It’s astonishing to think that this show was cobbled together by Cariad Lloyd in just a couple of days after her comedy partner Louise Ford was called to LA to film a pilot. Going solo, Lloyd valiantly soldiers on with her character hour, and it’s an absolute belter.

Wrapped in a shawl, Lloyd is transformed into a Northern widow waxing lyrical on her dead, abusive husband (much funnier than it sounds). In a hooded cardi she becomes a New Jersey hot mess, a troublesome meth addict causing havoc amongst her family. In striped socks and knitted vest she’s a seven year old boy giving a confused lesson on revolutionary Russia. Swamped in a gangsta hoodie she’s arrogant Frenchman Jacque le Coq, world’s worst free-runner. These characters showcase Lloyd’s inventiveness, as well as her knack for nailing accents, and they’re all extremely funny. Her satire of Zooey Deschanel is pitch-perfect, ‘adorkable’ with her cupcakes and twee dress, conforming to a host of female stereotypes in order to arouse men. Her ‘Sanitary Bag Lady’ is best of all, totally unique and utterly outrageous.

How Lloyd deals with a bunch of noisy and fidgety teenagers in the audience demonstrates what a gifted improviser she is. With humour and razor wit, she gives them the opportunity to exit, and her grace and spontaneity here earns her some of the heartiest laughs of the hour. Lloyd is clearly an incredibly talented comedy actress with just the right amount of crazy in her. She’s more than capable of captivating a crowd single-handedly, and her solo character hour earned her some of the biggest – and most deserved – belly laughs I’ve heard at the Fringe this year.

Nick Coyle’s ex-girlfriend Jenny has died (killed by snakes). Her boyfriend Garth has also died (drowned by Russell Crowe), and something’s not quite right. Coyle has built a robot Jenny – essentially a toaster with a wig on it – to keep him company, and, after rifling through her diary, decides to put on the one-woman show Jenny planned to perform about her love for, and loss of, the aforementioned Garth. His tribute to Jenny is to enact her tribute to Garth. It’s a Double Tribute.

This, it hardly needs saying, is a weird, wheels-within-wheels type show. Coyle slinks around the stage with a camp, borderline bitchy manner, speaking conspiratorially to the audience and making droll comments about the ex he clearly hated. He’s also patently gay, and we soon start to suspect he had something to do with the deaths of the tributes. With the cave-like room plunged often into darkness, only to be flooded suddenly with eerie bluish lights, it’s an atmospheric, borderline unsettling experience.

Double Tribute is a skewed take on the kind of show produced when someone dies, and it’s pretty surreal stuff, in places very funny, in others outright – and quite deliberately – odd. Coyle himself is a gifted performer and deserves a larger crowd to appreciate his talents. He’s handsome without vanity, which means he can pull outrageous faces (his ‘sexy crying’ is a sight to behold). Any performer happy to end their show with sick and blood down their front, jiving with a robot to Mariah Carey, cannot be accused of being precious. It’s a meandering puzzle, but one worth attempting to solve if you’re in the market for something a bit more challenging at the Fringe this year.

Ian Smith has a long list of things that get right on his tits. Whether it’s people being disgusting on public transport, or having to make suspicious purchases at 2am, things have a habit of stressing him out. He’s the Flappable sort.

Smith quickly and effortlessly establishes a toasty rapport with the crowd and is able to provide top-notch responses to audience remarks. He discusses a bizarre piece of ‘fan mail’ he received, the embarrassment he feels in changing-rooms, his frustration at not owning enough kitchen utensils, his horror when soap operas change the actor playing a main character, what he wants done with his corpse, his plans for his own funeral… While some of these strike a chord, others are plainly absurd, and this blend of the familiar and weird gives zest to Smith’s set. He links his jokes, deftly weaving in strands from anecdotes told 10, 20, 50 minutes previously to create an impressive web.

His delivery can be a bit shouty. Perhaps he’s used to performing in bigger spaces (as he points out, Pleasance Courtyard’s Beside is essentially a couple of shipping containers strapped together), and his resonant Yorkshire vocals have little need of a microphone in this setting. Many will love Smith’s intensity and unstinting energy, though a few eardrums may take a battering.

Whether he’s musing on what hedgehogs eat or pondering the definition of halal meat, Smith is an extremely likeable performer, on top form from start to finish. This is an hour of controlled madness, consistently intelligent and laugh out loud funny, and no doubt Smith’s powerful voice will be filling vaster spaces in years to come.

Phil Wang, bespectacled in a striped cardigan, takes to the small, circular rug that is his stage in Pleasance Courtyard’s Bunker 1, and is soon casually justifying his show’s provocative title. Mellow Yellow begins as a wry and knowing assessment of Wang’s cultural status as a half-Chinese Brit (yes, his name sounds like a cock), and while this is all exceedingly funny, it’s common ground for a comedian to tread.

However, there is much more to come. From his insightful and waggish dissection of needlessly dark, gritty movie reboots (step forward Maleficent), to his unabashed pride in his sexual prowess – via some seriously fucked-up, laugh-out-loud reflections on the Teletubbies, Art Attack and Postman Pat – Wang proves himself to be a natural comic. All this is sound-tracked by the steady flow of laughter that can only be heard coming from a relaxed audience that knows it’s in the hands of a pro.

Aged just 24, Wang discusses a diverse range of topics, from the nonsense to be found on social media and the pressure to be a lad on holiday, to the gender politics of food advertising and the true definition of ‘geek’. With some of the deadpan wit of Richard Ayoade and the subversive intelligence of Stewart Lee, Wang’s pièce de résistanceis his brilliant parody of the Guardian’s Weekend magazine, which has to be seen to be fully appreciated (and includes a phrase to rival a certain iconic sketch that should not be named for fear of spoiling the surprise).

Such joyful, low-key quippery is a delight to behold, and, alongside his adroitly droll off-the-cuff responses to audience reactions, sets Wang apart as one of the most gifted young comedians to grace the Fringe this year.

Every Game of Thrones fan worth their salt will have duh-duh-DUH-duh’d along to its opening credits, so Aussie comedy troupe Backwards Anorak have picked a canny way to start their show. Winter is Coming begins with the fivesome, led by Michelle Brasier and Vince Milesi, harmonising comically – and rather beautifully – to recreate the iconic tune. With the bearded Milesi dressed, ridiculously, as Daenerys Targaryen (complete with synthetic wig and sexy little bikini top), things just keep getting sillier as the ensemble knowingly confuses Game of Thrones with The Chronicles of Narnia, Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings in a frenetic musical tour of Westeros.

Non-fans of the fantasy genre will find a multitude of the show’s funniest gags skimming over their heads. Winter is Coming’s best jokes and catchiest songs hinge on insider knowledge of Game of Thrones, as well as hobbits, house-elves and the like. There are a handful of references to other aspects of pop culture – a pillar-licking Miley Cyrus, Britney Spears, the Eurovision Song Contest – but the rest is pure geekery.

With tremendous support from James Baker, Laura Frew and Leo Milesi, Brasier and Milesi have created a well-written, expertly timed and often hilarious comedy-musical. Brasier and Frew are vocally dominant, full of energy and zesty non-sequiturs, and Milesi has the sort of crazed look in his eyes possessed by some of the best comics. The show descends into chaos towards the end, all bellowing, blood and bare flesh, but this is fitting given its gory inspiration. George R. R. Martin would be proud.

Little’s dog-walking tales are a great opener, blessed as he is with that special brand of Glasgow banter: gossipy, sharp-tongued and hilarious. He’s got the Weegie gift of the gab and tells a cracking tale. His anecdote about an ill-fated car boot sale reduces some audience members to tears.

His portrayal of women is problematic. He mentions his wee mammy, his naïve girlfriend (every time he quotes her he makes her sound daft as a brush), expresses horror at the thought of women not shaving their legs, and appears disgusted at the mere notion of his partner breaking wind in his presence. Germaine Greer he ain’t.

However, this bellowing, masculine, sweary persona is undercut by his obvious warmth, a softness that emanates from him despite the bravado. His interactions with the audience are jocular but cruelty-free. The high point of Little’s set is his description of past depression, the medication he had to endure and the dance therapy – of all things – that got him back on track. You can tell the experience, bleak as it was, blessed him with compassion, and it’s lovely to witness, funny as well as moving. Little might be a bloke, but he’s a bloody nice one.

Chris Coltrane does for socialism what Caitlin Moran does for feminism, using jaunty humour and rousing optimism to expose society’s wrongs. In There’s No Heroes Left Except All of Us, Coltrane proves that laughter is a far more powerful tool than rage, utilising his sense of the ridiculous to reveal a rat’s nest of injustices. From Scarlett Johansson’s SodaStream shame and celebrity tax dodgers, to avaricious politicians and the horror of gendered Kinder Eggs, few escape his gleeful lefty swipes.

He doesn’t just talk the talk. Coltrane is an activist as much as a comedian, joining mass sit-ins, demonstrating with placards, even door-stepping the editor of the Daily Mail, and this passionate, proactive approach bleeds into his material. There’s no soapbox in sight; only a nice man chatting to a bunch of people about how we should maybe just try to share stuff and be nice to one other.

Visual aids are put to great effect, with one particular audio-visual combination reminiscent of E4’s excellent Fonejacker. Coltrane’s canny use of his Twitter feed is another nifty touch, with some very funny tweets popping up on screen even before the show starts.

Some more diehard politicos might find Coltrane’s approach lacks bite, but his message, his motivation – that we can all make a difference – is bang on the money. You’ll leave the sweaty dungeons of the Banshee Labyrinth feeling buoyant, possibly even inspired to pick up a placard, but more than anything filled with a sense of hope. Who knew the revolution could be so sweet?

Luisa Omielan makes no bones about it: she wants to be FAMOUS. With the packed-out Am I Right Ladies?! looking set to become as big a hit as her colossal 2012 Fringe show What Would Beyoncé Do?! her wish seems destined to come true. From the moment you crowd into the near-tropical heat of the Counting House’s ballroom you’re bombarded with some seriously infectious music, as well as the cheering sight of Omielan dancing on stage as if no one’s damn well watching.

She’s brilliant, her one big hoop earring winking under disco lights (another would get in the way of her mic) as she pumps her fists, encouraging her already captivated audience to join in. Addressing women as ‘bitches’ throughout the show in an empowering, I’m-reclaiming-this-word sort of way, Omielan chats to the crowd as if it’s filled with her bosom buddies, covering a kaleidoscope of topics, from Somalian lovers and being fat-shamed in Hollywood, to anti-depressants and the pleasing effects coconut water has on a woman’s intimate parts.

There’s no place for prudery here; if you don’t want to hear about the sometimes grotty realities of sex, or see – up close and personal – your comedian’s sweaty cleavage, this isn’t the show for you. But we need more comics like Omielan: bold as brass, ambitious, proud of her gorgeous, wobbly body, and, above all else, wonderfully funny. If some Hollywood agent wants her to lose twenty pounds, he can do one. Omielan knows she doesn’t need to change and, ladies and gentleman, she’s absolutely right.

Caimh McDonnell knows that laughing at other people’s misfortunes is a wicked pleasure (Boris Johnson stuck on a zip wire springs happily to mind), and he’s more than happy to serve up tales of his own woes for our delectation. From a botched mugging to a horrific case of constipation, McDonnell’s anecdotes about his doomed move to London prove there’s nothing like a bit of schadenfreude to get one’s comedy juices flowing. His warm and endearing stage presence, all ruffled white hair and cuddly frame, helps to establish an easy rapport with his audience, and his ability to riff off retorts is impressive.

On the downside, McDonnell relies a little too heavily on cultural stereotypes, with many a gag revolving round rude Londoners, shrill Scousers, sullen Brummies and bumpkin Bristolians (what is it with comedians doing patronising impressions of Bristolians? Russell Howard’s a repeat offender and he’s from Bristol). McDonnell writes for Mock the Week and it’s clear to see; his fast-paced, slightly shouty style can be witnessed on a number of blokey panel shows, and it’s perhaps not best suited to this particular kind of stand-up. A gentler, more conversational approach might better serve his self-effacing confessions.

Despite this, there’s an honesty and sweetness to McDonnell’s loveable-shambles persona that makes Southbound and Down a real (and free) Fringe treat. In the end, we’re not so much laughing at his moments of shame as laughing with him at life’s absurdities, and even though his move to London wasn’t so triumphant, his sojourn in Edinburgh surely will be.

It takes a brave soul to stand in front of a group of strangers and confess to having chronic anxiety, hypochondria and OCD. Eleanor Morton’s format is simple: chat to the audience about one’s problems and throw in a song or two. This would be a nerve-wracking feat for most people, but for someone who confesses to taking medication and seeing a therapist for social angst, a show like this requires serious balls.

The strongest element of Lollipop is, by far, Morton’s songs, which she sings to the accompaniment of her ukulele and keyboard. One song about clubbing is witty, tightly written and genuinely funny. Another, about office boredom, is melodic, moving and showcases a rather lovely singing voice. There’s shades of Laura Marling in her vocals and a touch of Josie Long to her storytelling style.

Some might find it all a tad too twee. Jokes about talking animals aren’t to everyone’s taste – a fact which Morton readily acknowledges – and there isn’t a great deal of depth to her stories, despite their potential. There’s not a drop of cruelty in this brand of humour; kindness oozes from Morton’s pores, and whether this is a strength or weakness of her material depends on the individual perceiving it.

Still in her early twenties, Morton has created an impressive, soul-baring Fringe debut, and with more songs and just a bit more edge, she could achieve something special. Even if she remains this sweet, her intriguing blend of self-therapy and enjoyable nonsense deserves an audience.