Review: Thirsty, Vault Festival

Stephanie Martin’s play Thirsty, debuting at London’s first Vault Festival since Covid, is a refreshing and relatable take on dating as a queer woman in your mid-30s, and the trials and triumphs of female friendships.

Our narrator is Sara, played by the eminently watchable Louise Beresford, who is dealing with the aftermath of her break-up from her first girlfriend Alex (Rosanna Suppa) and cracks in her friendship with mother-of-two Jen (Greer Dale-Foulkes).

The gentle comedy expertly pokes fun at middle-class, millennial themes, from dating apps and veganism to meditation classes and pubic hair trends, while a playful nod to lesbian stereotypes (Sara’s date lists her interests as bouldering, rock climbing and wild swimming) elicited a knowing chuckle from the audience.

Scott Le Crass’s direction is masterful – no more so than in the ‘sex scenes’, which are notoriously tricky to get right. They are layered with meaning, with dull heterosexual sex portrayed as an uneven, heavy-handed clapping game, in contrast to Sara’s queer experiences. Her touchless kink scene with Alex involves some steamy light-dimming, while a one-night stand with another woman becomes a dance, as they lead each other around the room with just the lightest of hand touches. A failed threesome is essentially a game of Twister.

Sara’s friendship with therapy-obsessed Rosie (played lovingly by Anna Spearpoint in a flowing, hippy dress), who recounts her hilarious attempts to meet ‘The One’, is another highlight – a stoned chat about dildos had the audience in stitches. It’s harder to connect with Jen and Sara’s relationship – particularly Sara’s suggestion that Jen turned her coming out into a joke, which doesn’t quite ring true – but the touching path this story takes, as Jen struggles to adjust to the realities of her ‘conventional’ life, redeems this.

The cast excels at portraying minor characters, too, such as Matt, Jen’s feckless husband (Spearpoint looking bedraggled in a shirt) and Sara’s creepy boss John (an excellently smarmy Suppa).

Some threads of the play feel looser and less well-developed, including Sara’s relationship with her mother and her desire to self-harm, and the comical moments hit harder than the tense ones. But ultimately, much like Sara acknowledges that she now knows how a good relationship can make her feel, I know a good play when I see one. This ticks the boxes. Thirsty has the makings of something very special.

Pillow Queens: In Waiting

In Waiting album cover

At the heart of Dublin-based indie quartet Pillow Queens’ debut album, In Waiting, lies a desire for expression. The band have battled long enough against those who want them to ‘do us all a favour and forget how to speak’, as on Child Of Prague, with its thumping bass and Roman Catholic symbols giving us a taste of what’s to come. They’re done waiting. 

The opener, Holy Show, marks the start of their journey: ‘I’m still a baby, if you’re still waiting.’ But they soon grow into lovesick ‘teens’, ‘holy ghosting’ on dates, smoking and drinking (‘I roll you up and crack you open’). And it’s clear that they’ve spent time shaping and maturing their sound, with the angst of revealing their truth matched by Cathy McGuinness’s biting guitar: ‘If you remember a thing about it, tell me that it’s not bad/Why’d I even say that?/Show me on the playback.’ This recording is their evidence that they have created something society and the Irish music scene, perhaps, feels shouldn’t quite belong to them: ‘Look what this mouth and teeth have gotten me/A bite of someone else's night.’

On Handsome Wife, packed with energising guitar riffs, Pamela Connolly – who shares lead singer duties with Sarah Corcoran – declares: ‘I may not be the wife you want/But I’m pregnant with the virgin tongue’ despite 'these hands so neat between my teeth’ preventing her from speaking out, with the echo of Holy Show’s teeth imagery demonstrating the band’s masterful use of motifs. Others may not want to hear what she has to say but, luckily for us, she will not ‘admit defeat’: ‘When the right man comes along singing the right song/It’s gonna be me.’ The band recently performed The Cranberries’ song Dreams in a video with other female artists, as the collective Irish Women In Harmony, to raise money for domestic abuse victims while also calling attention to the music industry’s gender imbalance – a recent report from Linda Coogan Byrne revealed a lack of Irish radio airplay and festival slots for female and non-binary musicians.

It is this sense of unity that the band highlights on two of the album’s queerest tracks. Brothers sees them playing with the boundaries of gender again, and explores the anguish of presenting yourself as you want to be seen: ‘There goes the man, I wanna be, I love my brothers and my brothers love me…/Holding up our bodies for sport.’ However, while the instrumentals slow at the line ‘All lined up like a losing team’, the energy of Rachel Lyons’ drumming builds again at the refrain, ‘Hold up your hands, shoulder the weak’, as the band – a chosen family – hold each other up with music.

Sarah Corcoran, Pamela Connolly, Cathy McGuinness and Rachel Lyons

Meanwhile, Gay Girls, which brought Pillow Queens many fans this year when it featured on the soundtrack of the film Dating Amber, takes us back to the days of learning from a first queer love and coming out: ‘I’ll decide while I ride on your coat tails/If I'll hide or delight in your company.’ It plays on the duality between queerness and religious imagery; ‘I spent the whole night/Belly aching about a fire sign’ is suggestive of lesbians’ stereotypical love of astrology, but also a fear of Hell – just as a sense of pride and community is blended with sin (‘Do you wanna be on the cheek of a liar/That roots for you?’). However, once again it is unity and gratitude that wins out, with the heavy, over-enunciated vowels in lines such as ‘I pray for them when I wring my hands’, ‘Holy, holy’, ‘I was a fool, thank you' and 'Marie, Marie, Maria’ echoed in the guitar melodies, and built upon by the unified vocal backing in the outro.

But while being gay in conservative Ireland is marked as challenging, the strongest songs, filled with emotion, transport the listener to the country, and present it as a place of not only struggle, but love, too. Liffey, for instance, proves that Pillow Queens have mastered the art of the grower. The darkest, heaviest track on the album, it is all pounding, stomach-churning guitars which almost drown out Pamela's growls. It’s a tightly produced number, and while sometimes this confusion can get the better of the band, as on the dreamlike Harvey, with its silky soft guitars – is it a reference to Harvey Weinstein, LGBT+ rights activist Harvey Milk, or some unknown entity? – this song feels purposeful in its confusion, as though the listener, too, is lost in the River Liffey. The quiet introduction, which marks it out as different to the earlier single version, makes this quick move from light to dark even starker. Lines such as the refrain, ‘Some day you’ll have my head on a silver plate’ and ‘I want to take you with me, to wash and dry your feet’, ground it firmly in Catholicism, with the alms plate and the devoted religious act of washing feet. But in amongst the noise and fear (‘Don’t do it Daddy, I can see we’ve had enough’) is the search for peace, which is not to be found in religion (‘God give me glory, or don’t, I’ll take my luck’), but instead in the water of their home: ‘Spread me over the Liffey, and sing me off to sleep.’ And as the guitar clears in the outro, we feel peace may be possible, as the listener is led into the gentle closer Donaghmede and another body of water: the ‘warm embrace of the Northern bay’. 

The band has saved the best for last – hometown pride hasn’t sounded this good since Adele sung about Tottenham. Pamela sings, 'Stay for a week, in sunny Donaghmede…/And the light is a knife and it cuts right through your eyes,’ as the guitar slowly cuts through the quiet. The track explores the band’s emigration conundrum: ‘Every man leaves, I retreat, I believe it’s good for me,’ juxtaposing belief with the hard truth of ‘Then he gets in for a swim ’cos the water’s good for it’. As Pamela’s voice deepens and becomes more urgent, the temporariness of the trip is firmly banished – ‘Stay in the warm embrace of the Northern bay’ – and the song becomes its own embrace, as the outro gets muffled under reverbing guitars. They aren’t going anywhere.

By moving away from the anger of early singles released after their 2016 formation, such as Rats, Pillow Queens have created a soothing balm for these times. As Sarah sings in HowDoILook, ‘It took a while but I don’t mind’. This album was worth the wait.

• Pillow Queens embark on an Ireland and UK tour in February 2021

Theatre 503's The Fairytale Revolution: Wendy's Awfully Big Adventure

Louise Beresford, Helena Morais, Anna Spearpoint and Anais Lone
Picture: Helen Murray

It’s not often that you see the words ‘political’ and ‘panto’ in the same sentence, but Theatre 503’s The Fairytale Revolution: Wendy’s Awfully Big Adventure is no ordinary panto. The villain is an evil dictator who commands the characters follow the stories written out for them (and pays the wolves less than minimum wage in the tax haven of Enchantia). Eat your heart out, King Rat – the narrator is here. 

But Wendy Darling (played by the wonderfully sassy Anais Lone), eager to escape the drudgery of looking after the Lost Boys in Neverland, and Captain Hook (a side-splitting Louise Beresford) – who wants to swap piracy for poetry, despite his struggles to put together a Haiku – set out to upturn the status quo. Which just so happens to be the aim of this all-female production, too. 

The pair enlist the help of Baker Swife (Anna Spearpoint), who cleverly undermines the Baker’s Wife fairytale trope – unnamed women defined by their husband – and memorably duets with Wendy about their utilitarian revolution. Even their gender-swapped swear alternative, ‘Son of a Prince’, adds a feminist tilt to the show, written by Beresford and Spearpoint, who met while performing in last year’s Theatre 503 panto. 

By creating a brand new fairytale universe, the writers are able to put a fresh spin on stories from our childhood, from a love affair between the Beast and Prince Eric, involving a sex act with Aladdin's magic lamp, to cameos from well-loved characters such as Rapunzel, who is freed by Hook when he cuts her hair off (Prince Charming says he’ll try online dating instead), and Bo Peep carrying a lamb tagine… It’s a winning concept.

The jokes range from the silly to the downright filthy – a favourite being when Dad Joke connoisseur Hook, after fixing the broom of a witch he is enamoured with, says: ‘I’ve been around wood and seamen for a long time, I know a thing or two about shafts.’

But there’s also plenty for the kids, including audience participation involving shouting out when they see the pink glow of the narrator (a beautiful touch from lighting designer Ali Hunter, helping the audience visualise a disembodied voice), and sweet-catching. Musical director and composer Hannah Benson also gets the audience moving in their seats – the panto’s modern songs and dance routines take inspiration from school disco tracks and show tunes, with lyrics about Captain Hook sung to the tune of Hamilton’s title track; baking soundtracked by the Cha-Cha Slide; and Let’s Do The Pirate Again performed to Rocky Horror’s Time Warp.

As the trio use their skills to defeat the narrator, Daisy Blower’s design comes into its own. Papier-mâché ogre arms which reach out from offstage, and a swooshing dragon tail, bring to life both the monster who’s hooked on Hook’s poetry and the dragon who gives them a ride to thank Swife for her pie. A particular highlight is returning from the interval to find the gang on stage disguised as pies – complete with ‘soggy bottoms’.

As for the cast, Anna Spearpoint is a gem with a superlative voice. Whether she’s wielding her invisible baguette, singing about lusting over Robin Hood, or talking to her bakery named Ken, she steals the show. Helena Morais also shines with her multi-character skills; when she’s not playing Peter Pan (who is very much not the hero of this story: he takes Wendy for granted, forgets her name and moans to Pinocchio in the pub) or Hook’s idiotic but lovable ship’s mate Smee, she’s playing an array of fairytale characters – including, with the ingenious use of a wig on a stick, Hansel and Gretel at the same time.

Combine these talented performers with a dash of clever songs with heart, with lyrics such as 'We’re singing a together song together, like all those songs about being together'; a sprinkle of masterful direction from Carla Kingham; and a pinch of quickly resolved turmoil, and it’s a recipe for festive success that Swife would approve of.

The Fairytale Revolution: Wendy's Awfully Big Adventure is on at Theatre 503 in Battersea until December 31

Rage, But Hope: Interview with playwright Stephanie Martin

Extinction Rebellion. It’s been the name on everyone’s lips for the past year. And with her latest play, Stephanie Martin hopes to keep it there.

The idea for comedy-drama Rage, But Hope – now running at London’s Streatham Space Project – was sparked after a simple conversation with a friend opened her eyes to the climate crisis. ‘Someone taking the time to educate people about the situation we’re in and what can be done about it is crucial,’ she says. ‘We all need to speak to each other with love and no blame or shame.'

As the play took root, Stephanie – best known for this year’s Vault Festival hit Juniper and Jules – became more involved with the XR movement. ‘It was partly to protest and partly a research mission,’ she notes. ‘My involvement was one of solidarity and presence rather than as an “arrestable”. I wonder whether in time I’ll come to regret that.’

‘As the reality of the dire situation we’re facing, and the fatal failures of government and corporations to act, becomes clear, there’s a lot of justified rage and anxiety in the air,’ adds Stephanie. ‘But there is hope for change and a better future, hence the title. This is not a worthy or sanctimonious play, it’s an uplifting call to arms. I want to make work that makes people want to be alive, because otherwise what’s the point?’

‘Arrestables’ – those willing to be arrested for the climate cause – are at the heart of Rage, But Hope. After attending court to support a friend following their arrest at the April uprising, Stephanie was struck by the variety of people who had been arrested. ‘This was not solely a middle-class, privileged group looking for the next outdoor rave to attend – quite the opposite,’ she says. ‘I hope my play helps to redress the Press’s representation of the individuals involved. These are normal people willing to risk their liberty for the cause. Their choices were made with logical, well-researched intent, and they all have a lot to lose. Commonly, they say: “I am not a natural law breaker. I have lived my life as a respectful member of society, but I have no choice”. Being arrested is their last resort – one that they do not want to take.’

However, while the Met’s blocking of XR protests was recently deemed unlawful, Stephanie says she understands the police response. Two of the play’s characters are officers, including May (played by Julie Cheung-Inhin), who is sceptical about the protests’ impact. ‘It’s crucial to explore both sides,’ explains Stephanie. ‘The Met have a responsibility to keep the city safe, and the moving and blocking of protests was an expression of that.’

She also admits that XR has to move away from the ‘arrestable’ aspect of the campaign in order to broaden its appeal. ‘It needs to come up with more ways to take part that are as impactful as non-violent direct action, but without risking arrest,’ she says. ‘We can say “You don’t have to get arrested” until we’re blue in the face, but the fact is that while our most meaningful actions involve mass arrest, the message we send is that arrest is the only powerful tool individuals have. Police involvement makes many people feel alienated from the movement.’

In Rage, But Hope, this divide is explored through Gilly, a Surrey yummy-mummy played by Emma Davies – ‘She’s having a thrilling adventure with XR, and she’s primed for satire,’ says Stephanie – and Dior Clarke’s character Philip, a young man from the British-Jamaican community who initially feels disaffected with XR and its methods. ‘XR’s global achievements are staggeringly impressive, and we can celebrate that while working on making sure people from all parts of society feel represented and safe,’ says Stephanie. ‘It’s all about communication and considering perspectives that are not your own lived experience. As a playwright, I too have a political need to redress the balance of whose stories we hear.’

To further bridge that gap, Streatham Space Project and the show’s producer are offering audiences ‘Pay What You Can’ tickets. ‘This is so crucial – art must be inclusive or you’re just yelling into an echo chamber,’ says Stephanie. ‘How can we learn from others if they can’t hear what we have to say? Climate justice is social justice; the two are inextricable, and we have to fight for both. Accessibility is a huge part of that – we have to open our doors and empower people to engage.’

Stephanie’s play doesn’t shy away from addressing other criticisms of the movement, either. ‘Theatre lets us wail into the abyss of the human condition while laughing together at our hypocrisies and foibles,’ she says. She references the anger shown towards the action at Canning Town Tube station last month, which saw commuters drag protesters from the roof of a train during a protest which affected working-class commuters and hit one of the more eco-friendly methods of travel. ‘The Tube incident was an example of the issues that arise from a decentralised movement,’ she says. ‘A very small minority took action in the name of XR that the vast majority of XR were in complete opposition to.’

She notes, too, the XR member who sent flowers to Brixton police station to thank officers for looking after them following their arrest – the same police station where three young black men, Wayne Douglas, Ricky Bishop and Sean Rigg, died while in custody. ‘Many found this to be deeply insensitive, and it was also an act taken by one XR voice in a multitude of voices,’ she says.

In contrast, it is listening to a multitude of voices that enables Stephanie to create a ‘hyper-realistic’ work such as Rage, But Hope. 'I soak up all the real stories and context. Merging, and borrowing from, these sources inspires characters,’ she says. ‘I’ve been asked how much is verbatim – I take it as a compliment that my words and characters can ring so true. Some might call it being nosy or emotional spying; I call it being perceptive and an extremely thorough listener!’

But when you’re observing so many people, how do you pick which voices to amplify? ‘The characters who’ve made the show are an amalgamation of the most passionate, surprising, and usually marginalised,’ she says. ‘For all of the characters, the growing awareness of the climate crisis has brought about great change to their lives, but often not in the ways you’d anticipate. Many of the narratives are not ones you’d expect to find in a play about climate change.’ Take, for instance, James McGregor’s character, Andy, a homeless ex-serviceman who has found romance with an XR protestor. 'I’m all about the unexpected, on and off stage,’ says Stephanie.

The play also thrives on the intergenerational aspects of the climate crisis, as seen in Venice van Someren’s character Leila, a precocious 11-year-old school striker, and veteran eco-campaigner Tony (played by Robert Rowe), in his 70s. It looks at the materialistic generations blamed for the eco-disaster, too – as represented in Matthew Romain's character Keiran, who ‘thinks the climate crisis is scaremongering and isn’t used to being told he can’t do or buy what he wants, when he wants’.

And it was Stephanie's own experience, as an almost 34-year-old 'child-free rather than childless' woman, that made her want to scrutinise the controversial Birth Strike – recently echoed by Matt Smith and Claire Foy in Duncan Macmillan’s Lungs at the Old Vic. In Rage, But Hope, young professional Annie, played by Flora Spencer-Longhurst, ‘refuses to bring a child into a world which we’re told will be collapsing in 20 years’.

‘Annie has realised that she has been living someone else’s plan for her,’ says Stephanie. ‘The expectation for women to be defined by motherhood is something I talk about frequently. It’s as if the climate crisis has encouraged deeper thought about the need to become parents – it’s no longer a given. I think encouraging ways of living other than the traditional 2.4 children route is key. We know that having children is killing the planet. We know that resources are strained. We know that the world seems less and less like a place we would like our children to live.’

Rage, But Hope premiered at this summer’s Edinburgh Fringe Festival, during XR’s residency with Earth Ensemble at Summerhall. ‘Our Edinburgh run was a lovely microcosm of people coming together for a cause,’ Stephanie says. ‘The actors jumped in with no rehearsal or direction. The refined play now – with the events of the October rebellion fresh in our minds – will be a more detailed and complex piece while retaining the spirit and energy of our first run.’

This time, the play’s running period falls in the lead-up to the December 12 election, and XR’s 12 Days of Christmas protests, but Rage, But Hope’s ethos is that of XR’s ‘beyond politics’ principle. That doesn’t mean Stephanie doesn’t expect some political takeaway, however. ‘Climate change is an issue for all parties, and the play prompts people to examine policy and vote accordingly. After all, in May the Conservative government declared a climate emergency. Logic tells us that this must imply an urgent need for emergency measures and legislation.’

But theatre itself has been the target of climate protesters, with, for instance, a campaign for the RSC to end its BP sponsorship deal (which it did, after pressure from actors such as Mark Rylance, who quit his role as an associate artist). What more can be done to make the industry greener?

'We need more theatres to be mindful of what they use and, more importantly, what they throw away – most theatre sets are scrapped at the end of a run, and often very little is reused or recycled,’ says Stephanie. ‘Hiring rather than making costumes, and storing, selling or donating them for use by other productions keeps down costs as well as carbon.

‘We also need to see no more single-use plastic cups for interval drinks – at least make them washable, reusable ones – which a lot of theatres, and the Vault Festival, are already doing. All of our production materials are pre-loved and will be used many more times.’


Rage, But Hope is on at Streatham Space Project until Sunday, December 1

Edinburgh Fringe: the musical ones

Islander

This enchanting new musical paints a rich picture of a Scottish island divided by an economic crisis, merging the mundane everyday with mythical Orkney folklore. 

Resident Eilidh (Bethany Tennick) finds a lost girl, Arran (Kirsty Findlay) – based on the Orkney Finfolk – on the beach. She claims to be from the seaborne island of Set Asea, which was once part of Eilidh’s island, and she carries a secret shame. While Eilidh at first refuses to believe her, thinking Set Asea is just a fable, the pair eventually form a tender friendship, and Arran is introduced to the island’s traditions – including an amusingly embarrassing dance event.

Stewart Melton’s book has political echoes: the residents are planning for a referendum on whether to leave the island and let it grow wild, because they haven’t the resources to stay (they have been drained by the mainland); and at the heated ‘sprachans’ – town hall meetings – one won’t stop complaining about their missing gnome, accusing the "foreigner" Arran of taking it.

At the heart of the piece is a bid to overcome this struggle to belong. Both Eilidh and Arran are torn between two places – Eilidh’s mother has moved to the mainland to find work, leaving her daughter to do distance learning on the island and live with her practical joker grandmother; while Arran’s own island is irrevocably linked to Eilidh’s, but has seemingly abandoned her. 

This divide is highlighted in Eilidh’s struggles to use the island dialect, and the resentment in the heartbreakingly sung calls between mother and daughter, heightened by poor signal. Tennick and Findlay skilfully play these multiple characters, embodying them with just a movement, glance or subtle change in voice.

They present Finn Anderson’s stunning folk songs with their gorgeous tones and the most impressive, precise loop pedalling I’ve ever seen, which works perfectly in the round. They also use sound to breathe life into the island and its surroundings – the breath of the whale that washes up on shore; a phone ringtone; the cross-purposes discussion at the ‘sprachan’; even the radio station's jingle.

This soothing tale of friendship and community is just what we need in these turbulent times, and I sorely hope it has a life after Edinburgh.

Tokyo Rose

This highly promising show from Burnt Lemon Theatre, the follow up from last year’s hit The Half Moon Shania, explores the 1949 trial of Iva Toguri, accused of broadcasting Axis propaganda to Allied troops as ‘Tokyo Rose’, a Japanese wartime DJ. 

Of course, for this fast-paced, rap-imbued show, which won the New Diorama Untapped award, comparisons with Hamilton are inevitable – and in the era of historical musicals, following the Edinburgh origin story of Broadway-bound Six, hopes are perhaps unhelpfully high.

Writers Cara Baldwin and Maryhee Yoon present an emotive tale of women caught between two countries at war, with family ties stretched to the limit, but the show would benefit from being longer than its classic one-hour ‘Edinburgh slot' runtime. There are plenty of plot gaps to fill in, further human stories to expand on, and more elucidation of the links between the tale’s strands is needed – as well as time for the audience to process the dense historical information it’s receiving. A few too many words got lost in the ensemble songs, too.

However, the ambitious performances from Yuki Sutton, Lucy Park, Cara Baldwin, and director Hannah Benson, feel sincere; Maya Britto, who plays Iva, has a mindblowing vocal range; Luke Robson’s retro set is beautifully minimal; and William Patrick’s score is a riot. This fascinating piece of gig theatre has plenty of potential, and I’m excited to see what the company does with it before it opens at New Diorama in October. 

October 8-12, New Diorama

Electrolyte

Watching the multi-instrumentalist cast of Wildcard’s Fringe 2018 hit setting up – involving the audience in their process from the get-go, unlike any gig theatre I’ve seen – you can tell they have bucketloads of fun: essential when you’re telling a story with this much gravitas and emotional depth. And this will be a shared ride.

The heartfelt tale, written by James Meteyard (who ‘triples up’ as actor-musician to play love interest Jim), focuses on Leeds party girl Jessie, played thrillingly by Olivia Sweeney, after the death of her father. It traces her journey to a London warehouse after receiving a letter from her estranged mother, as she follows her new friend/obsession, musician Allie Touch. Composer Maimuna Memon, who stars as Allie, carries the musical aspect of the show: her lungs will take your breath away.

Jessie is in the relatable, awkward early-20s phase of life, as childhood friends get engaged or move away. She seemingly wishes to move on from them, but her anguish is palpable as she rattles through powerful spoken word poetry in the manner of Kate Tempest, coming out into the audience to break the fourth wall further still.

The storytelling leaves you discombobulated and wondering what is real and what is not, as it highlights the importance of community in ensuring vulnerable people are looked out for – hence the overriding sense of togetherness. The overwhelming ending, affirming that 'we are all stardust and dreams', had me in tears. I defy you to watch it with dry eyes.

Pleasance Courtyard, until August 26

Edinburgh Fringe: the ones that broke me

Hotter

I know what you’re thinking – a show about what makes people hot under the collar? How can that be emotional? I thought the same thing… Boy, was I wrong. 

Simply put, if you have a pulse, see this show. Devised and performed by ex-girlfriends Mary Higgins and Ell Potter, it’s actually got far more to do with bodies and society and the very nature of existence than sex (although the bits about sex are honest, refreshing and funny – women don’t talk about masturbation nearly enough, and a dance piece on it is the perfect tonic to that. Mary’s references to her struggle to orgasm are also moving and vital).

The show revolves around audio recordings of women, trans and NB folk aged 11-97 discussing what ‘hot’ means to them (obviously, the pair asked the 11-year-olds very different questions), which Ell and Mary mime and dance to – a sort of euphoric, verbatim disco. 

As they respond to individual interviewees; frankly chat about periods, poo, and boobs, with the hilarious help of balloons; and write letters to their past selves, discussing their relationship with their bodies, and with the other, they uncover tensions between self-image and how others view them – and a need to rally against society’s pigeonholing of bodies as mere symbols of desire. Ell considering the moment one elderly interviewee, who has experienced epilepsy and mobility issues throughout her life, told her that her body was perfect, is devastating.

Mary and Ell saturate the piece with intelligent, feminist humour, introducing us to the only instance it is ever acceptable to dance to Blurred Lines. What a brilliant takedown of Robin Thicke.

Even though it is clearly rehearsed, it always feels believably spontaneous and immediate, as if we are watching a series of intimate moments – as when Mary asks Ell, ‘Why did you leave me?’ and walks offstage upset. The image of the two girls perched on the edge of the stage as a recording of Ell chatting to her grandma, who is sick, plays and Mary rubs her shoulder comfortingly, will stay with me for a while yet. 

Edinburgh opened me up to the beauty of physical theatre (Spies Like Us’s Murder On The Dancefloor being another prime example), and dancing on stage with the pair and the audience in a jumbled mess of sweaty bodies at the end was an honour, and empowering as heck. 

Underbelly Cowgate, until August 25; Soho Theatre, September 2-7

Bobby and Amy

As someone who grew up among Cotswolds farming communities, went to a comprehensive across the road from a Co-op, saw the tragedy of foot-and-mouth disease firsthand… and, yes, was a devoted mother of a Tamagotchi, this two-hander hit me hard with its poetic portrayal of early Noughties nostalgia. 

Will Howard and Kimberley Jarvis put in deft performances as loners Bobby and Amy, who become firm friends after meeting in the folly of a farm and later helping to deliver a calf. They have to contend with bullies, the potentially isolating nature of rural life, domestic horror (violence, and sickening unwanted attention from Amy’s new ‘Uncle’, permeate the piece, unspoken) and the impact of foot-and-mouth, as Farmer Rodge’s cows burn.

Playing multiple characters, including the fish and chip shop man; a clique of three mean, popular girls (an impressive feat); and, a particular highlight, Howard’s posh horse-riding lady – every village here has one – the pair paint a worryingly accurate picture of Cotswold life: a deeper, darker version of the BBC’s This Country. 

Writer and director Emily Jenkins builds suspense with the piece’s energetic, dance-like movement, which works beautifully in the compact space of the Pleasance Upstairs. Her illustration of the pair's resilience in the face of a gentrifying bid to build over the rural landscape, when the economic climate gets too much, is breathtaking.

Pleasance Upstairs, until August 26

Bible John

In Caitlin McEwan’s gripping show, four female work colleagues bond over their secret obsession with a true crime podcast about Glasgow’s Bible John, the serial killer who murdered three women after they went dancing at the Barrowland Ballroom in the Sixties. The women, played wonderfully by Ella McLeod, Laurie Ogden, Lauren Santana and McEwan herself, become desperate to solve the crime themselves, piecing together clues on their very own evidence board, as paper scatters across the stage. The deeper they go, the more the play delves into the questions: why are women so fascinated by true crime, and at what point does your interest become too morbid?

There is a lot of detail to take in at the start of this fast-paced show, directed by Lizzie Manwaring, and I struggled – perhaps because my brain isn’t attuned to true crime podcasts (as they said, if you’re not a true crime fan, Bible John probably isn’t for you). This weighty information overloads the play, distancing us from its more human element, and it lost my attention slightly in the middle – the repetitive dance sequence, where the women dress up as those involved, including a police officer investigating the crime, and the victims themselves, feels a bit too overwhelming and detracting.

In comparison, the following segment of frantic movement, crafted by movement director Ogden, is where the show really takes off. The girls realise they must break out of their ‘rabbit hole’ and confront what true crime actually means, for both the victims and the women interested in it. McEwan’s monologue pulls apart the anger and fear that women learn to live with, acknowledging that they listen to true crime podcasts in a bid to almost learn the signs to look for in a serial killer, as most victims are women.

The fact that the police gave men a sign that said ‘I am not Bible John’ once they had been eliminated from inquiries, but did not put in place enough safeguarding for the women of Glasgow, places much of the blame on society’s gender divide. So, too, does the play’s exploration of the sexual shame felt by the women who went dancing under pseudonyms at the Barrowlands – we are told the victims ‘just wanted to dance’.

The powerful denouement which examines the ‘non-specific aura of fear’ felt by women, mentioned briefly at the beginning, pulls the play together rather well. As audio of women discussing this fear plays out, you can feel those in the audience silently acknowledge their own experiences of it.

However, the show never quite becomes defiant against that fear – the one that leads us to carry our keys between our fingers – a fact heightened by the chilling acknowledgement that Bible John hasn’t been found, as the group contemplate what he could be doing now.

Pleasance Above, until August 26

Edinburgh Fringe: the queer ones

Len Blanco: Firing Blancs

After my four extra hours and three extra trains’ worth of travelling (thanks, flooded tracks) I was in need of some joy on my first day of the Fringe – and it came in the form of drag king Len Blanco. Len is a newly #woke former boyband member, seemingly embracing feminism and veganism, but during their London Palladium show things take a turn for the worse when a famous special guest fails to show... 

Len is a skilful lipsyncer, but their own songs are the highlight – they could sing the phone book in their silky smooth voice and I would be rapt. I was especially excited to hear Baby again after falling in love with the tune, about why calling a lover ‘baby’ is problematic, during a scratch night. It’s utterly hilarious. If you need some non-stand-up laughs, Len’s the answer. 

It is such a fast-moving piece that some of the jokes and clever wordplay seemed to fall on deaf ears, and I have to admit that I probably missed a few too (though with the acoustics of the new Fringe venue I probably shouldn’t be too surprised), but it is always wonderful to see a drag king tear apart gender conventions. I’ll treasure the ‘dick pic’ forever (…you’ll have to see the show to understand that reference).

Just The Crypt, until August 24

The LOL Word

We were perhaps not the most energetic audience, as special guest headliner Sarah Keyworth noted: ‘Are you wet?’. This, of course, elicited nervous giggles (we definitely were... it had been raining for several days (not so) straight)... but as a room of LGBTQIA+ people, and the token straight audience member, we were always going to enjoy jokes about being misgendered, introducing your girlfriend to a devoutly Catholic family, and the three-strong comedy group’s flyering misadventures, which saw them accidentally target 12-year-old boys. 

Host Chloe Green led the show with panache, joking about everything from her experience working for the Labour Party and trying to stop Jeremy Corbyn from tweeting constantly about manhole covers, to lesbian oil parties (‘the one thing worse than an expensive lesbian oil party is a cheap lesbian oil party – no one wants to go to a means-tested lesbian oil party’). Amusingly, she also flirted with an audience member who turned out to be there with their partner!

The first act Chloe Petts’ description of trying to blend in with the straights (with photo evidence, complete with pink dress and clutch – ‘I didn’t know what to put in there so I just poured a fun-sized bag of Wotsits in’ – and a fringe hiding her ‘gayest eye’) was genius. And Jodie Mitchell’s portrayal of God making the vulnerable bumble bee the crux of the ecosystem, as well as creating a fragile political system, and fragile masculinity (‘I’m crying. Oh sorry, flood’) floored me.

It was also so refreshing to be at a comedy gig where people were careful with pronouns. I will be seeing them again, and not just for the ‘Queers come twice’ badge.

Old Tolbooth Market, until August 25

Pink Lemonade

Mika Johnson’s experience of falling in love with a straight girl is a queer tale as old as time, but the way they present this story is anything but. Mixing slam poetry with monologue and movement, including the most impressively lengthy and uproarious simulated cunnilingus I’ve ever seen, they explore their dating history, exoticisation of their race, and their relationship with gender and sexuality.

Martha Godfrey’s neon pink light design has a well-worn association with femininity, which Mika rejects (a loved one describes their reluctance to wear dresses), and also reflects the bar environment which was formative for Mika’s dating life – alongside the lemon drop cocktail they first made for their love interest, and the bashment soundtrack.

The tension rises as they describe the queer rite of passage of getting a haircut, when the barber tries to persuade them to find a nice man. They insist they like ladies – after all, they’re getting an undercut. The beautifully messy show, directed by the stellar Emily Aboud, is also candid about the way others try to co-opt and use Mika’s identity for their own purposes – the straight woman using their sexuality for her own pleasure, but refusing to commit, or the woman who takes them to a heterosexual, predominantly white pub and parades them in the centre. She fetishises Mika’s brown body, but they take ownership of it by rolling lemons across it, dripping with charisma and confidence. When life gives you lemons... make a vibrant and fresh work of art.

Assembly Roxy, August 21, 23 and 25

I, AmDram 

Hannah Maxwell’s delightful show about her involvement in an amateur dramatics society in Welwyn Garden City (which has been a family pursuit for four generations) left me grinning from ear to ear – it’s the perfect light relief after a morning of heavy plays. 

The fun begins as soon as you’re handed the programme/songsheet – printed upside-down inside in true am-dram fashion – and Hannah leads us in a singalong of ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’ and ‘It’s A Long Way To Tipperary’, setting the audience up for what will be a riot a minute.

The show explores her struggle, as a queer live art performer living in London, when she returns to the ‘hearts big, racism casual’ nature of small-town shows. Her two worlds merge in the comical moment when her mother uses an underground queer performance night in the capital to advertise an upcoming production of The Pirates Of Penzance.

To illustrate her ‘dual life’, she takes us back in time with audio and visual aids – to the point of her coming out via Robyn’s Dancing On My Own and a carefully donned flannel shirt, and with clips of her am-dram shows played between scene changes on a tiny TV.

Her desire to play the male role of Freddie in My Fair Lady reveals shades of resentment towards a pastime which is inevitably stuck in the past (the group is willing to let youngsters play old people, and elderly folk play teen sweethearts, but not have a woman play a man), leading her to hilariously audition for Eliza instead.

Hannah has devised some ingenious set pieces – she uses the notes of a piano to illustrate a conversation around the dinner table, and begins an ode to the beauty of an awkward, drawn-out blackout in the fast-moving age of technology, of course, in the dark. I was humming her update of the Gilbert and Sullivan song ‘I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Major-General’, transformed to that of 'A Learned Urban Lesbian’, for the rest of the day (I need a recording of this ASAP). 

The emotions Hannah experiences when revisiting home felt slightly underdeveloped in places – her feelings are merely described as ‘something something’, and I would have liked further exploration of what home means for her now – but she takes such ownership of the stage; I could watch her forever. 

Pleasance Courtyard, until August 26