THERE is a compulsive sense of dislocation about what the four main tapped Un-Wheel-Grinders do on stage. Ditto their singularly-impressive wardrobe of old smoking-jackets, dressing-gowns, cassocks, plaid safari suits, PVC raincoats, and Hussars' uniforms.

But I digress. As do the Grinders, most hilariously and without cessation. For each of their bizarre anarcho-surrealist playlets is, in fact, at least four separate dramas, each of them hideously cliche'd and risibly awful. Lines of dialogue mesh oddly: Psycho meets Casualty meets Pride And Prejudice. Elsewhere, the Marx Brothers meet Kafka. They then go for a pint with Lord Fauntleroy and a man dressed as Santa, later opting to watch Riverdance together.

Weird garb. Garbled weirdness. Weirdly great.