I Am You Are Me

If you've spent your August seeing nuanced, finely-produced drama at the Traverse, then you've forgotten what the Fringe is all about. It's about shitty amateur productions in nasty basements; it's about uncomfortable chairs; it's about embarrassingly awful performances that make you glad you're not a reviewer who then has to write honestly and crush the poor actors' hearts even more than their lifeless audience of six already has.

I Am You Are Me will remind you of all that misery. If you are prepared to undergo a half hour of intense cringing at deeply unfunny clowns, you can trump all your friends' claims to have seen the worst thing at the Fringe this year, but that will be your only reward. Maybe the most charitable of people will get some kind of warm glow from having added to the tiny audience. Maybe those whose lives consist of merely waiting for death will find satisfaction in leaving the 'theatre' half an hour closer to eternal rest. Otherwise, there's nothing here for you.

There is some kind of plot – it involves shipwrecks – but that's no reason to bother going.