgh over the next three weeks should seriously consider taking her party to see the Kitsch Kittens at the Underbelly, writes Maddy Costa.
Not because they're any good, mind. It's just that this daft, screechy show - a mixture of crass sexual comedy and girl-group pop karaoke - would make much more sense if the audience were full of drunken women draped in feather boas and singing along raucously. Sitting there on my own, cringing at the horrible tinny synthesiser tracks being used (Kittens, I beg you, get hold of some proper Phil Spector singalong tapes without delay), I didn't have an enormous amount of fun.
Much like a hen night, the Kitsch Kittens' show relies a great deal on the presence of men willing to play along as shameless women flirt violently and leer outrageously.
And, much like women on a hen night, the Kittens seem to take their show as an excuse to behave like incorrigible ditzes. Barbie - the tall blonde one - mixes up the words lesbian and thespian; Sindy - short, plump and red-headed, of course - equates bad memories of a relationship with a virulent case of herpes.
It's undeniable that the world of Johnny Angel and One Fine Day and Leader of the Pack, in which boys are rebels and girls are innocent and true, is ripe for parody. So why do it at the expense of intelligence?
