Lucy Porter's show is ostensibly about luck. But she doesn't tell us anything about luck we don't know. As so often with stand-up, the premise is just a peg on which to hang several tenuously related jokes. It might equally well be about cheese, or the planet Saturn.
Of course, this barely matters. Porter is charming company, with a likeable line in audience flattery and impish self-deprecation. She exploits the incongruity between her bubbly elvin appearance and acid tongue. "When I was your age," she tells a teenager in the front row, "if you'd shown me the men I go out with now I'd have asked you to shoot me in the face."
But, having established a promising theme for her show, it's a shame Porter mines it only for inconsequential pleasantries.
Among these, there are reflections on coincidence - the fact that several serial killers have 13 letters in their name, the certainty that two people in the audience will share a birthday.
Using Google, which appears to have been Porter's primary research tool, she establishes a distinction between the female idea of luck (marriage) and the male (sex). The show ends with a threadbare stunt to do with superstition.
But even at its best, it seldom trades in insight, or hilarity. It's just entertaining chat.
· Until August 30. Box office: 0131-226 2428.
