Lucy Porter is here to talk about ethical living. Not, it seems, because we need to save the world, but because she needs to believe people will say nice things about her at her funeral. But this solipsist's take on living The Good Life (as her show is called) is easy to enjoy, once we accept that the hour will yield deeper insights into Porter's thirtysomething neuroses than into corporate sponsorship, sustainable living, or the health-giving properties of carrots.
It starts with a routine about advertising, taking as the recent example the fact that, to hijack World Cup fever, Mars changed the name of its chocolate bar to Believe. "I resent," says Porter, "being told what to do by a snack." Elsewhere, she talks about the need to be tolerant, but that's mainly an excuse to discuss sexual fetishism. And her material on ethical consumption segues into a rant against smug (and largely hypothetical) middle-class environmentalists.
Porter is happiest on her traditional comic territory, in that no-man's-land (literally, if Porter is to be believed) between sweet-natured appearance and potty-mouthed persona. She plays the desperate singleton: "John Prescott's having more sex than me, and I'm meant to have tits." And there's a nifty routine about the possibly fatal impracticality of going on a first date at lunchtime.
It might be disappointing that a show about living responsibly so often lapses into more predictable chat about Porter's supposed neediness. But her charm more than compensates, as does the closing set-piece, Porter's imaginary funeral eulogy, which unites the show's moral and personal themes. "Lucy has requested that after her cremation, her ashes be thrown in Carol Vorderman's face." If ethical living were as undemanding as Porter's show, the planet would be back on its feet in no time.
· Until August 28. Box office: 0131-556 6550.
