Sky Like Sky. This has to be one of the worst things I have actually ever seen. I should have known. I did know. I always knew it was going to be my ‘wild card’, my big chance. The description was performance poetry and collaboration between African and American (I think) women.

It was a hellish hour and I knew, as I entered the room that it was going to be. Six performers (or space wasters, they were that terrible) managed to run the gamut of every single cliche in English, French and Burundi. They did airport pat downs. There was a mop. They smeared avo across the one girl’s face. They touched themselves. They sang. They played Eye of The Tiger (a shocking recording, not even played through speakers). They wore bits of yellow on black and they told the graphic story of a young girl who cuts off her own breasts to go to war. Then they all take turns to play her! With a red cloth tied where boobs should be. Hell I tell you. I cannot begin to explain the absolute hideousness of this show.

There was nothing like poetry anywhere near it. Nor performance. There was no concept. There obviously wasn’t much rehearsal. There was no diction, no respect, no nothing except hellish cliche upon hellish cliche. No. Sorry. No.