I’ve been aware of Maggot as a show for a while now but upon taking my seat I’m conscious of the fact that I have very few expectations regarding what I’m about to see. A common review is that it is “hard to characterise”. The set gives nothing away – a draped black cloth constitutes a makeshift offstage area at the back of the BATS Studio, and that’s it. Before I can dwell on it too long, the lights dim, then flash, three performers emerge and, just like that, Maggot begins.

The premise is simple and silly: The Baby Girls are a pop group who are moving away from pop and towards art. Exposition done; easy enough. What that movement looks like, we discover, is a whole series of vignettes and skits that are as unpredictable as they are thrilling. These are all created with a production value that is almost non-existent, which is fine as it matches the tone perfectly.

More than most shows, it feels very risky to give even the smallest bit of this one away, so I’ll simply say that what you are in for includes celebrity, traditional Irish instruments, some genuinely impressive spelling, some West-End-musical magic, and a whole lot of pride. I don’t get everything – and indeed, the show rollicks along at such a clip that I’m not sure if anyone could – but the hit rate is consistently high, and every new piece of the puzzle is clearly landing for a large, rotating majority of the audience. Most importantly, the bits that do go off do so in a big way.

As an ensemble, Angela Fouhy, Elle Wooton and Freya Boyle are, to a T, fantastic. There is an unmistakable delicacy and skill to what they are doing, and they seem to take great pains to hold their audience firmly within the chaos that they are masterminding onstage. The clowning is straight out of the top drawer – on several occasions we are treated to scenes that grow in length and significance as the performers become aware of our pleasure. John Bolton and Philippe Gaulier are clearly massively influential for this group, and at times you can almost feel the old Frenchman wheezing away in the background.

Fouhy is worthy of particular praise, as she seems to me to be the metronome around which the whole thing exists. Her ability to manipulate the timing and tone of the work to the whims of her audience is as impressive as it is rare, and she doesn’t miss a beat. The whole thing smacks of very solid direction on the part of Kimberely Twiner, with the movement, timing and ability to know when to play with us – and when to move along – clearly very practised and slick.

This is one of the most enjoyable experiences I’ve had in a theatre in a while. Maggot is mad, it’s a perfect Fringe show, and it’s bursting with life, effort, risk and reward. It’s not well-made fluff, either – on several occasions I find myself busy giggling away, only to be struck by some very gentle underlying politics at work or a need to pause for thought.

Speaking to audience members outside after the show, it’s clear that the experience is at least partially fuelled by the satisfaction of seeing these three women able to play in the way they do onstage – a privilege that has clearly been the domain of men for decades – without that needing to be overt in the work at all. It’s a sort of ‘political-because-it’s-not-political’-type situation, and the opening night audience demonstrably revels in it.

Maggot’s lifespan and list of accolades is impressive, and it is easy to see why. My prevailing thought in leaving the theatre is that somebody should very quickly give some money to these four young women, to see what they could achieve with a significantly expanded tool-kit. I wouldn’t bet against it being mental, courageous, and brilliant. 

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Appropriately named The Scungebags, the clowning trio of Angela Fouhy, Freya Finch, and Elle Wootton have created a wonderfully weird piece of theatre. Framed as a boundary-pushing sketch show created by a British pop trio, The Baby Girls, Maggot is immediately odd and resists easy categorisation. Performing distinct archetypes (deadpan, sexy, enthusiastic) with more than a few shades of the Spice Girls, the show employs their innate idiosyncrasies to perfect use, from vocal inflections to exaggerated gaits.

These archetypes aren’t deconstructed so much as put to over-the-top use, pushing clichés into strange and unexpected areas through a combination of dance and clown. But the show’s most subversive moments play on our expectations of narrative and clichés. [More] 

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The wooden stage is bare, with three black walls. Emerging from the rear curtain dressed in crazy shades and shiny trenchcoats, Freya Finch, Elle Wooton and Angela Fouhy have a clownesque Ab Fab air about them as they drip petulance, rage and unapproachable cool. Turns out this is international pop sensation The Baby Girls, respectively Andrea, Lily and Katy (if I heard right), here to shake off their vapid stereotypes by expanding into more artful ventures. 

From this starting point we’re drawn into a classic anything-can-happen-and-more-or-less-does array of bizarre, character-driven sketches on a spectrum ranging from bent to thoroughly twisted, all sprouted from the intriguingly comical minds of the performers, with direction by Kimberley Twiner. 

Employing an eclectic assortment of characters from prancing pixie folk to Scottish pre-schoolers, accessorised with requisitely silly costumes and props, this trio’s commitment to the craft of esoteric non-sequitur humour is palpable. In the wake of their dedicated randomness, the question of how – let alone why on earth – they chose the title Maggot is rendered effectively moot. 

For people who enjoy this sort of bonkers old-school minimalist sketch nonsense, like me, the absurd antics this trio is patently brilliant. From interpretive dance and hyperactive clownery to an indulgent tear-jerker centred around a Southern American rat-fight, the lo-fi lame-o style belies their consummate performance skills in movement and vocals.  

Certain personae such as Tracey the exuberant cheerleader and the flamboyant magician Gorgonzola call upon the audience’s services for vocal participation and … other things. As awkward and out-there as these exchanges are, it’s a great time all round including if not especially for the appointed stooges. 

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