Vignettes. That would be entirely the wrong word to describe Alasdair Gray's two brief new dramatic works. In fact, there is little point in reaching for any conventional theatrical vocabulary to describe the pieces presented as his contribution to A Play, A Pie and A Pint, although his presence in the season is entirely fitting, and not just because he is the house decorator.

Like his murals in the spaces above, the writing could only be by Gray, a heady mix of sex and science, emotional conflict and confusing erudution that sounds like his high-velocity high tenor even when enunciated by drama school-trained thespians. In fact, this stuff would scare the life out of performers less able than Louise Ludgate, Andy Gray and Sean Scanlan, who all make it look deceptively easy.

The slight first piece is the pithy original gem here, an aphorism made scenic about a wise woman and a suspicious insecure man (Gray). Their fortnight-old relationship is threatened by her intellect, but only from his point of view. He recognised her as "deep", she sees him to be the "emotional leech" he is. She wins.

The three-hander Midgieburgers is more obvious. Jim and Linda have no communication, especially since early retirement "made him an appendage", and the arrival of Jack (Gray, with a Chic Murray accent) does little to help. Pinteresque pauses punctuate surreal dialogue, which, of course, is all too real. That's Gray's real skill: for all his absurd non-realism, so much is so acutely observed.

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