Another New Zealander infiltrating Melbourne’s Fringe this year is mentalist Robert Haley. Haley combines a mix of magic tricks and psychological tactics to successfully impress an eagle-eyed audience. Putting this trickery into a narrative so as to give the show a sense of purpose, Haley assumes the character of a fabled elixir salesman, demonstrating his magical concoctions on his awestruck customers-to-be and showing off the magical powers they can gain from just one teaspoon – from x-ray powers to a rendezvous with Lady Luck.

The show is extremely interactive. Each of the elixirs needs a test subject, and of course, Haley picks his subjects from the crowd. Because of the intimacy of the show, no one is safe from being called up for a demonstration. While the wallflowers among us may quiver at the thought, the interactions actually had a very positive influence on the show. There was a real sense of camaraderie between the audience members. Jokes were thrown not just between performer and subjects, but among the subjects themselves.

Haley’s mentalist deceptions are genuinely impressive; his successfully guessing which word an audience member is thinking of without receiving even the tiniest of hints is one of those things that will forever haunt me. And Haley is a likeable showman – his improvised interactions with a chatty crowd were some of the funniest moments of the act. However, there was a weakness when it came back to the scripted anecdotes between trickery and banter.

Before introducing each new elixir, Haley would tell us the story behind how and where this particular potion came from. While he has charisma, Haley is not an actor. I can appreciate that each trick had to be placed within a narrative, but the delivery of these tales just wasn’t natural. It was all too obvious Haley was simply recalling almost-forgotten lines, which regrettably took me out of the stories at times. The performance was at its strongest when it called for improvisation, and it was a shame there weren’t more of those sincere moments. But Haley has an endearing quality that is rare for a magic man, and his damn impressive elixirs managed to redeem any shortcomings of their biographies.

Mentalist Robert Haley: Elixir has finished its run at the Fringe Festival. For more information on Robert Haley’s future projects, visit his website.

Scott Collins is your run of the mill, modern-day Lothario: panting, awkward, persistent and forever aroused. Kissing and F*%king Up is an insight into the romantic anecdotes that have made this man. Written while living as an expat in London, the autobiographical script was initially a way for Collins to expose, acknowledge and hopefully learn from all of his passionate highs and lows with an array of lucky ladies. Putting a spin on the traditional soliloquy though, 11 unidentified actors (both male and female) take turns at becoming Scott; standing suddenly to confess a variety of sordid tales, from love lost to lust barely remembered.

An early warning: I wouldn’t bring your grandma. Right from the opening tale of an all-too-familiar night out spent following the apple of Scott’s libido from club to club in the hopes of a carnal conclusion, it is quickly apparent that Kissing and F*%king Up will leave nothing sacred. This is a confession of sorts and Scott has put his heart, and indeed another organ, on the line.

Scott is somewhat of a romantic, but he’s also a pubescent male – his conquests range from classmates to colleagues and from strangers to strange. But the stories should be familiar to most of us; waking up with naked anons in your bed; lusting for years over that one girl at school; fantasising about what coulda/woulda/shoulda been with that someone that one time – and it’s that familiarity that makes the highs so high and the lows so low. We’ve been there, and we remember how uncomfortable and alluring and devastating it all was.

The script and the performers are funny in their vulgarity, but there are moments of genuine sweetness too. Falling in love for the first time, and the bitter and inevitable end, show us that Scott isn’t all devirginising and wrong holes. Our Romeo is vulnerable, and that vulnerability is hopelessly charming.

The communal but intimate setting of Kissing and F*%king Up intentionally evokes the familiar scenario of a friend telling you a story. It brings the audience inside Scott’s world. You’re his buddy and his confidante; you care. And perhaps the most unique thing about this performance and its 11 actors sitting with you in that bar, is that you never know which person in the room is going to jump up and be Scott next. It could be anyone in there. It could almost be you.

Kissing and F*%king Up shows 6, 10 & 12 October at various bars across Melbourne. Tickets are $15 full-price and $10 concession.

Created by young New Zealanders (see: professional procrastinators*) Sherilee Kahui, Nellie Pearson and Dan Fraser, Minor Victories showcases the shallow and ambivalent mind of today’s chronically hedonistic twenty-somethings. Using an array of clever media including psychedelic AV projections, regret-riddled limericks and excruciating sock puppets, this series of vignettes demonstrates the trials and, more often than not, failures of the self-aggrandising romantic on the wrong side of Y2K.

Best friends and housemates Rachel (Brittany Plummer) and Lachy (Kent Seaman) awaken one morning to a typical hangover, and go from sketch to gloomy sketch attempting to explain everything that is wrong in their world and why it isn’t their fault. Encompassing drunken nights singing about vomiting up kebabs, the horrors of being forced to work in (shudder) hospitality, and the all-too-familiar Skype lecture from Rachel’s mother dearest, the script is brutally honest and at times uncomfortably relatable.

Minor Victories was written by, and perhaps exclusively for, the wryly narcissistic Facebook generation deep in the throes of their collective quarter-life crises. As I unwillingly live deep inside that impenetrable bubble, the truth often resonated through the comedy in the story. At times I even felt it hard to laugh at the mockery the performers were making of their lives because of how much of myself I saw in them – but that is where the script succeeds. Unlike so many in the generation it showcases, it is very self-aware and - even more rare – charmingly self-deprecating. The abundance of hipster jokes did get tedious after the first dozen and there were flashes of trying too hard at times, but there were plenty of other genuinely funny moments to keep the story natural.

However, within the first five minutes of the performance I was almost worried. Plummer and Seaman initially came on extremely strong, sometimes to the point of overacting. Those early hiccups were quickly put down to opening-night nerves, though; as the actors got into the groove of the evening they went from strength to strength. The humour flowed far more naturally after the midway point and the comical chemistry of the actors began to shine. The simple yet ingenious array of cardboard props and use of the stage was particularly impressive, especially in such a small venue. All in all, Rachel’s mother could almost be proud.

*I’m a New Zealander too, so that’s totally not racist.

Minor Victories runs until 6 October at the Owl and the Pussycat. Tickets are $20 full-price and $15 concession (Tuesday sessions $10).