All teeth and therapy

When Janet Street-Porter proudly declaims: "By the age of eight I'd bitten two dentists," it is difficult to know whether to cheer her frightening honesty, or to pray inwardly that the two men had had tetanus injections beforehand.

As a figure who has led a conflicted media career as a satirical target and as a pioneer in television, Street-Porter seems continually to stir up such contradictory reactions: a woman who can be a little girl and a Gorgon, gangly as a crane yet attractive and well-preserved, brashly vulgar yet obsessively sophisticated, and bravely inspirational but totally, totally terrified.

That same contradictory quality informs her "show", whose cringingly memorable one-liners include: "If I could put together all the men's soiled pants I've ever washed, they would circle Europe," and, "My mother was weird, Welsh and a complete c**t". Most of the time this does not feel like theatre

as therapy, it feels like pure therapy, and some of the throwaway observations such as: "To me a dentist is a paedophile", or, "My hair was crapulous", (which means that it drank too much, surely a physical impossibility even for Janet) are so nonsensical that any sense of dramatic coherence evaporates.

Yet there is an undeniably grisly fascination to hearing about Street-Porter's mother, who comes across as a monster. Street-Porter relates that when she was a little girl, she was hit by a motorbike and her upper teeth were rammed into her lower mouth - but rather than calling an ambulance, her mother wrapped her head in a teatowel, and took her to the hospital on a bus.

It accounts for the life-long anger and bitterness, which results in an entertaining but painful tirade against everyone from her four ex-husbands to supposedly cokesnorting BBC producers. As she consigns a candle representing her mother's memory to a dustbin, you hope that - for her sake and everyone else's - this time the mummy will not return.

Until 24 August. Box office: 0131 226 2428