As his body sliced the air to the rhythms of ‘Abracadabra’ by Lady Gaga, a sudden grimace shot across LJ Marles’ face. This aerial acrobat had to descend from the sky as quickly as possible, unwinding the tension straps entwining him and landing on the round stage with an uncharacteristically graceless thud. It suddenly occurred to me why people thought Tommy Cooper was larking around when he literally died on stage; while Marles motioned to the sound desk to cut the music, the well-meaning crowd at La Clique whooped and cheered like this was part of the show. Only when he was carried off by his fellow performers did everyone realise this svelte acrobat’s leg was in tatters (he’s fine now, so the story has a happy ending). 

Was this an omen of more injuries to come? A few days later, comedian Zara Gladman took to Instagram Stories to share her anxieties about breaking her leg on a pavement and unwittingly sabotaging a debut run (although I’m pretty sure she could get decent mileage from the sight of her Glasgow West End mum character in a stookie).

Then, outside the Underbelly press launch, I spotted Summerhall Arts chief executive Sam Gough hobbling around in a leg brace. Grievous slips, trips and falls stalked me with the stubborn insistence of a PR on a vendetta. What if I witnessed something even more horrible onstage? Maybe I’d even see a death. How would I review a fresh corpse? Five stars out of sympathy for the bereaved or one for the pathetic failure to finish their hour?

So far, I’ve been safe. What I have witnessed in abundance is cocks; an absolute forest of flaccid man muscle. This first week has been less WIP and more WOP (Wealth Of Penises). From La Clique, in which a performer dipped his shrunken schlong into one lucky audience member’s pint, to Garry Starr’s phenomenal Classic Penguins, in which the award-winning clown wears flippers, a smoking jacket and nothing else. I’ve also spied a plethora of boobs, fannies and, in a particularly confronting experience, a gaping asshole less than one metre from my face (Editor note: are you referring to me?).

Over at Summerhall, I hear that both performers’ genitalia made prolonged cameos during Creepy Boys’ show Slugs. Nudity is a given round these parts (a fact that isn’t celebrated enough by critics who believe they’re too mature for a round of crotch examination), but never have I witnessed it in such incredible quantities, averaging at least one groinal glimpse every three hours.

Speaking of volume, I’ve recently taken to listening to Fringe shows through a concrete wall. The List office is located in the basement of Assembly Roxy, which means we share a partition with a performance space. As such, I’ve been able to review several shows based on their decibel-level alone, an experiment I’d recommend to anyone who wants to emulate the experience of being locked in a shed next to a building site. Kit Loyd: Frenzy describes itself as a ‘frenetic’ hour of physical comedy and thus sounds like a dead body crumpling to the ground every five minutes. Maybe that’s exactly what’s happening, and finally my chance to review a corpse is within my grasp.