Ginge & Minge’s House of Ick is a full sensory initiation into a world where the outrageous, the absurd and the downright disgusting collide with perfectly-placed wit. From the moment you walk in the door, you know you’re in for something truly original; a whirlwind hour that defies categorisation and leaves you equal parts horrified and delighted. 

This is sketch comedy at its most inventive and unapologetic. The duo packs more creativity into sixty minutes than most comedians manage in an entire career. Original songs that lodge in your brain (for better or worse), poetry with interpretive dance walks the line between profound and profane, choreography that somehow is both alluring and disturbing.

The use of costume and props alone deserves an award, each reveal or transformation more unexpected than the last, yet never feeling gratuitous – even when you find yourself staring at a suspiciously moist prop wondering, “Do I want to know?”.

What makes House of Ick truly special is how Ginge & Minge weaponize discomfort. Their satire cuts deep, whether they’re embodying ‘Mike the Comedian’ (a pitch-perfect sendup of every hack male standup you’ve suffered through) or portraying semen saleswomen with unsettling commitment (no taste test for me, thanks).

The show feels like a cathartic exorcism of modern icks – from bodily fluids to toxic masculinity to late-stage capitalism – all delivered with such infectious energy that you’ll be laughing even as you recoil. 

The audience becomes willing accomplices in this madness, riding waves of laughter that crest from nervous titters to full-bodied howls. Just when you think you’ve adjusted to their rhythm, they subvert expectations again – one moment you’re watching a grotesque commercial parody, the next you’re confronted with interpretive dance so bizarre it almost moves you to tears. 

By the end of the show everyone, on stage or off, has had a fully immersive journey into the Ick. Ginge & Minge emerge from the performance literally coated head-to-toe in a range of unidentifiable substances – the front row might need a warning in case they expected to keep their clothes clean…

My only complaint? That damn initiation stamp on my hand faded too quickly. But the memory of this gloriously unhinged experience – like the best (or worst) of Ginge & Minge’s imagery – is permanently seared into my brain. House of Ick isn’t just a must-see comedy; it’s a baptism by fire into the most delightfully disturbing club in town.

Consider this your formal invitation – just maybe don’t eat right before attending.

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