When I met him in the street – he sells every ticket by hand – Jones came across as an eager, smiling comedian; just one among hundreds trying to spruik his brand of comedy to passers-by.

Under the spotlight, however, Jones morphed from polite comedian to grinning, devilish presenter of remarkable social media comments. Not his own comments, mind – the audience’s.

The friendly rapport Jones built with his audience (a result of the pleasant face-to-face ticketing) turned wicked in an instant. Past tweets and status updates from unwitting audience members were projected onto a cinema screen and then openly discussed, much to the horror or squirming delight of the subjects in question.

I was considerably relieved I don’t have Facebook or Twitter accounts.

Even more alarming was Jones’s gleeful introduction of a ‘Comedians vs Critics’ segment, adding that, “It’s gonna be fun. Or at least a thing.” All I can say is this: if you’re a critic or reviewer, don’t wear your favourite shirt to a Sanderson Jones show – you may quite literally end up with cream pie on your face.

Some sections of the show, as Jones suggested us critics write, were “seamless as fuck”. Then again, some elements were about as logical as Andrew Bolt. Jones revelled in pushing the boundaries – not quite to their limits, but close enough. His obsession with Venn diagrams and live Chatroulette, mixed with a penchant for the absurd, made for an interesting, albeit confusing, performance.

I’m still not sure whether Jones’s show was ‘fun’ or ‘a thing’. Either way, it was memorable.

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Irishman Danny O’Shannassy dusts off some groan-worthy Aussie location and slang jokes. Maggot Spunka introduces us to his catchcry- “You’ve been Spunked!” and assaults us with bogan-speak and also allusions to Ashton Kutcher. Frank Thing, the absurdist comedian, attempts to read minds, and demonstrates that he’s the only person who understands his own jokes. First-timer Richard Dawkins tries his hand at stand-up. Leon Alpenski draws on his xylophonic talent to perform a new breed of Russian “receptical comedy”.

But the final act is the most memorable. Dominic Larder is a hoarse, loud, grinning American who’s a cross between Gilbert Gottfried and the Cheshire Cat. He pats his pot belly and insists he’s in shape – “but I’m the shape of a rhombus”.

McClelland’s format – playing MC to his fictional line-up – works well to an extent. He’s confident, comfortable, has a great stage presence, and interacts well with the audience. But his play-on-comedian stereotypes feels like an excuse to recycle racist and sexist jokes. “Women are a great genre,” McClelland admits, before deftly moving on to topics that have been presented a gazillion times already.

Tucked away in a small room in the Town Hall, Matt Okine uses the intimacy of the space to build instant rapport with the audience in such an affable manner that it’s easy to forget that you’re part of an audience instead of sitting in your own lounge room listening to a good friend’s funny story.

Just in case anyone doesn’t notice, Matt Okine points out that he’s black. He also talks about cooked, uncooked and metaphorical chicken. But if you’re expecting some literal shit, you’ll be disappointed – no poo jokes appear anywhere in the show. Which is refreshing. The S#%T he refers to is life. His life. His wonderful, funny, genuine, enigmatic story of a life that is conveyed in such an original way that not once did I catch myself thinking, “I’ve heard that before.”

Not only is Matt Okine an exceptional comedian with an impeccable sense of timing, he’s also a terrific writer. His show is fresh and humorous, with a ring of truth and a slant of self-ridicule that is perfectly balanced. His presentation is seamless, unaffected, and delivered with a smile. Maybe I’m going out on a limb here, but I have to say it – Matt Okine’s calibre of stand-up is on par with that of Adam Hills or Danny Bhoy.

If he keeps this up, I expect we’ll be seeing the talented Matt Okine on a much larger stage in the near future.

His life experiences range from earning a living as a birthday party clown, to narrowly missing out on an Oscar for his starring role in The Man Who Couldn’t Blink, to witnessing Oprah Winfrey become President of the United States, to a series of spectacularly catastrophic attempts at charity work, in which children become orphans and whales die.

Knox provides some truly funny moments – the best of which are purely instrumental – and the show hangs together with a basic but effective narrative thread. I couldn’t shake the feeling, though, that All Washed Up was little more than an hour of bloated one-liners, fused into a fictional life story. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either. It was, well, adequately washed up.

Then again, as Adam Knox’s 73-year-old self would say, “What the fuck do reviewers know?” Touché.

This crazy whirlwind of a production is an eclectic cauldron of genres – drama, action, comedy, science fiction, horror, pantomime, and shadow puppetry, to name a few. There’s even audience participation. Just about every trick in the theatre book is drawn upon (and pointed out like a metaphorical sledgehammer to audience temples, just in case you aren’t fully appreciating what you’re witnessing). The actors’ enthusiasm verges on ADHD, as they switch from speaking lines, to responding to audience reactions, to conferring about the plot, to leaping at one another and brandishing plastic swords.

At times, it’s akin to watching the cast of The Big Bang Theory in a World Wrestling arena – awkward nerds battling to the death using only their violent wit, and then, when their Shakespearean insults run dry, unsheathing plastic butter knives and dancing in circles in an attempt to fatally prod one another in the elbow.

Every allusion to the epic Star Wars series is acknowledged with zeal, which is useful for people like me who don’t know every single line of the films off by heart. Those plentiful references aside, many other Hollywood classics make guest appearances, including Titanic, The Matrix, Harry Potter and The Princess Bride. So, in theory, there’s something for everyone.

The danger with a show that ranges all over is that the appeal, while intended to reach a wide audience, can often backfire if not handled well. In this case, Shakespeare Fight Club catapults itself well beyond the boundary line and right into the “God’s balls” of comedy theatre.

In Bewilderbeest, Woodley is at his coloured-sock-wearing, laptop-bashing best. He sings and mimes, and chases fish and golf carts across the stage. He occasionally calls on the assistance of an unreliable stagehand and a lighting technician with a sense of humour. All this to bewilder, stun, surprise and amuse the audience, who were all inching towards the edge of their seats, dying for the chance to leap up and join Woodley onstage. I know. I was one of them.

What makes Woodley such a mesmerising performer is not the fact that he can make fun of himself, nor that he can alter his demeanour from a child with worms to a staid grandfather in a nanosecond. It’s his ability to use everything at his disposal. Even the Roman statues at the edge of the stage did not escape his notice – he propels them two thousand years into our present day with a single technological reference.

Sell your kidneys. Auction off your kids. Do whatever it takes to get a ticket, because Bewilderbeest is the comedy show you must not miss.

Helliar is charismatic, easy to listen to, and really knows how to engage an audience. He is one of those comedians who has great potential but who is hesitant to break new ground. It would be interesting to see him stripping back the waffle and taking a shot at the grittier side of life. It’s a pity Helliar’s not game enough to go down that path. Like a television show on a commercial network, Dreamboat Tour felt as though it had been tailored to meet the needs of a particular demographic. The result was a dreamy, whimsical hour without much substance.

Next came Elis James, a quiet young man from Wales. James reminded me a lot of Josh Thomas, with his messy hair, lanky frame, strange accent, and anecdotes about him getting into – and out of – awkward situations. His set was a little disjointed, but he maintained the energy that Cook had established. He was a good storyteller, keeping the audience engaged right through to each punch line.

Finally, Carey Marx, the ‘headliner’ of the night, strolled onstage with a beer in hand. As his set progressed, his speech became increasingly slurred, and his vulgarity dispelled the relaxed atmosphere. There was little banter with the audience, and his gags had a distinctly scripted feel to them.

Despite the disappointing finish, Bulmers Best of the Edinburgh Fest is worth seeing. Cook and James are excellent, and if you enjoy crass jokes about sex, alcohol and farts you will love Marx as well. Personally, I would have preferred another thirty minutes of Cook.

One Small Thing is a balanced and well-written show, with gags that are threaded together beautifully. Hooper sings, dances, raps and uses an array of props to tell her gags, many of which focus on the lives of Hooper and her husband as they attempt to clean out their storage cage, or build a bunker in the backyard for the impending apocalypse. She is quick to whip out her iPhone and show off her ludicrously expensive curtains then later on displays a picture of her husband in an embarrassing state of drunkenness, a small thing that made her day. Everyone can relate to the rage at finding a parking ticket on the windscreen, or the tensions that arise when one person attempts to reduce the other’s collection of clutter. We’ve all been there, but Hooper skilfully turns these moments of frustration into laughter. That’s what makes One Small Thing so thoroughly enjoyable – the small things.

Like the advertising material in the dank subways of London’s Underground, posters follow the gradient of the stairs, and heavy steel beams hold the roof centimetres from your head. Each step of the main staircase has sunken bowls from the many thousands of feet that have trampled it over the centuries.

There are two late night bars at Trades Hall. Upstairs lies Bella Union Bar, a mess hall style space with a stage at one end and a bar at the other. As the green room comes off this bar, the chances of you rubbing shoulders with some big names are pretty high. This is the hangout of Tripod, Craig Wellington, Ben Payne and Lawrence Leung.

It was in this vibrant watering hole on Friday night that I met John, a jolly punter, and his intoxicated wife, Gwen. I’d already seen two shows that night and my comedy buddy had piked after the second, claiming he was still recovering from a hangover. There was about an hour to wait before the next show began.

John proudly announced that he and his wife had just managed to talk a restaurateur into giving them two free bottles of wine with their dinner. Or so they claimed. He, like many other patrons in the Bella Union Bar, was at the word-slurring stage of inebriation and was grinning like a monkey in a banana plantation.

My initial desire to move as far away from him as possible subsided as he pleasantly gabbled on unselfconsciously and openly about himself and his wife. We three got talking a bit more and eventually I explained that I had to walk around the venue to see more of the place. They leapt up ecstatically to join me in my travels. So off we went.

The smallest theatre at Trades is the TARDIS-inspired Police Public Call Box in the Banner Room, which seats about 20 and is no bigger than a standard kitchen.

In the Banner Room earlier that night, I saw Courteney Hocking: Un-Australian, a witty show combining stand-up with music and visual comedy. I got a real kick out of stepping through the TARDIS door. (As did John, who tried to open the door while there was a show on. Needless to say, he was promptly escorted back to the bar.)

Other theatres are much larger, such as the Quilt Room, where Lawrence Leung explains the excruciating and hilarious stages he’s gone through to become cool. Or there’s Old Council Chambers, which has circular wooden benches lining the walls.

John, Gwen and I moved downstairs to the Banner Room, which houses another bar, the perfect place for a quiet chat or a relaxing pre or post-show drink. Vintage Brotherhood of Saint Lawrence couches and peeling paintwork supply a charming ambiance. With heaters and soft lighting, this trendy hangout has the high-ceiled space of Transport and the downbeat moodiness of St Jeromes.

In fact, the Banner Room could be just about the coolest hangout at the festival. Half the room is sectioned off with heavy, pale curtains. This space is used for shows such as Ben Payne In His Yellow Ute, in which Payne uses’yes, you guessed it’a yellow ute to entertain swaths of small children and their families. (John thought the idea of a yellow ute hilarious; it was a good few minutes before he’d calmed down enough to have another swig of beer.) Jazz and blues music plays unobtrusively. Although the beverages list is limited, what is there is good and reasonably priced.

It was in the Banner Room that John began telling me his life story, which I’m certain would have been fascinating had I been able to interpret what he was actually saying. When I mentioned I’d be seeing Tripod later that evening, he and Gwen decided that they might as well see the act with me, since the only alternative they could come up with was to head to another bar.

The stage at Bella Union Bar upstairs comes to life around 11:30pm for the Midnight Trade @ The Bella Union, with a different act almost every night of the week. On Fridays, Enuff inspire daggy dancing from the audience. Many are conversing at a decibel level well above normal by the time the band walk onstage. What better moment than this to bring in some terrible twanging tunes from the 80s?

That is not to say Enuff aren’t good. They have that rare ability to dress appallingly, play terrible music, and have the audience performing the craziest, most tasteless dance moves imaginable.

The band’s act is fabulous: hot red imitation patent leather pants with leopard print shirts, bleached blonde mullets that challenge the height of the Eureka Tower, and they perform cringe-worthy music with such skill and flair that the audience are on their feet in a matter of seconds.

It’s a sight for sober eyes to see the more enthusiastic audience members putting their reputations on the line for a manic 80s-inspired dance session.

At quarter to midnight, John, Gwen and I went into the New Ballroom to see Tripod: Idioclips, and, although I had nowhere near the blood alcohol level they did, I reckon I laughed just as loudly. A fantastic end to the evening.

Jon Williams is superb as the maniacal Brigadier General Ripper who torments Group Captain Mandrake, played by Kip Williams. Think comedic versions of Kurt and Marlow stuck in a small room with a six-barrelled machine gun. The things Ripper gets up to with that gun will have you in stiches.

Oliver Wakelin plays the amorous General Turgidson, whose passion for nuclear warfare is pitted against pacifist President Muffley, played by Toby Truslove. Like Ripper and Mandrake, this pair is also stuck in a room. Instead of a machine gun to play with, they have a sexy Russian ambassador, another trigger-happy general, and the Stephen-Hawking-cross-Jim-Carey figure of Dr Strangelove.

The ticket master warns that the unpaid actors might steal patrons’ alcohol ‘ well, all I can say is there was enough vodka onstage to supply the entire audience.

Stand-up comedy acts are a dime a dozen, but a full cast of talented actors in a really affordable stage production is a rarity. Strangelove the Musical is without doubt one of the better acts at this year’s festival. And you know a comedy show’s going to be a winner when it’s been given the thumbs-up from the cast of The Chaser.

Martinez gives a brilliant performance as Roque. An amiable character, Roque is uncomfortable with his position of authority, and when he is ordered to take action against the men suspected of being double agents, his personal struggle and guilt is portrayed in all its raw and gritty truth. The desolate landscape reflects the utter isolation of the soldiers and the despondency of the locals as they trudge through their daily lives, surviving on the little hope that remains.

The Betrayal is a quiet film, with many of the cast communicating in whispers and glances. The smattering of violence is neither graphic nor horrific, but this does not detract from the harsh reality of the wartime setting. As a thriller, there is an undercurrent of violence that will keep audiences on the edge of their seats’the imminent threat of treachery is what drives this subtle and understated film. The Betrayal explores the fragility of loyalty, trust and friendship, and the tension builds steadily towards the final act of betrayal.

Through an empty picture frame, Thorn delivers an autobiography of sorts. The antics of jazz ballet teachers and the exorbitant verbosity of art gallery owners that she encountered in her youth are ‘recalled’ in a raw and deplorable truth. Thorn switches roles during her loose narrative, seemingly more comfortable with these blathering stereotypes than with herself. Each new character is revealed through the empty frame, bringing with it yet another unnerving and realistic facet of the art world.

Although Thorn is herself a great entertainer, it’s these stereotypes that steal the show. Everyone remembers the dance teacher at school whose spangled dress sense was matched only by the lurid line of lippy on her teeth. And all of us know at least one Lacan loving, latte drinking loser who is ridiculously enraptured with artspeak. Thorn has taken a mirror and shown all of this crap for what it really is. Helen Thorn is Arty Farty doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not, and that’s a rare thing in the world of art.