Peter Combe at Lotterywest De Parel Spiegeltent at The Pleasure Garden
Sunday, February 15, 2026
After a month of Fringe debauchery—drag villains, existential spirals, and enough late-night cabaret to rattle the moral compass—this particular Sunday afternoon belonged to the bubs. Prams lined the aisles. Tiny sneakers squeaked. And in the same venue that has hosted its fair share of adult indiscretions, Peter Combe presided over a multigenerational singalong with the composure of a man who has done this roughly 1,779 times or more (his estimate, with a sly wink).
Lots of bubs here. But also plenty of thirty- and forty-somethings who knew every word before their offspring had mastered the alphabet. This wasn’t nostalgia tourism; it was cultural inheritance happening in real time. Parents passing down absurdity like treasured vinyl.
Combe knows his audience. “Good morning!” he beamed—six hours too late—prompting a nearby child to lose it entirely in giggles. Timing: impeccable. Accompanied by a deft pianist on keys, he moved through whimsical tales—Oscar and Mr Hairy Gorilla eating themselves sick, a “very confused” amphibian in Tadpole Blues, and a frog discovered in a cheese sandwich that escalated into a lyrical pyramid so gloriously ridiculous it could only conclude with, “That is absolutely ridiculous!”
What was striking was how pedagogical it all felt—without ever tipping into preachy. Wordplay. Onomatopoeia. Call-and-response. Slow hand gestures so even the shyest kid could follow along. Songs broke down into silence, lingered, then erupted again—teaching tension and release better than most indie bands half his age. The kids adored those suspended moments; attention trained not by algorithm but by anticipation.
Participation was the engine. Adults wavered—some leant in, some shrank back (Fringe’s website even flagged audience interaction, as if hand gestures and singalongs require a trigger warning…). Meanwhile, the kids threw themselves into it with abandon. Combe invited, never humiliated. An eight-year-old with noisy shoes became a co-star. A red balloon became a best friend, then popped—loss integrated gently, without melodrama. Emotional literacy via latex.
When the “main course and dessert in reverse” landed—Toffee Apple and Spaghetti Bolognaise—the room lifted. Bluesy keys, a surprisingly rocking guitar edge, and a sustained absurd note in Juicy Juicy Green Grass held just long enough for the chaos to fizz. Parents belted Newspaper Mama with the fervour of a punk chorus. And when Wash Your Face in Orange Juice was outsourced to the crowd to ensure everyone was on the same page, it felt less like compliance and more like collective mischief.
In a festival obsessed with subversion, Combe’s act felt quietly radical. He taught kids to interact freely, to revel in nonsense, and to question the rules (and perhaps not be entirely compliant citizens). He remains youthful not in denial of age, but in devotion to wonder.
Fringe may trade in spectacle, but on its final day, Peter Combe reminded us that joy—unironic, participatory, gloriously silly joy—still has teeth.
CAT LANDRO
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