We’re sat in a circle set for a sexy seance — summoning instructions circulated. We complete them in reverse — a series of steps designed to prime us for the supreme silliness to come. A brave volunteer, as per written instructions, sacrifices themselves on the altar of good-natured shame — the crux of any good clown act. We all release a collective scream.

Before George Fenn has bodily entered the space he is there in spirit, teaching a masterclass on the creation of liminal space. By the time he looms above us, spookily lit from behind, we already have a shared understanding of this strange world he has created — one in which the normal rules do not apply.

There are clearly people here for the ‘sexy’ aspect, the promise of theatrically relevant nudity. Fenn certainly has presence, appearing in sharp silhouette, his David Byrne shoulders striking an angle with his lithe form. If confidence is sexy, he’s got that in spades, strutting about issuing gestural commands like a cockerel surveying his brood. But as the show develops, or devolves, it’s clear that Fenn is making the classic bait and switch — poking fun at sexiness as a concept, playing with our expectations, pushing the joke as far as it will go … then a little further.

A theatrical alchemist, Fenn has the rare talent to create something utterly ridiculous yet very clever. Less sexy than toe-curlingly awkward, less Fringe in the ‘Stings than Cringe in the ‘Stings, he worms his way into our brains making it crazy, yet safe. There’s an element of consent in the interaction that is miles away from the experience of sitting in the front row of some stand-ups.

Kept on our toes, there’s no knowing where he might go next, but we are captivated, invested. The sensual aspect — consensual misting, the heady smell of shaving foam or marmite — adds a layer of realness to the unreality, further dissolving the wall between audience and performer.

The cock spotters may be disappointed. He keeps his double undies on and I need not have sent my impressionable teenager away. We need to invest as far as part three to earn the full frontal, apparently. But as the spell breaks, we leave sharing a grin, or a grimace, united by having willingly and wonderingly participated in George Fenn’s bizarre pseudo-seance.

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This performance, occurring at Scruffy Bunny’s recently co-opted premises at 49 Courtenay Place, is the sort of thing you can treat a well-established ‘significant other’ to. Or perhaps a newish partner you want to surprise – not with your good taste, you understand, but with your potential for mischief. 

I’m not sure how many such couples are present to witness George Fenn (glimpsed in G+Force at last year’s Fringe, though not by this reviewer), our sexy ghost boy.

We are pre-warned that this show is interactive, and that we can leave any time. It’s such a heartfelt invitation that I find myself wondering if I’ll be tempted. 

Enter, appear, or materialise: Ghost Boy (the sexy is up for grabs). He is fully dressed at this point but trust me, things are about to change.

Most of his audience are strategically placed in a one-tier circle surrounding him, a situation he takes full advantage of. Hands-on participation here is demanded, if silently or at times inarticulately.

Fenn’s performance consists largely of wandering about the space and offering various props to his nearest victims. I’m intrigued to see men and women alike apparently eager to shed inhibitions about taking part in the company of a performer like Fenn. I feel sure, however, he’s noted the note taker in the second row back, and is leaving well alone.

Various states of undress come into play. There’s a strip tease, a term I really ought to enclose in quotation marks, with deference to my burlesque friends.

I’m looking up Dada in my Oxford English Dictionary: it says “an early 20^th century movement in art, literature, music and film, repudiating and mocking artistic and social conventions and emphasising the illogical and absurd”.

I’m not sure what was ghostly about Fenn or his show, but I’m thinking of him. Ghostly, or corporeally, he’s worth a visit. Or should that be visitation? 

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