Martin Mor 'The Boy Who Played With Fire'

Those of a weak disposition, conservative views or a fear of nipple-piercings should probably steer clear of Martin Mor's gigs. Anyone remotely bashful should stay far, far away from the front row of seats, and probably wear camouflage.

That said, there is an almost childlike frankness in Mor's comedy, which aims below the belt and pokes around to see what does what. There are certain things which no one wants to say, but, apparently, everyone wants to hear. The topics which Mor shies away from could only just fill a matchbox, while all the things he does cover could start a fire of collossal proportions. Sparked by Frankie Boyle's opening fifteen-minute slot full of Glaswegian cynicism and mumbled violence, Mor sets himself on a mission to speak to every member of the audience about their most intimate details, meaning we learn almost nothing about the man himself.

Towards the end of his oddly-timed 45-minute slot, Mor flounders a little before coming to the point of his show, and playing with fire. From the effects of ageing to tattoo stories and, finally, the pyrotechnics themselves, and a whole other kind of body-shock comedy, it appears for Martin Mor everything goes below the belt. Especially the fire.