Some shows win new fans; some just please existing ones. UK Drag Race champ Ginger Johnson’s latest may fall into the latter category. If you thrilled to that telly success, this knockabout comedy show/spoof magic act might suffice as a close-quarters hit of the real thing. It has less to offer the rest of us. Yes, Ginger displays a raucous charm as she sings triumphal songs (“How does it feel to be in the presence of a big shot?”), gets amongst her crowd, and performs daredevil feats inspired by the human cannonball she saw as a child. But, while any one of those acts might fly in a cabaret context, in an hour-long solo show at Soho theatre, they feel over-exposed.
It needn’t be too big a problem that Johnson’s tricks (flatulence on fire; confetti cannon Russian roulette) are less than confounding. But that puts more pressure on the comedy than her crude patter can bear. “This show is all about farts,” she tells us at one point, which is dispiritingly close to the truth. Ginger’s brand of drag is closer to the end of the pier, to Les Dawson in a spangled catsuit, than to the sleek sass and glamour usually associated with the artform. Think less burlesque of femininity, more scatological panto dame. “I’m the shit,” she barks, “and no one’s gonna flush me down.”
