Chippendales

“Are they all shiny and brown?” “How old are they?” “I think two of them are really muscly, one’s a bit scrawny.” It’s Sunday night and a small but excited crowd of women has gathered for what’s billed as ‘the ultimate girls' night out.’ Settling into their seats near the front of the large, mostly empty debating hall, they adjust make-up, spray perfume, take pouty snaps of their friends.

“Hello ladies,” booms a voice from the speakers. A Justin Timberlake-alike appears front of curtain, swaggering with hip hop attitude. The unmistakeable opening to We Will Rock You starts up and the audience are soon clapping and singing along. Five brick shithouses line the stage as the curtains go up, grinning cheekily, and within seconds their shirts are off. There is screaming.

What follows is essentially a series of themed strip shows, which combine a pop song – anything from Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal to Prodigy’s Firestarter – with a male archetype, from a dangerous but sexy gangster to a group of hose-wielding firemen. With few exceptions, they culminate in the ripping of sweaty shirts, the turning of backs and then the whipping off of pants, to reveal a row of variously pert and squidgy bottoms, each set into a vast, craggy landscape of back and leg.

As a heterosexual man, I’m not the target audience, but then this isn’t really about sex. It’s a cartoon vision of American masculinity and a chance for a female audience to partially lose control with a bunch of mates, in an ultimately very controlled and safe environment. Everyone has their tongues firmly in their cheeks and when the odd hint of cock is occasionally spied, the women just point and laugh. It is at heart a camp and joyous pantomime, and one that had this reviewer grinning happily along.