Nicholas Parsons's

Happy Hour

Pleasance Cabaret Bar, 5.30pm, until August 25, 0131 556 6550

HHHHH

Plenty of folk are prepared to trust in the luck of the draw to squeeze in to Sir Nick's perennial live chat show - and me and my crowd struck lucky. Only Jimmy Carr and Owen O'Neill lucky, that's all. The charmingly droll Carr was on top form, his practised smarm turned to devastating effect on a couple from Delaware whom Parsons had helpfully identified earlier. Carr's combination of egocentricity and rudeness was ideal for the format.

O'Neill, on the other hand, was dangerously near smug, a pitfall that the practised Parsons knows exactly when to avoid. He was saved by the absence of Guy Masterson, Fringe entrepreneur, actor, and director, who cast O'Neill in the Henry Fonda role in this year's hot ticket, 12 Angry Men. Masterson missed his cue to appear and precipitated much larking about with mobile phones until he crashed in to further plug a show that there

are now no tickets for.

Perhaps hoping the whole cast of the jury-room drama will turn up for the Happy

Hour's last hurrah is the best bet for angry Fringe-goers.

Forbes Masson's PISH

Outhouse, off Broughton Street

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Masson's Personally Inspired Song History rummages through the scores for his musicals Stiff!, Mince!, and Pants! and comes up with a selection of witty hits, all superbly played by George Drennan, drummer Carl Masson, guitarist Gordon Dougall, the man himself and some machines - and sung by Drennan, Forbes, and gorgeous Melanie Marcus. It is hilarious and recalls Masson's first foray on to the Fringe as half of Victor and Barry back in the 1980s, only with a genuine hinterland in musical theatre, what he has built himself. Life, indeed, kinda imitates art. Look out, National Youth Music Theatre. But perhaps not just yet.

Tokyo Triangle's Vagina

Garage Citrus Club, Grindlay Street, 9.30pm, until august 25

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No vaginas are revealed in this production. It seems important to make this clear. Shakti's louche courtesans have been been plying their trade down the road from Edinburgh's pubic triangle for three years, but this was my deflowering. A unique mixture of styles and exploration of sexual awakening it may well be, but skills were in short supply. Of the ensemble sextet, only one dancer captivated, which is clearly not the aim. It might have been easier to shake hands on the way out if they had all been naked.