Review by Jay Richardson

When more than half an audience, including this reviewer, willingly joins a performer on stage to pop and lock, vogue and twerk, that's usually an indication of an immersive, inclusive smash. Sadly, in the case of Floe-Joe's Faces, walkouts had already decimated the crowd to five and it seemed like the quickest way to bring this dire experience to a merciful end.

The best that can be said of Ben Fairey's comedic abilities are that he's a fine singer and a reasonable dancer. Because this is one of those bad shows that's just so very, very bad. Not entertainingly terrible, just grindingly mediocre.

It actually began with some promise, Fairey sat in shades, jumping up and throwing some impressive, angular shapes around a diving beat, cue cards silently revealing the show's premise. Slapping a bucket on his head, and rotating it to reveal different faces, he has three characters. Or multiple personalities. Or 'ingredients' on his album. What? I'm sure it'll make sense later...

Even if over-long, it's a striking and intriguing introduction. But it's ruined as soon as he opens his mouth.

His opening character, representing his insanity, is Feargal Walsh, brother of X-Factor judge Louis, an excuse for a cod Irish accent and the first of several unappealing homophobic asides. A dyslexic sex offender, whatever that's meant to mean, he offers some tedious physical characterisations of joggers, barks in the front row's face (literally everyone except me and two blokes who didn't so much walk out as sprint to hit the exit first) and is just generally unpleasant, throwing out jokes that barely contain the rhythm or structure of anything befitting that name.

'Transforming' himself with self-conscious theatricality into the timid A Boy Named You, he's a hooker, an R'n'B singer who croons the sweet bits around the rap. Fairey has a lovely, soulful voice and you find yourself wondering who on Earth told him he'd be best exploiting it for woefully misguided character comedy. His characters aren't even consistent, the supposedly retiring You suddenly acting like a berserker. Sticking objects up his arse for a naff pun, revealing how he performed at Jimmy Savile's funeral, it's bad taste without tastebuds or any other capacity for measurement.

Finally, he becomes the dancer, Lydia, or Chlamydia as her stage name goes. Breakdancing in a lurid wig, you can add clumsy misogyny to Fairey's charge sheet. As she delivers more awful puns on established dance moves, when bidden, you find yourself rising out of your seat to try to change what's happening, somehow, anyhow, not so much audience interaction as audience intervention.

Throughout, Fairey mutters about being ill with a heavy cold and suggests coming back later in the run. I honestly can't say whether it was his germs or his noxious comedy that led me to decline his post-Vogue embrace.

Review date: 26 Aug 2015
Reviewed by: Jay Richardson
Reviewed at: Just the Tonic at The Mash House