Early on in Anywhere But Here, Scott Gibson concedes that he doesn't have much to offer by way of a theme. "It's just me... talking", he explains. He does himself a great disservice, though. It's not woke. It's not intellectual. But it is riotously funny, and the sort of show the Fringe could do with a lot more of.
It's properly Scottish comedy, not the "TV Scottish" schtick you might find on a panel show; it captures the essence of a nation's mindset without needing to self-identify or package itself in tartan. There's no facade here, only a collection of unashamedly daft tales from Gibson's ill-fated holidays.
He deals in dark belly laughs and head-in-hands "did he just say that?" disbelief, occupying the role of the parochial everyman with a tendency to pull the rug out from under you. The lack of pretense is what's most refreshing, revelling in the gross-out comedy to be found in, say, removing one's own abscess in a Greek shower with the aid of a kitchen knife and half a bottle of vodka.
That particular episode is just one of an array of travel anecdotes he has up his sleeve that presumably weren't fit to be trialled at dinner parties, so went straight into his act unfiltered. There's even room in the hour for a little heart, a touch of sincere emotion, as he offers a precis that implores us to value our stories, and look to create more of them. What's certain is that he has more than his fair share already.