A Grounded Satyros Show Review

The paramedics have left, and the excess blood’s been flushed from the stage. Alone now, I can reflect. Or rather, my image is reflected in the bloody residue. There’s a scar on my face from where the javelin hit. In truth, I hadn’t expected the heckling to be so sharp, nor so accurate. “You’re shit,” “You’re pathetic,” “Your brevity has left me all-over disappointed”. And once I’d left my partner’s house things got no better.

Driving in to the show I’d seen a raven. An ominous sign, no doubt. Especially as it was whilst I was watching the raven’s flight that my car ran down the elderly Buddhist couple. Perfect, I thought. This is not the kind of thing I ought to tell my karma-enthused friend Carmen – Carmen the social butterfly, able to adapt to all situations.

The Buddhists clearly needed medical attention, but refused my politely muttered offer of a lift to the hospital. Instead they wished to see the show, having heard the potential belated karma value inherent. And so with that roaring endorsement we all hopped in the Kia Rio.

We made it to the theatre in time to see the audience file in. I say file in, but even if it was only the one person, she did a darn good job of it. Thankfully she brought her entire office along, and the quality of the filing improved drastically. Once they’d settled, it was pleasant to appreciate the nuances of our office-based audience, even if that meant laughter was substituted for inane office babble. We had to throw out our laugh track and stream ABC’s Utopia instead – although I can’t say that decision aided the night.

And our night got no better when the software feeding punchlines into our earpieces clogged during the first act. As a result the second act suffered from an overabundance of punchlines, and we spewed them left, right, and centre – it was completely inappropriate. Eventually the audience could take no more, and they just laughed right into our squidgy faces. It was horrible, and I had to call my mother.

They’ve all left now. Wandered out. Across on the other side of this scarlet stage is the camera with which we filmed the show, but honestly, what did we think was going to happen? I walk over and pick the camera up, before making my way down to the bank of Sully’s Creek. With bacteria swilling by, the two Buddhists join me on either side as I set the camera alight to gather what little warmth I can from our months of work. And now the Buddhists too begin to laugh – though I think they may just be remembering an old friend. At the very least, I’ve heard next year’s Satyros end-of-year sketch show will be free of petty considerations such as an audience. New measures are dictating that any attendee wearing a burqa, headscarf, hat, jacket or clothing will be made to watch the show from a separate theatre altogether. I, for one, will be pleased.