John Waters’ New York stand-up show is as bone-bare as a flasher’s pecker. Cosy, even. No one eats shit, although the tat titan does raise the whiffy issue, along with riffs on the MPAA, why you shouldn’t sleep with non-readers, Michael Jackson at home and the potential of a lesbian army. Throughout, Waters is warm, funny, filthy and appealingly self-mocking. A bit dirty, a bit shameful, the trash-pope makes you want to go forth and transgress anew.