August in Edinburgh? Yeah, the Fringe is crawling with burlesque and cabaret nights, but actual good burlesque? That’s like finding a unicorn in a sequin dress. The second O Fortuna blares through the room (extra drama, please), you just know you’re in for a ride that’s more Moulin Rouge than village fête. This show? Lives up to the hype and then some.

Steven Mitchell, our MC, struts out—so Scottish he could probably host the show in a kilt and no one would blink. The man’s got timing sharper than a stiletto, and he works the crowd like he’s been doing this since birth. He’s got this way of making applause cues feel like inside jokes, and honestly, he could probably convince the whole room to do the Macarena if he wanted.

Boom—Ginger Snaps kicks things off. Chair routine? Absolutely bodied. She’s tossing hair, throwing smoulders, basically making Beyoncé look like she needs to step up her game. She owns the place. If charisma was actual cash, she’d buy the Counting House and turn it into her personal dressing room.

The Dads are up next, and things get weird (in the best way). Imagine Die Hard done by the Marx Brothers, Slapstick. You don’t really know what’s happening, but you’re bonkers and a lot of fun.

Enter Tsarina Hellfire. Honestly, just—wow. Tattoos glinting in the spotlight, feathers everywhere, and a level of tease that should probably come with a warning label. Every pause, every look, every flick of a fan? Pure art. The stage basically bows to her, and you half-expect the ghost of Mae West to show up and take notes.

Chris Fleming slides in with the magic—book tricks, mind-reading, some phone game that made my head spin. The guy’s like if David Copperfield had a sense of humor and a thing for crowd banter. He knows exactly when to drop a joke or pull off a trick that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally joined a cult.

Bachata Blues? Flamenco and fire, baby. Every stomp hits like a drumbeat, and there’s so much passion you could probably light a cigarette off the sparks. Grit and elegance—reminds you that dance is a contact sport for the soul.

Then there’s Alejandro. Singing My Way, legs defying gravity, heels clicking like castanets on caffeine—he’s glitz, sass, and pure showbiz rolled up in sequins. Every note’s a wink, every move’s a dare. He’s basically what would happen if Freddie Mercury ran away to join Cirque du Soleil.

And for the grand finale, Sassy Von Sparkle. She belts out New York, New York with enough attitude to make Liza blush. Teeth, lipstick, feathers, more panache than Broadway on opening night.

This is how the genre should be. You leave with glitter in your hair and that “did that really just happen?” feeling. Stick around for the last reveal through.