Comedy should generate a frisson; it should feel like something unusual is happening. Ricky Grover's partly autobiographical show comes in three parts, each one as jagged as it is funny. He is a stand-up with a story worth telling. Grover grew up in London's East End, where he served time as an armed robber, a hairdresser, a boxer and a self-help Svengali - so he has a hinterland of experiences to draw on.
Part one sees Grover in gag-peddling mode. His persona, a self-loathing fat man with resentments, inevitably recalls Johnny Vegas. It's more obvious with Grover that the jokes are just jokes - but they're good ones. "My wife said to me, 'Let's go upstairs and have sex.' I said, 'I can't do both.'" He gives proceedings an edge of desperation. When he senses audience disapproval: "Oh, fuck off! You sit indoors and try and think of jokes!" There are no jokes, however, with his 11 O'Clock Show alter ego Bulla, a genuinely threatening Cockney heavy in shades. As Bulla, Grover exudes brute menace. The audience laughs, but nervously.
Finally Grover appears as himself and strikes a serious note, recounting his traumatic life story. It's an interesting sensation; we feel almost guilty for enjoying the jokes that went before. But Grover's biography retrospectively invests those jokes with soul. He has won us over with laughs, so we're happy (touched, even) to hear him tell us about himself. The show's three parts form a compelling picture of a stand-up chafing against the constraints of comedy, struggling to integrate emotional candour amid the one-liners.
· Until August 26. Box office: 0131-226 2151.
