This show was born out of an obsession with the grim mechanics of being a body; we are a tube, stuff goes in one end and finds its way to the other. Orifices are multi-functional, disobedient and judged. We eat with our mouths, vomit, and Le Pétomane was able to blow out a candle from several yards using his anus. These same openings are used to give sexual pleasure, one of them will get you executed in some countries. Yet despite all these visceral acts, I also think about them as communicators of limited success. “Lip service”, “talking in tongues”, “talking out of ones arse”; the production of language is bound to the act of consumption. If this show has a message, it’s that we can only be sure that we are something quite fleshy, a fleshy thing in a fleshy world out of our control, yet we imagine ourselves as so much more. It becomes a fable of nihilistic politics, personal and social, as we feature the tale of the Angry Chicken, an anarchistic academic aggressively educating the world about a tradition of historical rebellions that feature men dressing as women, whilst destroying their own eggs.