There's a trick in Jerry Sadowitz's new show that perfectly synthesises his comedy and his conjuring. He arranges four cards with the letters T, W, A and T on them, flips them over to reveal W, A, N and K, then flips them back again to reveal C, U, N and - well, you get the picture. "That's my trick," says Sadowitz, with proprietorial pride, as if Davids Blaine and Copperfield were clamouring to claim the credit for themselves.
You get two for the price of one with Sadowitz, because his close-up magic tricks are perception-boggling, and his black comedy is ruthlessly funny. The combination is quite logical. His splenetic antisocial persona is hardly surprising given that, to be this good a conjuror, Sadowitz must spend 23 hours a day hunched over a pack of cards. Tonight, they are like an extension of his body. He can spirit specific cards to the top of the deck at will. He can make their faces vanish then reappear while your eye has been lingering on a blink. And he does all this while delegating the manual work to a battery-operated dismembered claw - Abu Hamza's hand, according to Sadowitz.
There is none of the usual magician's unctuousness: Sadowitz professes to hate showbiz. Of Derren Brown and neuro-linguistic programming, he has this to say to a woman in the front row: "What a load of rub your tits after the show." There is sexism, casual racism, homophobia, and a very funny attack on al-Qaida's humourlessness. But there is something liberating about such indiscriminate misanthropy, especially when delivered so intemperately, and always with a twinkle in the eye. There's no need, after all, to take seriously the sentiments of such a self-confessed sad-sack. "I've got to get laid," Sadowitz bellows, "just so I can unclench my face." He's foul-mouthed, full of hate and scarily skilful. But, weirdly enough, Jerry Sadowitz is also the most lovable clown in town.
· Thursdays to Saturdays until January 7. Box office: 0870 429 6883.
