Review: Ruth Hunter and the Ruth-hunter

It's at times like these – halfway through Ruth Hunter's set, as elaborate illustrations of horrific eye mites chat merrily away to each other – that you truly marvel at what a broad church the Fringe can be. Perfectly situated in the banqueting hall of the Banshee Labyrinth, apparently Scotland’s most haunted pub, Hunter has brought a home-grown ghost story across from her new life in Glasgow. 

She moved up from Dublin because alternative comedy isn't always terrifically lucrative and found herself house-sharing with the undead, which can really cramp your style. The actual horror in Hunter’s show is often real-life: mould dramas, housing issues, the aforementioned bacteria-munching eye mites. It’s not for the squeamish, or anyone who prefers shiny-floor stand-up. This is bloody-carpet comedy.

Hunter has a pleasingly low-wattage way of telling these tales, while also throwing in some lovingly-made props, to pep things up. There are big scary drawings and a hilariously ramshackle riff on Bob Dylan's classic Subterranean Homesick Blues video, cue-cards flying everywhere. But it largely moves at a serene pace, like a long-dead old lady gliding past the men’s urinals.

Is there a big subtext about why certain people feel the need to throw themselves into the supernatural? Let's not dwell too much on how our time here ends.