Micky Flanagan was not marked for greatness. At school in east London, his prospects were made crystal clear - in metalwork, he and his classmates were taught to make ashtrays, then bottle openers, then prams. Even when working at Billingsgate market, Flanagan was of the class that carried the fish to the van, and only ever dreamt of driving the vehicle itself.
This comedy set, in which Flanagan both exploits and sends up his cheeky cockney charm, lays out like a cod on a slab his journey from Billingsgate via Wall Street to a comedy career and an ill-fitting middle-class identity. He's torn, even now, between Blue Nun and Zinfandel - but he makes both funny.
It's a very laconic biography, throughout which Flanagan can't quite wipe the grin off his face. His open, self-deprecating personality is the show's prime asset - when he dresses in a kimono to depict his 80s-era seduction technique, the breezy unselfconsciousness compensates for some unexceptional material.
Elsewhere, the jokes are good as well: from the aghast-in-translation moment when the cockney asks the Manhattanite if he can "come in her house", to the effort to learn the name of last night's anonymous inamorata by rifling through her post. It doesn't work: "I can't just call her The Occupier."
Offsetting the lovable lad character, Flanagan's story is also a social history in microcosm, in which the erstwhile fish porter pitches up first at university, much to his fellow students' confusion ("Fucking hell! The window cleaner's keen!"), and finally, in the middle class. It takes a lot of getting used to: clambering over chill-out candles to get into the bathtub, "I've never felt less fucking chilled," says Flanagan. One must assume the candles have finally worked their magic, however, as Flanagan turns 20 years of hard knocks into 60 minutes of likable, easygoing comedy.
· Until August 27. Box office: 0131-556 6550.
