Category: Interview

REVIEW: House Seats with Henry Patterson

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

“A raw and intimate look at the making of a West End leading man”

At Crazy Coqs, House Seats with Henry Patterson offers an intimate and honest evening of conversation and performance, as Henry Patterson sits down with West End performer Ian McIntosh to explore the journey behind a remarkable career.

Currently starring as Jean Valjean in Les Misérables, McIntosh reflects on the experiences that have shaped him, both on and off the stage. What makes this format particularly compelling is its simplicity: a conversation interwoven with live performance, allowing the audience to understand and experience his talent firsthand. McIntosh spoke about being drawn to melody above all else, describing how the emotional pull of music has guided his connection to roles such as Valjean.

The evening is at its strongest when McIntosh shares his personal story. Coming from a working-class background, he spoke candidly about initially training to become an electrician at 16 before finding his way to drama school. His early experiences performing in school productions revealed a natural vocal talent, but his path was far from straightforward. In a moment of vulnerability, he discussed stepping away from musical theatre after being bullied, as well as the challenges he faced during training including being held back a year at drama school to develop his acting skills.

These reflections gave greater weight to the career milestones that followed. McIntosh recounted his breakthrough moment stepping into a leading role in Rock of Ages, having initially been an alternate, and the significance of receiving his first Olivier Award nomination. Throughout the evening, he performed songs from across his career, including selections from Cabaret, The Commitments and Les Misérables, each delivered with both technical strength and emotional sincerity.

Patterson proves to be an assured and thoughtful host, creating space for both humour and honesty. The result is a deeply personal evening that goes beyond performance, offering insight into the resilience, vulnerability and determination required to build a life in theatre.

See future events at Crazy Coqs here.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Farine Clarke

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Farine Clarke, GP turned playwright and writer of Heartsink, which plays at Riverside Studios from 21 April – 10 May.

As someone who has lived on both sides of the consultation desk, what surprised you most about how illness reshapes a person’s sense of identity and agency?

This is the vital question. From the day you enter medical school you’re trained to be a professional with the title doctor. That’s the first word on your name tag and to a very great extent, it’s what defines you. No one minds saying, “I’m a doctor” which translates into, “I’m the one with the knowledge, the control, the ability to advise and, to a significant extent, the power”. No one starts a conversation with, “I’m a type two diabetic” with its accompanying translation.

Serious illness had both immediate and slower-burn effects.

Firstly, the title, ’Dr’ became pretty meaningless quite quickly. I was no longer on the inside but found myself observing a group I knew well, from the outside. It’s an out of body view, which surprised me. I also found it funny, which isn’t as glib as it sounds but I was listening for what people weren’t telling me. Rather like in a Snoopy cartoon, I found myself filling in the consultants’ speech bubbles.

“Let’s see how it goes” was said; “this isn’t looking so good” was inserted by me.

Secondly, it slowly dawned that the system itself defined me by my condition. So not only was Dr gone- and with that my professional identity- but it was replaced by a label, which was the condition.

Everyone knows it’s bad for patients to adopt illness behaviour and yet at every turn I found the system emphasised the condition and made me the illness, stripping my identity further and forcing me to identify as ill. That’s not detracting from the excellent work the healthcare profession continued to do, it’s just that when you’ve been on both sides you feel the change in position acutely. It’s a collision of perspectives. A juxtaposition of two worlds which are intrinsically linked in purpose but miles apart in experience.

How did your own experience as a patient influence the way you chose to portray vulnerability and power dynamics in Heartsink?

I write because I love writing and my other plays are not about being a patient. But my company is called ‘unequal productions’ so the plays always reference the constant inequality and power struggles around us. This is as acute in healthcare as it is in any other environment.

I like to surprise audiences and tell stories in a way which they enjoy while also stimulating lively conversation and debate. I know how it feels to be empowered by a white coat but also how vulnerable and terrifying it is to lie in bed sporting an NHS nightie and paper knickers. My job in Heartsink was to show both sides- always with humour, often gallows humour, because at times in life you can’t make it up. I’m always on the outside looking in, but being a patient heightened that distinction between patient vulnerability and power.

With the Assisted Dying Bill prompting intense public debate, what kinds of ethical questions did you most want audiences to wrestle with after seeing the play?

I’m so pleased that the first group that saw this play really enjoyed it. “Heartsink” is a depressing word- but the play is not. It’s a biting comedy which uses humour to raise ostensibly unfunny issues. These include assisted dying. The idea that we should all be allowed to exercise our right to choose how we die is, by enlarge, a no-brainer.

However that’s the easy bit but I don’t see those of us in the street openly debating the unforeseen consequences of the AD bill. That doesn’t mean I don’t agree with it, just that it is always the case in medicine that where there are ethical dilemmas, there will be two sides. Heartsink is a vehicle for society i.e. the audience to witness two sides and then have that conversation. Many doctors do fundamentally disagree with the Bill seeing it as the slippery slope for their patients.

Then there’s this point about how we label. Is it right to call someone by their condition ‘an asthmatic, a diabetic, a cancer patient?’ or should we rethink that phraseology? Once we label people we define them and all sorts of images come to mind about who they are. Society has pulled back in some areas, particularly around mental illness – we don’t call people a ‘manic-depressive’ anymore and physical appearance, we don’t keep people ‘fat’.

When it comes to physical illness there’s still a lot of labelling by everyone, not just healthcare professionals, with all the associated assumptions. Some people don’t mind being labelled by their condition and will share widely. But others do. I think the time has come to be a bit more sensitive.

In writing about the NHS with both affection and critique, how did you balance honesty about its pressures with compassion for the people working within it?

I was a doctor, am married to a doctor and have loads of medical, nursing and other healthcare friends all of whom I intend to keep once this play is out. The medics who were at Heartsink’s first outing, loved it exactly because they know it’s honest. They also know it highlights the very things which frustrate them too.

The main protagonist is a doctor and I remain eternally grateful to the people who treat me & publicly thanked the medical team who came to see my first play, from the stage (I can share the video!). However, the NHS is an enormous ‘system’ and sometimes parts of that system contrive to do exactly what healthcare professionals don’t want.

When a consultant’s struggling with their screen instead of making eye contact with their patient, or as one ophthalmologist said to me at an appointment, ’I could have done a cataract operation in the time it’s taken me to do this,” something’s very wrong.

What emotional challenges did you encounter in transforming deeply personal medical experiences into comedy, and how did humour help you process them?

If not outright humour, then irony has always governed my life. I learnt pretty early on that whenever I think everything’s wonderfully well, God will decide to have a laugh and pull the rug from under me. Writing for me is cathartic. I think in dialogue and thoughts buzz around in my head, so putting them on the page is actually a relief.

Interestingly one of the stories in Heartsink came out of the blue from a very painful experience I had as a junior doctor treating a child. I had kept that buried for a long time only letting it out when the character called for it decades later; it’s a fitting homage to the people involved. I’ll never forget that child, nor his family, their bravery and compassion. Life can really stink sometimes and medicine can be brutal so comedy is a vital tool to handle the accompanying, inexplicable pain.

On a very personal level I’ve always viewed my own health with a large dose of resignation. It isn’t over… until you die. In the interim you might as well do something useful.

Having moved from a medical to a creative profession, what do you think theatre can offer conversations about healthcare that clinical settings often cannot?

I often think that being a once-medic who is now a writer is like being a soldier who is no longer at war. When you’re in it you’re fighting to survive. I remember doing 120 hour weeks and running around the wards (we all did) fuelled by adrenalin just trying to make sure everyone was treated properly. It was exhausting and fantastic at the same time. I didn’t leave medicine because I hated it- I loved it- but because I really wanted to write.

Just like soldiers stay quiet about their war experience, I think medics don’t acknowledge or share the pain. It’s best kept buried and anyway, to stay professional requires a clinical approach to self-control. Medics are guarded by nature. They’re bound by confidentiality—which is what we all want them to be—and they’re cautious by nature—again, what we want. Clinical situations are often about managing the message to patients, because that’s the compassionate thing to do.

Theatre is where truth can be told openly and the audience can decide. Theatre imparts trust and control. Clinical situations – for good reason – don’t do that. When people try to shut down theatre they’re attempting to silence truth; akin to burning books or doctoring a picture. Even then theatre and anyone with clinical insight has a duty to be careful: gratuitous clinical truth or single agenda truth doesn’t help. The challenge is to arm people with more information whether they are delivering or receiving clinical care.

Heartsink is a funny play designed to entertain everyone but with unique insights into why clinical environments can overwhelm us all. Theatre is the best and most entertaining vehicle to deliver that message.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Alexander Whitley

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Alexander Whitley about Alexander Whitley Dance Company’s new double bill The Rite of Spring / Mirror.

This show runs from Wednesday 18 – Saturday 21 March 2026.

Tickets are available at https://www.sadlerswells.com/

In The Rite of Spring / Mirror, how are you using AI and motion capture to challenge what audiences think dance can express about human agency?

We’re using motion capture and AI-driven visual systems to place the dancers in dialogue with digital mirror forms—3D avatars and AI-generated imagery that respond to and are shaped by the dancers’ movements.

Although these digital elements are always rooted in what the performers are doing, they produce variations and reflections of that movement. In a sense, they mimic the dancers, but in ways that can also constrain them. The work explores the tension created by this relationship: a space where human action is continuously mirrored and replicated by technology.

The narrative reflects an idea explored by Shannon Vallor in The AI Mirror: that AI largely reflects historical data—things humans have already done or imagined—whereas humans are what she calls “auto-fabricators,” constantly imagining and constructing new futures. When we increasingly rely on AI to make decisions for us or define who we are, we risk limiting that imaginative agency.

Through the choreography and digital environment, the piece stages a series of scenarios in which the human performer interacts with—and gradually becomes more dependent on—something that ultimately reflects only a shallow image of themselves.

What drew you to reimagining The Rite of Spring at this particular moment in our relationship with technology?

We’re living through a moment when AI is rapidly transforming how we work, think, and circulate knowledge. It feels like a genuine cultural and societal shift—a kind of rupture.

There’s also something symbolically powerful about the role technology is beginning to play in the world. Some people speak about AI in almost theological terms—as if it’s replacing older ideas of higher powers that govern our lives. That idea resonates strongly with The Rite of Spring, which centres on a community performing sacrificial dances in relation to forces they believe control their fate.

Stravinsky’s music is saturated with tension—fear, reverence, and awe—and these emotional currents speak strongly to the kind of uneasy relationship we have with powerful systems that shape our world.

The original work was also created at a moment of profound social change, just before the First World War, when industrialisation and mechanised warfare were reshaping society. You can hear something of that in the music—the violent rhythms, the almost mechanical drive of the score.

In that sense, The Rite of Spring already contains a deep anxiety about humanity’s relationship with the technologies shaping its future. Reimagining it through the lens of AI feels like a natural continuation of that conversation.

How does premiering this work at Sadler’s Wells East influence the scale and ambition of your choreography?

Knowing the work will premiere at Sadler’s Wells East certainly influences how we think about scale and the design of the production. It’s an exciting context for the piece, and it encourages us to imagine how the choreography and visual world can expand to fill a large theatrical space like this.

At the same time, our productions tour widely, so the work needs to remain flexible and adaptable across different venue sizes.

The technology plays an important role in that. Through projection and digital imagery, we’re able to extend the presence of the dancers beyond the physical bodies on stage. Although the cast is relatively small—five dancers, which is modest for a Rite of Spring—the visual systems allow those performers to multiply and expand across the stage space.

In that sense, the choreography operates on both a human scale and a much larger visual one, allowing the piece to feel expansive while remaining intimate.

Through Mirror, inspired by The AI Mirror, what questions are you hoping audiences will ask themselves about their own connections with AI?

It’s such a vast subject that I’m not trying to offer a comprehensive statement about AI. Instead, I hope the piece creates a space where audiences can reflect on their own feelings and relationships with the technology.

The work approaches the subject through a very human lens—specifically, the dynamics of intimate relationships. It asks what happens when AI enters that space, represented here through digital avatars and imagery generated from the dancers’ movements.

One of the central questions is how our interactions with technology might be reshaping the way we relate to each other. The piece moves through different emotional states—what begins as playful experimentation with technology gradually becomes something more unsettling.

But ultimately, there is a hopeful note. Inspired by the conclusion of Vallor’s book, the work suggests that our relationship with these technologies is not predetermined. We still have the agency to shape both how we use them and how they develop.

At its core, the piece is an attempt to reaffirm the value of human-to-human connection in a world where technologies—particularly AI chatbots—are increasingly designed to mediate or even replace it.

Since founding Alexander Whitley Dance Company, how has your vision of blending digital technology and live performance evolved?

Over the twelve years since founding the company, it’s been a long and gradual learning process—often involving learning the hard way. Working with technology in performance can be complex and unpredictable, and many of the insights have come simply from trying things and discovering the challenges along the way.

You really have to dive in to understand the possibilities and limitations of different technologies. Over time we’ve learned more about the creative affordances of various digital systems and how they can contribute to different stages of the choreographic process.

While we continue to integrate technology into live performance, our work has increasingly explored how these tools can open up new forms of participation in dance. For example, interactive installations or virtual reality experiences allow audiences to step inside the world of the choreography rather than viewing it from a distance. In some cases, audiences can move within the environment and even influence how the performance unfolds.

I see these different forms of experience as complementary rather than competitive. Theatre performance, interactive work, and immersive digital formats each offer different ways for people to encounter movement and physical thinking.

Our work is also shaped by close collaborations—particularly with our creative technologist, Luca Biada. Over time, we’ve built a shared understanding of how these technologies can operate within a performance context and what’s required to integrate them into touring productions. Much of our development happens iteratively over long periods, gradually building the systems and tools needed to achieve the artistic outcomes we’re interested in.

Mirror is the first project where AI has played such a central role, and we’re still learning what it can offer choreographically—especially in relation to movement itself. It remains a big and open field of exploration.

When balancing raw physical movement with algorithmic systems on stage, what remains essential to keeping the work emotionally human?

My starting point has always been the physicality of dance. That raw human presence is fundamental, and it acts as an anchor when we introduce technological elements.

What’s important for me is that the digital systems remain connected to the performers. In our work, the visuals and projections are driven live by the dancers through real-time systems. That means the imagery you see is always rooted in what the performers are doing in the moment.

If the visuals were pre-recorded, the relationship would be very different—the dancers would effectively be serving the technology. By keeping the interaction live, we create a feedback loop where movement generates visual change and the dancers respond to what they see emerging around them.

This creates a genuine dialogue between human and machine, which mirrors the kinds of interactions we increasingly have with technologies in everyday life.

Even though digital systems can represent human bodies or movements, they remain fundamentally different from the experience of seeing a living person move. Presenting those two things side by side allows us to reflect on what makes human presence unique—what it is about watching another body move that resonates with us emotionally.

That contrast is essential to the work I’m interested in making: exploring what it means to be human in dialogue with the technological systems shaping the world around us.

Photo by Henry Roberts

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Elizabeth Huskisson

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Elizabeth Huskisson, writer and performer of Where Have All Our Women Gone?

Where Have All Our Women Gone comes to Liverpool’s Unity Theatre for one night only, Friday 13th March – Tickets here.

International Women’s Day is often framed as a moment of celebration, but your work confronts what happens when women are missing, silenced, or erased. What does International Women’s Day mean to you personally, and how does Where Have All Our Women Gone? complicate that narrative?

International Women’s Day is of course a celebration and a day I always use to recognise the phenomenal women around me, particularly those who have been so integral in creating and championing this play. For me, IWD is also about reigniting the revolution inside myself and inside the work. I think celebration and rebellion can happen side by side, I think there can be a call to arms, a need for change and a moment to rejoice. It’s really important that we understand why IWD is fundamental and why a revolution is nothing short of vital. Every three day a man kills a woman in the UK. That statistic should haunt us, horrify us, and demand we make a change.

The play asks a stark, recurring question—where have all our women gone? On a day dedicated to women’s voices and achievements, what do you hope audiences are forced to reckon with after watching this work?

I always hope the women feel seen and are able to have a deeply cathartic experience, I hope they feel their rage is shared and valid. Often the women have something much darker to reckon with, the heartbreaking reality of being a woman and how violent that act of existence can be. That alone is enough for the women in the audience to reckon with. I hope the men reckon with their own complacency, complicity and capacity for change. I’m so keen for more men to engage with this work, because it’s not a lecture, it’s not an hour long criticism, it’s a piece of work that captures a feeling shared my thousands of women, it’s a reflection of a nation in a state of moral bankruptcy, in desperate need of change. I am always blown away by the responses from the men in the audience and it always reaffirms why I make this work. It’s deeply educational for them, emotionally educational and that’s crucial in engaging men in this conversation.

You describe the piece as both theatre and activism, using satire, sincerity, and the surreal to address male violence against women and girls. How do you balance emotional accessibility with political urgency—especially for audiences who may be encountering these realities for the first time?

I don’t know if this show is emotionally accessible, I don’t know if it should be, in so much as, the discomfort the audience experience, is an important aspect in provoking them into action. We have a lot of content warnings on this show, it can be triggering and it’s pretty relentless so I always try to provide an infrastructure for people to understand the world they’re about to walk into, but the play reflects reality so I refuse to sanitise it for people’s comfort. As you say, it’s urgent, so we attack this work with courage and conviction. And if you’re encountering these realities for the first time, then my honest thought would be, perhaps you need to reflect on the privilege you’re experiencing that means this doesn’t exist in your cultural sphere.

This production has been performed in extraordinary contexts, including within the police force. On International Women’s Day, what do you think institutions—not just individuals—still need to hear, acknowledge, or change?

In the words of the remarkable Giséle Pelicot, shame must change sides. We need to reshape the cultural conversation, the discourse in the media and institutional structures. I have seen in far too many companies and institutions where structures are not in place to ensure women’s safety or provide support. Including women in conversations to reimagine the infrastructures of our society is the only way to create a society that works for women. The threat we are facing is complex and vast, and statistically growing at an alarming rate. We need to believe the women, educate the men and demand the men educate themselves.

International Women’s Day often asks, what progress has been made? After performing this play repeatedly, do you feel hopeful, exhausted, or something more complicated—and where do you locate hope, if at all?

I have a lot of hope, rebellion is rooted in hope, we rebel because we believe change is possible. I have hope because of the remarkable women I have met whilst creating and performing this play. They are endlessly courageous. Their kindness gives me hope, their fierce belief in change gives me hope. And yet of course, it’s exhausting. And it’s terrifying. And I find it hard to believe, truly hard to believe that this is real.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Freddie Haberfellner

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Freddie Haberfellner, writer-performer of multi-award-winning play F*ckboy, which explores gender dysphoria, bodily autonomy and celebrity crushes and is produced by No Tits Theatre.

F*ckboy comes to Camden People’s Theatre, for one night only, on Wednesday 11th March – Tickets here.

The play moves between several versions of Frankie across different moments in their life. What drew you to structuring the story through these parallel selves, and how does that fragmentation reflect the experience of gender dysphoria?

I love this question! From the very first draft, the structure was part of the idea for F*ckboy though, back then, there were only two realities instead of four. At the time, I was coming to terms with being trans and reflecting on my life through this new lens, and I realised how many signs I’d missed along the way. So I wanted to capture this feeling of something being so clear in hindsight, and yet in the moment you had no idea what was going on.

I spent a very long time questioning whether what I was feeling was dysphoria, and even longer before that not knowing what to name that feeling at all, so I think in a way this play was me asking: is anyone else feeling this too and is it dysphoria? (The answer to the second question is a resounding yes.)

I suppose the structure also ties into how dysphoria can make you feel fragmented, in that only part of you is visible, or maybe you’re only visible to certain people. We only catch Frankie one glimpse at a time, and it takes all these different versions of them to form the full picture.

F*ckboy touches on bodily autonomy in a very raw and sometimes darkly humorous way. Why was it important for you to explore these themes through comedy as well as vulnerability?

Honestly, I wasn’t planning on F*ckboy being a comedy at all. Everything I’d written before was very sad and very serious, plus several exes had repeatedly told me that I wasn’t funny (who’s laughing now? xx) so I just didn’t think of myself as that kind of writer. But I’m really glad my exes turned out to be wrong because I genuinely think the play wouldn’t work if there was no humour in it. In a way, the comedy started out as a form of self care; I was spending a lot of time writing and rewriting, dealing with these heavy topics and figuring out how to express the pain I was feeling as I was coming out as trans. By finding the humour and moments of joy I was making this process easier for myself, and hopefully for my audiences too.

It’s been four years since I started writing F*ckboy, the world looks quite different and I now very firmly believe in the power of comedy when tackling serious issues. Of course it’s not always appropriate, but personally I’m very interested in telling trans stories that centre moments of fun, joy and hope. I’m hoping that, in this way, I can help challenge the idea that being trans is a tragedy because, in my experience, it’s the complete opposite.

The piece blends the everyday world of the London Underground with queer club culture and therapy spaces. What does setting the story across these very different environments allow you to explore about identity?

Many of the early conversations Isobel Jacob (our brilliant director) and I had about the play centred around visibility. How those of us who are marginalised in one form or another are hypervisible in some scenarios but completely invisible in others, and how that impacts our life and self image. We also talked about the different roles we might play to navigate these dynamics. Seeing Frankie in different spaces allows us to see how their performance of themselves changes depending on who they think is watching.

As Frankie’s environment changes so does the audience, and so in each place Frankie uses different tactics to win them over – from giving them the cold shoulder to full-blown seduction.

There is a striking and surreal element in the play with Frankie’s imaginary relationship with Andrew Garfield. What role does fantasy play in the story and what does it reveal about desire, escapism and self perception?

Firstly, Andrew Garfield, if you’re reading this, please come watch F*ckboy.

To answer your question, originally Andrew Garfield played a similar role in the play as the humour we talked about earlier; he brought some levity, moments of relief. Plus, through him we get to see a softer side of Frankie because they feel safe for once. Whilst in the other realities Frankie is battling dysphoria, uncertainty and self-loathing, in their fantasy they are loved by the man of their dreams, they are cherished, they are no longer alone.

I think part of Frankie fears that no one will love them if they come out as trans, or that no one will find them attrative. But imaginary Andrew Garfield tells them he loves them just the way they are, and that helps them to face their feelings in reality. As the play goes on, we realise that Andrew Garfield fulfills another function as well – but if you want to find out what that is, you’ll have to come watch the play.

 You have taken F*ckboy from early development through festivals such as Edinburgh Fringe and Prague Fringe, and now to Sprint Festival at Camden People’s Theatre. How has the piece evolved along the way?

I have to give a big shoutout to my team here because the play wouldn’t be what it is today without their hard work. When it was just me and my laptop, I did often wonder how on earth this play would ever be staged. But my wonderful director Isobel Jacob made it look easy, and through working with her I discovered many new layers of the play and how it also connects to people who aren’t trans but can relate to Frankie’s experience in other ways. What really brings the show to another level is the music and sound design by Marta Miranda and Gareth Swindall-Parry, as well as the lighting design by Oli Fuller and Rowan West. And shoutout to our incredible producer Ella Bowsher for all her work behind the scenes!

On a personal note, it’s been really special to come back to F*ckboy after starting HRT – first in Prague and now at CPT. Whilst the events of the play aren’t autobiographical, Frankie’s emotional journey definitely is, and so when I was first performing the play I was in a similar place to my character. Now that I’ve been on testosterone for over a year, revisiting F*ckboy feels like giving my younger self a hug, knowing with hindsight that he’s gonna be okay. At one point in the play Frankie wonders if they’ll ever be able to look in the mirror and actually see themselves. When I say this line now, present Freddie gets to quietly tell my past self who wrote this line that, yes, that day will come and it’ll feel really f*cking good. The show has definitely changed and matured alongside me, and I’m really excited to see how it’ll continue to evolve as I become ever manlier and sexier.

 No Tits Theatre focuses on amplifying LGBTQ+ stories at a time when queer visibility remains deeply important. What do you hope audiences take away from Frankie’s journey after the performance ends?

Seeing the impact the play has had so far has genuinely been one of the greatest joys of my life, and I want to say thank you to all past audience members who’ve shared their thoughts with me so far.

I started writing this play whilst I was struggling to accept the fact that I’m trans; in a way it’s the play I needed in that moment. So I hope that anyone who is on a similar journey of exploring their gender feels seen by F*ckboy, and that they know they’re not alone in what they’re going through. It’s a really scary time to be trans and there is a lot of horrific public discourse about us, so I think art that truthfully reflects our experience is more important than ever. A lot of cis audience members have shared with me that the play helped them understand dysphoria better, and I hope it continues to do just that.

But most of all, I want my audiences – cis and trans – to leave the theatre feeling hopeful. This might sound very cheesy, but I want them to know that being different doesn’t make them unlovable, and that queerness is beautiful, full of surprises, love and joy. And I hope F*ckboy encourages anyone who hasn’t yet to join the fight for trans rights.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Ged Graham

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Ged Graham to talk about Seven Drunken Nights – The Story of the Dubliners – which is celebrating its 10th anniversary this year.

Performed by a phenomenal cast of Irish musicians, the show is packed full of classics guaranteed to get your toes tapping as they bring the joy of this much-loved Irish folk band back to the stage. This ultimate feel-good production celebrates the musical mastery of The Dubliners, Ireland’s favourite sons, in association with the legendary O’Donoghue’s pub.

Seven Drunken Nights is on tour from 6th March-29th July. Tickets here.

Seven Drunken Nights is now celebrating ten years on tour. When you first created the show, what inspired you to tell the story of The Dubliners on stage?

The music of The Dubliners has always been part of my life from being a young boy growing up in Dublin in the 60s and witnessing the rise of The Dubliners, especially in 1967 when they exploded onto the scene with Seven Drunken Nights. Hearing ’stars’ that share the voice and accents of the people around me was a revelation. They made you feel that the music and songs you were brought up on were relevant and something to be proud of. I suppose they gave me a voice and the inspiration to be me.

Why do you think the music of The Dubliners continues to resonate with audiences across generations?

The music of The Dubliners still resonates because their music was and still is real and truthful and a little be irreverent. It’s fun and accessible and within the songs and tunes there is a sense of pride in our shared Irish heritage.

Many audience members arrive already knowing and loving these songs. How do you keep them feeling fresh and alive in performance?

If the songs are sung with heart and soul they are still fresh and new and that is what we try to do every night. Because we as a cast love the material it shows in our performance. They are living and breathing entities that strike a chord with our audience.

What does it mean to you personally to celebrate Irish musical heritage in this way?

To have the opportunity every night to go on stage and represent our heritage is a real privilege. So we are not going to let that down. It gives me the chance to show the world what it means to be an Irish musician, show my passion and humour and breath life into the songs.

The show invites audiences to sing along and share in the music. What do you hope people feel when they leave the theatre?

I want the audience to go away feeling happier than when they walked in. There is so much darkness in the world I want to give the audience two hours of fun, laughter, a bit of sadness, to be uplifted and go away with some great memories.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Henry Patterson

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Henry Patterson, a performer, broadcaster and rising musical theatre talent bringing a fresh twist to the traditional talk show format with his new live series, House Seats.

Launching at Crazy Coqs, the monthly show blends intimate interviews, live music and candid conversation with some of the West End’s most exciting performers.

House Seats premieres 15th March at Crazy Coqs – Tickets here.

House Seats blends interviews, live music and audience interaction. How did the idea for this format first take shape for you?

It came about very organically. Like many people my age, I spend a lot of time doomscrolling on TikTok until the early hours of the morning. My feed is flooded with either late night talk show clips or videos of Rachel Zegler on the balcony of the Palladium. It got me thinking how interesting it would be to combine formats and create a talk show themed entirely around musical theatre.

You’ve described it as inspired by the spontaneity of The Graham Norton Show but tailored to theatre artists. How did you adapt that energy to suit a live cabaret setting?

I’ve been fortunate enough to be performing my own shows for a while and find the atmosphere in the room always feels laidback and easygoing. I think channeling that energy and not taking the interviews too seriously is the secret, after all they’re interviews not interrogations!

When you’re interviewing someone like Ian McIntosh, what kind of space are you hoping to create for them?

Something homely and relaxed. I want the show to feel like we’re catching up with old friends, as that’s when you get people sharing their best stories! The audience will help to create that space too. They’re all big fans of Ian’s so expect the reception will be very warm.

How do you prepare for a conversation that you want to feel both structured and spontaneous?

I met with Ian a few weeks ago and spoke about his journey. We share similar roots in musical theatre, both having started our careers performing in the same venue. The conversation is mainly structured around the songs Ian’s picked to sing. Other than that, we don’t have a set script or talking points. We want to let the conversation go where it goes!

You’re known for your reinterpretations of musical theatre through jazz. How has developing that sound influenced the atmosphere you’re creating for this series?

My musical sound will take a familiar song and put an unexpected twist on it. In a way, the same applies here. We’re all familiar with watching Ian as Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar or as Valjean in Les Miserables, but have never got the chance to find out more about his story. For most of the audience, it will be totally new to see West End stars as themselves and not in character, putting their personality firmly in the spotlight.

You’ve performed in London and New York, and built an audience online. How does hosting a live, intimate show at Crazy Coqs compare to those other experiences?

It’s actually very similar. My shows often feel like they’re one on one conversations with the audience. I never plan what I’ll say in between songs and the show often runs very naturally. The one difference here is that I’m in a conversation where the person I’m talking to will be talking back! I’m so excited to be sat in the best seat in the house to listen to Ian’s story. In some ways, I’m just an additional audience member, so I feel very lucky.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Heather Marshall

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Heather Marshall, writer of Medusa, a contemporary retelling of the myth of Medusa set in a queer nightclub, blending theatre and rave culture.

This show runs from 6th-8th March at Summerhall – Tickets here

What drew you to the myth of Medusa and to reimagine it in a contemporary queer setting?

I had been trying to find a way to talk about Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD) through theatre for years and had been through various iterations including a more autobiographical piece at the Traverse as part of their hothouse season in 2017. Nothing felt quite right, autobiographical was too raw and for some audience members too depressing.

But then a friend gave me a necklace, a gorgeous green mirrored head of Medusa with snakes curling around it. It prompted me to read more into her and I was struck by how unjust her story was. She was only ever seen in other characters myths. Poseidon sexually assaulting her, Athena punishing her for bringing shame to her temple and then Perseus cutting off her head.

Although those myths were written thousands of years ago they still felt relatable. For many PMDD develops after a trauma, so to me it felt understandable that after all Medusa had been through she would have snakes in her head.

I tend to write about what I know and so it felt natural to set Medusa in a queer space. Plus it just made sense with her origin story- all these men were constantly trying to chat Medusa up and she was having none of it.

The Greeks didn’t shy away from writing queer characters, there are so many gay and bisexual themes in their mythology and I really liked that. And whilst we were never explicitly told her sexuality I think the more I read and get to know her I think she’s on the asexual spectrum.

Medusa was never given her own myth, she only featured in others. And so I wanted to write her story and influence it with some of my own experiences.

What drew you to write this piece in Scots?

I generally write the way I speak with my friends. I love the Scots language and the rhythms within our speech patterns.

There are so many different Scottish dialects and each has it’s own unique sound and feel. Mine is Leith, so more rough than Doric or Lallans (lowlands) Scots.

It has a more punchy rhythm and is punctuated with local slang.

My dialect and style of writing has been described as contemporary Scots, which most people will be familiar with through Irvine Welsh’s work. Although I was told that I couldn’t get away with swearing like he did cos I’m a woman. Obviously they were told tae get tae fuck!

Why is it important to you to depict experiences of PMDD on stage?

I didn’t know what PMDD was until maybe 12 years ago but I’d likely been suffering with it for far longer. I remember being incredibly ill in bed, in a deep depressive state and being terrified to leave my bedroom. I didn’t understand what was happening to me and I genuinely thought I was going insane.

I had connected how I was feeling to my menstrual cycle, I was feeling that way for the two weeks before my period and I knew it didn’t feel like normal PMS.

In desperation I posted on Facebook asking if anyone else felt that way before their period. I got a lot of answers just kind of dismissing how I was feeling and telling me to get on with it, to exercise, to just eat some chocolate, none of them really understanding the severity of what I was feeling.

But then a girl I barely knew commented and said ‘It sounds like you have PMDD, you need to go to your doctor. I know it’s scary but it will be ok.’ I genuinely think that girl saved my life.

I started reading up on it and it made so much sense. I went to my doctor and they agreed it could be that but said there was no cure and sent me home with antidepressants to ease my symptoms. They didn’t really help but what did help was finding other people online and hearing about their experiences, their coping mechanisms and most importantly that they were surviving it. Because at that point I didn’t think I was going to.

Having an understanding of what PMDD is and what it did to my brain and body has helped me so much and so I wanted to find a way to talk about it. Ten years ago barely anybody had heard of the condition and I spoke on a variety of panels and wrote magazine articles about my experiences.

But it didn’t feel like enough and so I decided to do what I tend to do with most big events in my life- make a show about it.

As I said it’s taken a long time to find the right format to tell my story and in a way I’m glad it did as it’s given me the time and space to fully understand the impact of trauma on my body and also how hormonal shifts exacerbate my ADHD.

I’ve been able to include what I’ve learnt from my psychiatrist in my work and it feels far more informed than the PMDD piece I started to write many years ago.

I hope what I’m bringing to the stage is something that people can relate to and perhaps recognise themselves in.

How does the show blend theatre and rave culture together?

I think the times I’ve felt at my most free I’ve been on a dance floor. I love the feel of a bass vibrating through my body and lights do something really magical to my brain chemistry.

I’ve found there’s far less judgement at a rave or festival, people are allowed to be themselves and that’s far rarer than it should be.

Years ago there was a rave in the old Odeon cinema at Hogmanay. I remember at one point just sitting and watching people dancing and feeling like it was performance, one that I could dip in and out of. Dance or observe. It was really beautiful. Or it was until the police raided it at 9am! But I guess all good performances need a little drama…

With Medusa I wanted to create something that recreated that feeling, where the audience could observe in their own way- sit back and watch or join us on the dance floor. And that felt important for accessibility too, people need to engage in the way that works best for them, whether that’s sitting quietly, being able to move freely or lay down to ease pain.

Tell us about your collaborators on this work?

I feel really lucky as I have a bit of a dream team on this project. It took a couple of false starts to find the right people, those who had a good understanding of mental health and neurodiversity, I needed the people I was going to work with to understand that it isn’t always palatable. Disabled artists, especially those with complex mental health conditions have serious life challenges, often have messy pasts and will have made mistakes. I know I have.

Jen McGregor, the director on Medusa, has exactly that understanding. She has a really exciting multifaceted practice that spans theatre, spoken word and opera, working on both small and large scale productions. She holds a room with real care but is also nae nonsense which I really appreciate.

Andrew Eaton Lewis is our producer, he produces the Scottish Mental Health Arts and Film Festival, as well as a breadth of other projects across theatre and dance, so has exactly the knowledge and understanding needed on a project like this.

We have Sula Castle choreographing which I am so excited about! Her work feels exciting, its unashamedly queer and raw and celebratory. And she’s definitely still in her rave era.

Conor McDonald is designing our costumes. I’ve worked with Conor for over ten years now and it’s been so exciting to see them develop not just as a designer but as a performer. Their alter ego Chanel O’Conor was on Drag Race UK season 6 where she designed and created all her own looks. He’s also made outfits for Drag Race winner Lawrence Chaney and contestants across all seasons of Drag Race UK and Versus the World.

I love Conor’s work, it’s beautifully bold and dramatic but he also knows how to do subtle well. I can’t wait to see what he creates for Medusa.

I’m really excited about the performers we’re working with- we have a cast of five performers and a chorus of queer, disabled and neurodivergent clubbers. It’s a big cast and it’s rare that happens in indie theatre anymore. I still can’t believe we got the budget for it!

Roz McAndrew, who is playing Athena, is a long time collaborator. She’s been with me through this whole process of trying to find the right way to talk about PMDD on stage and to be honest is a bit of a saint. She was with me through the solo autobiographical durational piece featuring a pinball machine and the quickly scrapped period drama about periods phase! She’s embraced each idea and ran with it, never afraid to take risks but also confident in letting me know when something isn’t working. I really value working with her.

She’s a strong performer who can really command attention and I can’t wait to see her bring Athena to life.

Tell us about how access is built into the show- with different options to accommodate audience needs?

Audiences have the opportunity to view the show in the way that works best for them. All our performances are relaxed and we encourage people to be themselves in the space, they can stim, shout or move about. They can lay down on bean bags or dance and move throughout the performance. We have a quiet space adjacent to the performance space for people who need a little time to relax or regulate.

Ear defenders and sunglasses are available for those who experience sensory overwhelm but we’re also offering a low sensory performance on the Saturday afternoon where there will be a general warm lighting state and the music will be played at a lower volume. Visual guides will be available online and in person from the Summerhall box office. These will detail what to expect from both the performance and the space and the people you may meet- from performers to FOH. Staff will be on hand to go through the guide.

I write in an audio descriptive style, it’s important to me to really build a picture through language so that visually impaired audiences have an equitable experience.

All performances will also have BSL interpretation integrated, there’s nothing worse than the interpreter being off to the side of the stage meaning the audience has to choose between watching them or the action.

Access is unique for everyone and so we encourage audiences to reach out to us when booking if there’s anything they want to discuss with us.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: The Toilet

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with The Toilet from Scots the Musical. Created by multi-award winning duo Noisemaker and featuring an ensemble cast, the hilarious, fast-paced Scots the Musical charges through Scotland’s past, present and future, its people and places, triumphs and failures, with a figure who has seen it all… the toilet!!

Scots the Musical tours Scotland from 4 March – 4 April.  – Tickets here

As the all-seeing toilet narrator of Scots: The Musical, what moment in Scotland’s  history surprised you most in shaping the nation we see today? 

TOILET: Well, this may sound biased but… the biggest surprise for me came in 1755  when Alexander Cummings (a Scottish watchmaker and mathematician) patented the first,  truly functional, mother-flushing TOILET! Up until then, the less said about Scotland’s  sanitation the better. But after auld Alex had the ingenuity to sculpt my pipes into an “S”  shape – everything about indoor plumbing changed forever! And for anyone who’s ever  endured a broken lavvy (and NOT had the luxury of “the flush”) they can attest just how  important this was for the homes and people of Scotland, and subsequently the rest of the  world! So aye, Alexander Cummings: The Father of the Flushing Toilet. My hero. 

Having witnessed centuries of triumphs and failures in Scotland, what pattern do  you think keeps repeating in how the country defines itself? 

TOILET: Scotland is many things. A place of beauty. Of ancient landscapes. Of myth  and legend. Of music and stories. Of chips, cheese and curry sauce. We’ve had some  remarkable folk through our history, and we’ve had some terrible arseholes (and believe me, I’ve seen them). But, for me, one thing remains constant through our intensely proud,  prolifically creative, endlessly reimagined, little nation’s journey: when then people of  Scotland stop bickering and moaning and being total knobs to one another – that is when  the good stuff happens.  

If you could preserve one everyday moment from Scotland’s past for future  generations, what would it be and why? 

TOILET: What a braw idea, lovely interviewer! Taking something from our past and  spamming it up on the wall like a photo of your Great Aunt Ida. Scotland’s past has  hunners of lessons for it’s future! Mary Sommerville, for example: a polymath and 19th  century scientific trailblazer. Mary can be credited for many things but, in my opinion, the  coolest was relegating the term “man of science” to the dustbin of history (up to that point,  anyone doing anything science-y was a man… apparently) and replacing with a whole new  word: “scientist”! That’s right, the first actual scientist anywhere, ever came fae Jedburgh.  So let’s stick that picture on the wall. A photo of Mary Sommerville. The very same one  you’ll find today on the back of our ten pound note. 

After observing revolutions both grand and absurd, what do you believe truly unites people across time in Scotland? 

TOILET: For the record: YOU said absurd, not me. (You are right, of course) D’you  know at the top of the Battle of Bannockburn, Robert the Bruce rode in on a teeny, tiny,  totesy pony? And then proceeded to spit in an “English skull” he held in his hand while  trotting along? Now I know that battle went on to be something of a significance for  Scotland, but holy cannoli! The man was AT IT! Yet he still fought. The same way that King  Kenneth McAlpin fought to pull together the Gaels and the Picts for the first time to form  the Kingdom of Alba. The same way Govan’s own Annie Gibbons fought in the 1960s to  have all of Glasgow tenements fitted with indoor loos. All of these people, all of these  stories, all of these battles: the thing that unites them all is… Scotland is an idea worth  fighting for. 

From your unique vantage point across history, how do humour and irreverence  help Scots confront their most serious challenges? 

TOILET: In this lowly latrines opinion, humour and irreverence don’t just help Scots  confront our challenges – they ARE how we confront our challenges.  Think about it. Even when faced with direst rack and ruin, the people of Scotland always  run a single question through their minds: “is it funny but?”. Our nations unique ability to  take things seriously by being wholly un–serious about them, remains our magic power.  From old Bruce on his wee pony right through to that Willy Wonka Experience – it is  through laughter; comedy; joking about it, that we strive on. Even in the darkest night when  it’s pishing down with rain and yer hair looks like a dug in a washing machine, Scots can  look for the light.  

As a witness to Scotland’s imagined future as well as its past, what gives you the  most hope about where the nation is heading? 

TOILET: Most people forget when they’re sat on me I see everything. And I mean  EVERYTHING. We are not a country that’s gotten everything right – not by a long shot.  From the Highland Clearances to the cancellation of River City: we’ve had our share of  deeply shameful history. Yet, we don’t let these mistakes linger. Scotland has no problem  in admitting we’ve f**ked it. We are a nation of retries and redos. Rectifying who we’ve  been into who we might become. This country went from being the only place in the UK to  still criminalise homosexuality, to being the first nation to legalise gay marriage and provide  free HIV medication through our NHS. That willingness to flush away some of the past to  make room for the future is what gives me hope. Scotland remains a country that wills and  strives and believes in the idea that it should be good here: for everyone. And I, lovely  interviewer, shall remain here to sit on as we keep working it out. Cheers for the chat. And remember to put the lid down when you’re done.  

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IN CONVERSATION WITH: Celine Kuklowsky

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Celine Kuklowsky – a French/American comedian who can be seen across big stages in the UK (Angel, Top Secret, Komedia, The Stand Comedy Club) Los Angeles (Hollywood Improv) and Paris (Apollo Théâtre). They are currently writing and touring their debut comedy hour “Bed Boy” which will premiere at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2026. You can find them and follow them on Instagram @celinekuk for updates and information about their upcoming tour.

This show runs at the Pleasance on 31st March as a WIP – Tickets here.

Bed Boy opens with the deceptively simple question: what is worth showing up for? How did that question evolve for you personally, especially while performing horizontally in a world that expects constant productivity and optimism?

I think we’re all expected to perform hyperproductivity and success under capitalism, and when you’re sick you can’t really do that. It’s a system that doesn’t work for so many of us and this show is in part about showing that: that this system doesn’t center people and their needs, and if you can’t make it work, it’s not your fault (also, girl same. You are not alone!) 

At the same time, we live in a world where it’s so easy to tune out, to not show up, to be disconnected from each other, and in our own bubbles. I think this show wants people to look at that in themselves too—to resist the urge to isolate and actually choose togetherness and showing up for one another in the ways that you can. It’s the only way we’re going to make it through. 

Performing the entire show from a bed is both a practical necessity and a powerful political image. At what point did you realise the bed wasn’t just a constraint, but the central metaphor of the show?

It’s my “emotional support bed.” I wanted to find a way to have my illness be onstage without making an entire hour about it. I have Multiple Sclerosis, and while I do talk about my illness because it’s part of my life, I didn’t want it to be the whole point of the show. A lot of us move through the world as sick people and I wanted the bed to be there as a symbol for that. 

It’s also the thing that’s always lurking in the background for me—like my little ghost bed that’s haunting me, telling me to leave the world and come back to it. I’m someone who spends a lot of time in bed because of my fatigue and it is something that can either be quite enjoyable (the relief of having a bed to retreat to) or can feel so isolating and difficult (when I’m too unwell to get out of bed). This push and pull is something I explore in the show, but I think it applies to a lot of people. When you spend hours in bed, are you resting or hiding? Rotting or recovering? In this show I try to play with that resistance to and then giving into the bed. It’s very fun.

The piece draws an explicit parallel between bodies breaking down—yours, the audience’s, and the planet’s. How do you navigate making that connection funny without diminishing the very real fear and grief underneath it?

There’s a lot of comedy to be found in the universality of how shit the world is right now. I mean we’re all in it together, right? Laughing about it doesn’t diminish the fear or grief—it allows us to engage with it and maybe even change our relationship to it in a way.

Every time I get up on stage to talk about the big scary things—right now I’m writing a lot about what’s happening in my home country in America—I worry I’m going to ruin the vibe of the night. Like, this is supposed to be an escape!  But I find over and over there’s a real relief, a kind of catharsis to being together in a room and laughing at the big horrible thing. It releases tension and makes you feel less alone.

Bed Boy skewers everything from party culture to capitalism to the rise of the far right. Do you see comedy here as an act of resistance, survival, or collective care—or all three at once?

All three at once definitely. Those things are all interconnected. The world we live in is trying to make us feel more disconnected and afraid of each other. This show is about telling us that we need each other and that the solution to all the big scary things lies in us getting closer, going out, building the muscle of togetherness on the dance floor and in the streets. Those things are connected in my mind. 

There’s a striking tension in the show between vulnerability and provocation: chronic illness, aging, and fear sit alongside sharp jokes and an “entirely inappropriate” tone. How do you decide how far to push an audience before pulling them back in?

There’s something really interesting about joking about the things we try not to look at, like illness or aging. Writing this show has made me realize how much time I spend “masking” or performing that I’m not sick (in order to get the job, to make people feel more comfortable etc). I think we all mask to survive in this world. So there’s humor in pulling back the mask and showing the truth behind the performance–we get to watch what happens when a sick person tries to insist “the show must go on” even when their body isn’t on board. And if you find the right balance between humor and vulnerability you can bring people closer to you, and that’s where the gold is.

The show builds toward what you’ve described as a “surprise gay ending” and a rallying cry to fight for each other. When audiences leave Bed Boy, what do you most hope they feel—energised, comforted, unsettled, or ready to get out of bed and do something?

I hope people leave feeling connected to each other in the room but also in the world around them. I hope they leave with the desire to be more playful and irreverent in the world. And maybe a bit more rebellious. It’s all gonna end, we might as well have a good time and fuck shit up while we can.