On the left of the stage is a raffle wheel, the type you find in an RSL, which has been redecorated to fit 16 categories ranging from ‘MGF’ and ‘Song’ to ‘Crazy Fans’ and ‘Toast’. On the right of stage is a keyboard and microphone. Between them stands Pinky Beecroft.

Beecroft most notably fronted Machine Gun Fellatio, one of his many “disastrously named” bands who were “more interested in rock ‘n’ roll but better at sex and drugs”. He is dressed in jeans and a suit jacket. He’s propped up by a cane and he routinely breaks eye contact with the audience in favour of the floor.

We learn early on that he is suffering from two incurable diseases. He never identifies what they are, but he frames the situation thusly: “In terms of personal life stuff it’s kind of shit, but in terms of comedy it’s gold.” He says after a trip to the Melbourne Comedy Festival his friend called his bluff on an off-the-cuff remark that he could be a stand up. That conversation has led to this show.

Beecroft, or an audience member in the front row, spins the wheel and when it stops on a category a Pinky tale begins. That is the format for tonight’s performance – a bold format indeed, as this is his debut stand up show and he isn’t working off a script.

This format succeeds for two reasons: firstly, he is an exceptional storyteller; secondly, he has exceptional stories. Anyone who remembers his appearances on ABC’s The Glass House, or his lyrics with MGF, knows that there is nothing conventional about his worldview or delivery. His more perverted or depraved stories become endearing, delivered as if the stories are playing out for the first time as he recalls them.

He frequently goes off on tangents; for example, a story about a New Year’s Eve performance in Byron Bay ends with a cyclone in WA, by way of Serena Williams in North Korea, nanotechnology, and crying during the romantic comedy Wimbledon. (The drug-induced Beecroft was utterly bemused by the fact Kirsten Dunst is such a talented tennis player.)

His anecdotes routinely feature drugs, sex, and bizarre attire. We are treated to one song, composed for a friend explaining the merits of spooning your loved one with a “soft cock” on a Sunday. “I’ll send that to Kingsmill,” he says. “He won’t know what to do with it.”

At one point during the song he sings about nuts and anchovies – breaking from the lyrics, he admits he has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about. At some points during the night I don’t either, but it’s still very enjoyable.

Beecroft’s life is the type an audience loves to hear about but probably wouldn’t want to live. As the show ends, Pinky, aided by his cane, opens the door for us to leave and thanks everyone for coming out.

In terms of his personal life things might be kind of shit, but in terms of comedy it’s gold.

Pinky Beecroft: Mainstream Freak has finished its run at the Fringe Festival. For more information on Pinky Beecroft’s newest project, The White Russians, visit the band’s website.

I can identify with Sam Marzden. He has, much like myself, read too many rock star biographies, and has amassed a wealth of knowledge about the genre’s decadent history, fluids and all. Unlike me, however, Marzden has decided to do something productive with his knowledge, condensing it into a one-hour narrative dubbed The History of Rock ‘n’ Roll (1962 – 1989).

His sideburns are uneven and he wears a Slipknot t-shirt beneath his private school blazer. He paces back and forth on the stage, his style lending more to lecturer than comedian.  We don’t learn too much about the amateur rock historian during his performance – but this show isn’t about him, it’s about the stories of others.

Much like Rob Flemming, Nick Hornby’s protagonist in High Fidelity, the stories are loosely strung together with top five lists, such as the top five worst interpretations of lyrics or most bizarre rock star deaths.  The latter is a list which Marzden doesn’t finish but which does feature a long and uneven aside about the alleged death of Paul McCartney in the ‘70s, a conspiracy theory so tenuously fun and bat-shit crazy it makes the arguments of 9/11 ‘truthers’ seem logical.

Marzden’s body language conveys a wavering confidence throughout the night.  His hand movements become animated with each laugh and retreat behind his back when a joke doesn’t work. His timing too is a tad shaky, yet some of the show’s biggest laughs come from improvisation, a skill which could be a great tool for Marzden if his improvisational asides didn’t so obviously throw him off his script.

The show’s main problem is its imbalance of tone. The dark humour and tales are unevenly placed, which is difficult as it creates an inconsistent mood.  Even though some of the punch-lines fall flat, though, the show finds strength with its subject matter, be it a tale of Axl Rose’s racist tirades or Marvin Gaye’s paranoia of being murdered.

This is perhaps best shown in Marzden’s recounting of the tale of “musician” and provocateur GG Allin. There is fun to be had in seeing the expression on audience member’s faces, such as the horrified woman next to me, when they hear about GG’s unique brand of audience participation, a combination of fists and faeces. Marzden’s analysis of the incident, speculating on GG’s post-gig conversation with his band about merits and success of throwing poo at the audience and punching women in the crowd, is the highlight of the set.

You may not repeat the jokes to your friends at the pub, but you will repeat the anecdotes and trivia.  Did you know A.A. Milne previously owned the house Brian Jones died in? You do now.

The History of Rock’n’Roll (1962-1989) runs until 13 October at the Portland Hotel. Full ticketing information is available on the Fringe Festival website.