Let’s be honest, Bats isn’t the least stressful of venues. It’s not the venue itself, I much prefer it to the semen soaked walls of the Big Kumara; but why there isn’t allocated seating in such a tiny theatre is beyond me.

An atmosphere of competition is created before the show. Who will make it through the doors first? And who will get the best seats despite having paid the same amount? Inevitably there will be first-daters trying to show their cultural side who are forced apart or a cringe-worthy fight between punters:
“Why can’t you just move down a couple of seats instead of hogging the edges?”
“Because I walked through the doors first, that’s why.”

Seating aside, we enter (having made a direct line towards the entry, taking no prisoners) and are greeted by the most proper of females serving us cookies off a tray: a 1950s housewife, headscarf and all.

Behind her are four happy similarly-clad females who tidy the set, which is cluttered with bras, a baby and books. This is of course between smiling sweetly as they pass each other and sway their hips to the swing music in the background.

Everyone is happy about the cookies. And the server is equally as pleased to be serving people. I can see ‘I love my life and making others happy’ written all over her face. She has been well trained by society in this era. 

The set beholds two changing screens, a couple of clothes racks, two tables – one with a laptop on it, one with a mirror – and a red velour couch. The possibilities are endless.  

As soon as the swing music ends, what should kick in but ‘Run the World (Girls)’ by Beyonce. I sense a change of pace coming from the housewives of old.  

The scene is set at a flat. One of the girls is having a dilemma over what to write for her next sketch and the other four flat mates are each offering their pieces of sound advice. “Have you tried using the word fanny?” one suggests. Another is set for an ironic take on the vagina monologues.

It seems the options are slim until “A sketch about Jesus respecting women in the workplace” is created. Genius. If Jesus does it, I’m sure everyone will. There might even be wars over it. 

They run behind the changing screens and while one distracts us with her lesson on sexism, the others change in to their next stereotypical garb. This is an occurrence throughout the show and is never noticed due to the engrossing hilariousness of whichever actress holds our attention. A very clever touch, which is pulled off seamlessly. Not once are we left alone without an actress on stage. There is always someone there to make sure our funny bones are alive and well.

The show gives us an hour of hugely varied short and sharp laugh-so-hard-you’ll-piss-your-pants type sketches and although they carry a subtle undertone aimed at challenging gender stereotypes, it is in no way down your throat feminism.

A doctor can’t possibly perform life saving surgery if they have a vagina; a woman has to look good, no matter what the occasion, in front of her man; females are expected to cook in a relationship, even the Virgin Mary; boys make for better offspring than girls …

These are just some of the embedded everyday thoughts and expectations we (yes, women too) need to eradicate.  Because as this show breaks down for us, they are pretty ridiculous!

The members of the cast are all really hot and pretty funny for chicks so like, they must be smart or something. 

What I mean to say is the members of the cast just happen to be highly attractive human beings despite their gender and not that their appearance has any sway when it comes to attaching worth to their general character, for outward looks do not interfere when we regard a person, male or female. Likewise, their ability to be funny is also a trait which is equally judged and valued based on the individual without any gender feeling threated by the others ability to make one laugh.

As humour is a type of intelligence, I come only to the conclusion that these comedians, who happen to be females but this doesn’t need to be pointed out because we are all equals, possess a certain level of insight into what makes other humans ‘crack up’ and in turn, society attaches a natural cleverness to their pretty selves (sexist remark unintended to be offensive, said only as a matter of fact). 

l Just thought I’d point these things out.  

The actresses throw themselves into it with complete and utter unashamed gusto. There are subtleties mixed with blatancy and the pace of the show with the smooth turnarounds keeps the audience absolutely hooked.

The only non-seamless transition sees Abby Howells getting stuck in what looks like an oversized pink nightie: the only costume malfunction aside from a few flashes of bum cheek. We wait patiently and try and will the dress on with our minds while remarking at how relaxed she remains despite her public embarrassment. Success, a wink to the crowd, and she’s right back in it, pregnant with what is hopefully a boy. A true performer! 

I congratulate each actress for her absolutely crucial part. You can tell a tight knit team has created this as none attempts to outshine the other. For this reason, they all bring an entirely individual, and what seems necessary, element to the overall performance.

Special shout out goes out to Rosie Howells for her Taylor Swift performance. Just when you think she’s too down and out to carry on, she roars back to emotional life. Her facials are like none I have seen before.

Nell Guy brings that sarcastic but ever caring tone while Abby Howells possesses enough subtle humour even for the most intense of viewers. Caitlin McNaughton is poised and extremely honest while Harriet Hughes relays sweetness with an edge to perfection.

The combination of the five is contrasting yet essential, like a boyfriend-less swimmer caring for a bikini wax in winter.

An all female comedy group – ahem, I mean gender nonspecific comedy troupe – who can take the way society views females, rip it out from the roots and turn it into something comical and in fact embarrassing to society is absolute brilliance. And, unlike Abby’s stand-up gig, which was the inspiration for the show, these girls are well respected for doing so.

There’s something in it for the guys too. Undies. But there’s even more than undies. I don’t mean nudity, I mean involvement. No, not in a sexual way; I mean in an actually liking the show way and not just ’cause your girlfriend dragged you here.  

Here’s proof. One male yelled out “I love you” to Rosie when she is overcome with sadness about an ex boyfriend, which in my books makes scientific fact of the following: all men have empathy and all men will enjoy the show. It is a performance for everyone, feminist or not. 

I want to see it again. I overheard at least twenty thousand other audience members saying the same. Well, would have heard if Bats could fit that many in. You’d better get tickets fast because as it happens in Wellington, word spreads quickly. 

I have to say the worst part of the show were the cookies. And the cookies were damn good.

Copyright © in the review belongs to the reviewer

Funny how we still need them. This isn’t the first time an all-women group, frustrated by the lack of opportunities and perhaps with a message to impart, has taken over Allen Hall –  I recall Hen’s Teeth in the early eighties, The Short and Girlies in the late eighties.

This newly formed group, Discharge, is all for opportunities rather than proselytising. Most of them have had lots of experience with Improsaurus, the excellent local improv troupe, and with University Capping Show. They know how to crack a line, toss off a sketch, play to the audience all right. They do want to show women can be funny, whatever Christopher Hitchens says, but beyond that, just to amuse.

The set is a cheerful mess of racks of clothes round a sofa, a bag of Burritos propped beside the Slimming Cookbook. The actors, some in 50s dresses and headscarves, offer cookies as we enter. Abby Howells, a familiar face in Dunedin stand-up, is trying to write a sketch for Discharge, and her friends offer various suggestions: “Have you tried using the word ‘fanny’?” Abby is prepared to accept “anything but an ironic take on The Vagina Monologues!”

The show-within-the-show format serves to connect the sketches, which are an eclectic mix, some more successful than others, but presented engagingly to a very responsive audience. Most poke gentle fun at the recognisable absurdities of women’s lives: a delightful panic dressing scene when a slob in her onesies gets a call to say someone she wants to impress will be there in two minutes; an over-protective mother criticising her daughter’s revealing outfit; the tipsy bridesmaid’s speech; and a fiendishly accurate portrait of a blogger trying to get over being dumped. 

There is a bit of biting the breast that fed them. Those early female companies (so brilliantly parodied by Jean Betts in The Revenge of the Amazons) did, as Renée put it, set the table for the next generation after all, and I didn’t much enjoy the angry and unreasonable feminist berating her wimpy date. But if one sketch doesn’t please, there’ll be another along in a minute that does, and the group have come up with plenty of good original material. Try Mary telling Joseph about her rather unusual day.

Presentation is lively and unpretentious, with swift changes into a wide range of apt costumes, sometimes effected behind the sofa, adding to the sense of cheerful spontaneity. These are practised actors whose comic timing is almost always spot on, making full use of the stage and at their best creating memorable characters. I’m still chortling over the hilarious naive enthusiasm of the extremely funny Nell Guy as she introduces herself as “Feminist Jesus, who respects women in the workplace!” 

You wouldn’t think – after French and Saunders, Smack the Pony, Victoria Wood, Catherine Tate, Sarah Silverman, Madeleine Sami, Miranda, et al – that there would be any doubt that you can have a fanny and still be funny. But it is the boys who run comedy in Aotearoa, so hats off to this gang of talented and gutsy young women prepared to create at least one Woman’s Hour. 

Copyright © in the review belongs to the reviewer