DOT504 @ Edinburgh Fringe

I hesitate to add to the omnipresent blogblurb about the Edinburgh Fringe, which begs for a online filter similar to Crunky's anti-Olympics app. But 'most everyone is wrong, predictably. The much-discussed provocative political set-pieces were sour, shouty and grim: Gordon Brown in a gimp mask. Moving in a sort of instinctive, inevitable way, they nonetheless failed to truly stir, let alone surpise. Charlie Victor Romeo, the booming Thesps On A Plane recreation of cockpit crises from the black boxes of crashed aircraft, simply batters you into submissive fear. Fall, Zinnie Harris' new play documenting the wound-licking of a war-torn regime, sings in the moments of individual love and loss, but the excellent cast seem crass and clumsy in scenes tackling its mandatory Big Issue, capital punishment for war criminals. Even Phantomysteria, a late-night, outdoors, post-apocalyptical allegory complete with fur-suited dwarves and pyrotechnics, drowns under hackneyed images of alienation and violence.

Over the past few years verbatim has injected some much-needed vigour into political theare, but we've got global fuck-up fatigue. Parades of solemn, soliloquising Burka'd widows just make us feel smugly sad. Short of endlessly restaging Dicky III, we need to find new ways to document mad, bad shit on stage.

It was the dangers of love, not the dangers of hate, that really prompted the good Scots stuff. Daniel Kitson's searingly honest, melancholically funny storytelling stand-up about his six-year love affair with a Crystal Palace flat managed to be both elegant and real. Lispingly, deceptively gentle as he rams a splinter into your guts and his own, Kitson is a tingling everyman scop.

And Czech dance troupe DOT504's 'dreamy ballad of sexual dependancy' also proved inspired, with three couples engaged in flowing, furious foreplay, melding and melting around each other like Morph on heat. Aesthetically orgasmic, playfully intellectual, it was performed by young hot Ural bodies that remind us why we're made flesh.

Which is to make love not war, you small-dicked tank-toting idiots.