Chris Dangerfield: Sex With Children

Downwards we trudge into the dank, fetid, urine sodden Heroes@The Hive venue, an apt choice for one of the less palatable confessionals at the Fringe.

Chris Dangerfield’s provocatively titled Sex With Children isn’t a rallying cry, but a detailed recollection of an inconceivably unpleasant childhood riddled with squalor, drug addiction and sexual abuse at the hands of several adults. If it sounds heavy going, it is. Except Dangerfield chooses to regale his autographical horror show with lithe, barroom bravado and an insouciant shrug: “I wonder if any of my mates are doing this right now?”.

It begins nonchalantly enough, with Dangerfield chastising his comic brethren (“they’re all cunts, obviously”) for whinging about doing what they love for a month, before his grubby tale begins in earnest. Predator in chief is Martin the Magician, whose vile assault is recalled in stomach-turningly grim detail. But, staggeringly, he’s not done: there’s an equally abhorrent female fiddler, there are clothes pegs, vulvas, nipple “trust games”, disabled doggy-style, “rimming” and, well…

The subject matter is so repugnant, that it is testament to Dangerfield’s elastic ability and raconteurship that he manages to coax the comedy (really) from the darkest of corners. Three people walk out and he derides them as if they’ve just turned their back on a bunch of parent-safe “knock, knock” jokes.

Is it cathartic? Instructive? Sensationalist? Taking the power back? It’s hard to say. There’s no redemption. No resolution. Just Chris, his heart-breaking tale of deepest depravity, and a puppyish pining to be liked.

It’s up to you what you take from that.