Patti Harrison: My Huge Tits Huge Because They Are Infected NOT FAKE

Soho Theatre

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Soho Theatre -

Patti Harrison didn’t want to call her show “My Huge Tits Huge Because They Are Infected NOT FAKE”. She actually wanted to call it “Rising From the Ashes of My Past Traumas”.

At least, this is what Harrison wants us to think. Watching as she stands delicately on stage, delivering a vulnerable soliloquy about her journey through therapy and countless attempts to better herself, it’s tempting to imagine yourself as a member of an impromptu AA meeting. This impression is aided by an unsure audience, who grow hushed in these moments, wondering whether they’ve turned up at the right show. It’s a testament to how much we love the absurd persona Patti has created (or that she is), that we’re willing to be patient, waiting 40 minutes (or indeed the full 90 minute runtime) for the show to start. 

But small cracks in this self-help loving facade soon begin to appear. First, it’s a suspiciously descriptive plan of how she will kill all the scientists in the room, then an energetic tangent about babies who miraculously survive being born with external hearts, only to be later dismembered by razor wire. And this is all before we meet…her…husband. 

It’s at this point that the chaos promised by the title of Harrison’s show starts to come into full swing. We are no longer “Rising from the Ashes” of her past traumas, but are instead diving deep into an obscene underworld of intrusive thoughts, ruined childhoods, and impossible anatomies. 

It’s a delicate touch that gently excoriates the one-two that we so often expect from comics in the 21st century. ‘Ah, you’re laughing, but what if this was also SERIOUS.’ Patti nails the bait and switch - one moment you’re genuinely, earnestly pondering the imagery of a trans comic onstage with giant huge tits (infected, not fake), and in a breath you’re holding it because the tits are bleeding (they’re infected, remember, not fake) and possibly also giving birth. 

Contrasted with the paired-down vulnerability of Harrison’s opener, her increasingly unhinged moments shock, delight, prompt head-in-hand burial and the most glorious kind of confusion. It’s overstimulating as hell. There’s barely a second to breathe. It feels at times that you are watching a body-horror film laden with jump scares, only that instead of fright, you find yourself overcome by body-shaking laughter. And unless you have a Deviantart search history that you’d rather never see the light of day (her husband is Stuart Little, and yes, there’s hand-drawn porn) - you’ve never seen anything like this. 

Patti Harrison: My Huge Tits Huge Because They Are Infected NOT FAKE is on at Soho Theatre until the 20th July - get tickets here.

FOUR STARS