The queue for this show was in itself an experience. I asked one man what he knew about the show. “Well,” he grinned, “not a lot. I know it’s more than your average penis puppetry.” I was then told by the steward that quite a lot of people leave. Fast.
Prepare to be outraged. You might. Prepare to be shocked. There may be moments. But certainly prepare to be entertained, because of that there’s no doubt.
The room is dark and smoke-filled, music pounding violently in the gloom. Christeene is carried onstage on the back of one of her pair of dancers, looking pretty much as if she’s barely survived a sadistic sexual assault. Balloons on a pretty string are attached to her buttplug. She hands them to a spectator and for the first time in the show (but not the last) I was glad I wasn’t standing stage-side.
“I need your essence!” Christeene screams. “Get the fuck up the front! We’re not gonna hurt you!”
What follows is an hour of what I can only describe as anarchistic, debauched filth, and it’s brilliant. So too is the choreography and dance. The energy is off the scale at times. There’s a political agenda here about reclaiming our “inner ponies” in the face of the drive (by “them,” the bankers and the guys in suits) to kill our ponies off and silence us. It touches a chord here, as it should - and it’s funny. Christeene dons a nice little lace “on-som-blay. That’s French for pillowcase.”
I go from being somewhat anxious at the top of the show to slipping backstage and asking if I can be in the next. Prepare to be outraged. You might. Prepare to be shocked. There may be moments. But certainly prepare to be entertained, because of that there’s no doubt.
