"Morning, sugar!" smirked Jesus in an LA drawl. Christ was wearing only a pair of tight jeans, and was rather lounging on the cross in a way that showed off his six pack. But that's the fringe this year - get your top off and you'll get the gays.
You see, it ain't the fringe unless you go and see a token gay play. They're invariably mediocre, but packed - cos all the marys turn up dutifully to anything with a hunk on the flyer.
This is open to abuse - I was most tempted by a flyer which showed four naked studs up against a wall. "It's called Borstal Boy!" I glowed, excited by the prospect of bad boy japery in naughty school.
"Borstal Boy?" my friend Helen narrowed her eyes. "But that's Brendan Behan's play about his agonised youth and the IRA." And thus, not much bumming.
This year's must-see gay play is called Butch, and is the story of a pocket gay who wants to be a muscle mary. It's almost charming, but it misjudged the audience's sympathy badly. We've got a certain amount of time for a muscly man walking around with his top off, but not if he's constantly whining, "Oh, I'm so scrawny... I wish I could put on weight... Why am I so thin?"